Thanksgiving Day Whopper - Phillip Robert Hurlbut Jr.

A THANKSGIVING DAY WHOPPER

by Phillip Robert Hurlbut Jr.

written in haste November 1997

Several years ago (before I even hit High School age), I told myself that I would write a story in commemoration of each holiday. Since then, I believe the only holiday I have ever so honored has been Christmas (which I have so honored more than a few times). On the whole, I have never thought too much about Thanksgiving as a source of inspiration, but a couple of years ago, I met a fellow who shared with me a tale (whether real or imagined, I cannot say) of his Thanksgiving adventure. If the story is true then it was told to me by a true hero; if imagined it still has a certain entertainment value if for no other use than to encourage the traditional after-feast nap.

Terence Turkey was unique among his kind. Where most of his kind were blessed with the ability to wake each morning to a new world. Terence had, despite all evolutional theories, been born with a long term memory. Being thus cursed he was put in a position of being able to compare weather from day to day; he could reflect upon his last year's decisions and modify this year's behavior in expectation of being a better turkey next year, only to be disappointed when his New Year's resolutions fell by the wayside as is their wont. But worst of all he had an understanding of the horrors of Thanksgiving traditions that the whole of his ilk seemed to be oblivious to.

After observing the mysterious disappearances of members of the flock towards the end of every November, Terence began to study out the problem. The first that Terence noticed was that certain of the plumper brutes who used to bully him for being so introspectively inclined had disappeared. To him this seemed nothing more than a godsend, and he began to look forward to November as a time for some divine culling of bad apples from the turkey yard. But when some of those gobblers to turn up missing (if it's possible to 'turn up missing'), were free of abnormal offense, Terence decided to investigate. Clues such as repeated trails of boot tracks and turkey feathers leading to an old scarred tree stump, freshly rinsed hatchet blades, and bags of bones found in the garbage prompted him to place the farmhouse under scrutiny.

Despite the allure of several false leads, Terence found himself drawn to the shrine of the dinner table where the offerings of cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams, sweet breads and pumpkin pie (Boy, I love pumpkin pie) surrounded a steaming brown object the shape of which was oddly familiar in a confusing sort of way. Not until the table was overturned in the fracas that resulted from the farm folks efforts to chase Terence out of the house -- despite his clever disguise, he had been detected -- did he recognize the shape (now in a more respectable upright position than when sprawled on its back in a bed of garnish) as being that of one of his former tormentors. The euphoria of realization gave way to the horror of understanding as all the pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind.

The concept seemed so barbaric that Terence felt he must be jumping to a terribly wild conclusion. However, a few trips to the library (in a greatly improved disguise) not only confirmed his fears but explained the history of this Thanksgiving Day terror.

The worst realization yet was that, inevitably, his day to be invited to dinner in the farmhouse would roll around. Taking precautions was his first priority. He installed an alarm system around the turkey run, enrolled in a martial arts class, and took up jogging to maintain a sleeker and therefore less enticing physique. None of this completely satisfied the nagging dread that he was next and finally he realized that if he were to be free of this tyrannical tradition, steps must be taken to stop it.

After much thought on the situation, Terence concocted a plan that seemed most logically capable of ending the nightmare. With some spare boxes found stored in the barn and a few lengths of baling wire, he constructed a time machine with which he was able to rocket back to the year 1621. His plan was simply to nip the whole thing in the bud.

He was foresighted enough to arrive on laundry day so that after a quick raiding of an unattended clothes line he was able to blend in as a member of the Pilgrim community. His quick wit and charm were enough to endear him to those he came in contact with without having to explain the whereabouts of his family which was fortunate since he had yet to master the rudiments of human language. A matter of days was all that was necessary before he was able to wheedle his way in among those boys responsible for the turkey flock.

How grateful Terence was that centuries of breeding had developed him into a specimen so far removed from the scrawny wild things the pilgrims had begun to domesticate so long before his own birth that no one noticed the resemblance he bore to his charges. Even these primitive birds were a bit shy towards his initial advances, but in time they grew accustomed to his presence, especially one comparatively intelligent bird, whom Terence suspected must be somehow tied into his genetic line for he (Wattle, they called him) was the first to accept Terence as a fellow fowl.

Once having won the flock's approbation, Terence still had a difficult time convincing its members that the humans presented any kind of a threat. He was faced with the same issue of memory that had plagued his social life in his own time. No matter how many times he tried to warn them of the ulterior motive the humans might have for offering them free feed, he generally found himself having to start from scratch (pun intended -- accolades may be forwarded to my home address). His greatest success was being able to instill in Wattle through means of pantomime and psychosomatic suggestions what the others in the flock saw as a morbid and unreasonable fear of hatchets.

As the trees became more barren and the winds blew more chill, Terence knew the moment of truth was approaching. Much sooner than he expected he was handed a hatchet and instructed to behead none other than stout Wattle in preparation for an impending feast. Now was the moment of truth. Could he maintain his station among the humans without sacrificing poor Wattle's head? In the end he found that he had been too thorough in his training of the hapless bird. Despite his efforts to assure Wattle that he was safe in his hands, the intended victim flew off the handle at the sight of the hatchet in Terrence's grip. In a scene at once heart wrenching and slapstick Terence tried to create the illusion that he was indeed beheading the panicked fowl while soothing the poor bird's unraveling nerves enough to play dead.

In the end, he had to plead a case of stage fright before the humans in attendance that he could be left alone with the frazzled Wattle. After discarding the offending hatchet he was assured that Wattle wouldn't go squawking about the village, he returned to the humans with a mock Wattle carefully constructed from a pumpkin he had previously sequestered for just such a moment. The ruse worked and for the first Thanksgiving, the main course was a primitive ancestor to today's pumpkin pie. (My, oh my, I do love pumpkin pie.)

Uneasy about his success, Terence returned to his own time to verify the results of his expedition. He expressed to me that since his return he had witnessed several Thanksgiving meals under various circumstances and not a one of them had featured turkey served under any guise. To me this was far from fantastic. Where the bird might have gotten the idea that turkey had ever been part of the Thanksgiving tradition is beyond me. I can only assume that an innate need for superiority had created this bizarre fantasy in his psyche. But, as I said, if nothing else this story makes an interesting pre-nap diversion. I must however excuse myself for my nose tells me that my pumpkin pie is ready to come out of the oven -- and I do love pumpkin pie!