The story of a turkey

Once upon a time, there was a turkey.
The story about to be recounted happened so long ago that its veracity may well be called into question. In fact, I may have the whole thing wrong.
But this is how I remember it, and it’s my story. So sit down and quit quibbling about little things like accuracy and facts.
Back in college, I had a buddy by the name of Riddo.
That wasn’t his real name but his nickname.
Now Riddo was kind of a character, a little Jewish guy from the big city — Chicago, I think, but then again that’s one of those pesky details that gets lost in the mists of time — who was trying to adjust to life on a small college campus in Indiana.
He wore glasses, had a wild bush of unruly hair, and tended to wear flannel shirts as jackets. In other words, he looked like about half the campus in the late 1960s.
He also had an infectious laugh that started as a series of whoops and sounded almost painful by the time he was finished.
One Christmas vacation, Riddo dutifully headed back home to Chicago or New York or wherever it was and got a job.
What exactly he did during the relatively long break is something I can’t begin to remember.
What I do remember is that when it was time to head back to school, his employer gave him a bonus: A turkey.
It was a frozen turkey, and Riddo probably should have left it with his parents.
Perhaps their freezer was full. Perhaps, after Thanksgiving and the December Jewish holidays, the last thing his family wanted was more turkey.
Whatever the reason, Riddo decided the thing to do was bring his frozen Butterball back to campus with him.
What he expected to do with it is anyone’s guess.
There was no oven in our dorm as I recall.
Maybe he hoped that having access to a frozen turkey would help him meet girls. Maybe he planned to drop it off the top of the highest building on campus as some sort of physics experiment.
At any rate, he headed back to college from vacation with two items of luggage: A backpack and a frozen turkey.
Now Riddo was never the sort to go in for hitchhiking. He tended to take the bus. (The logistical implications of hitchhiking with a frozen turkey might also have come into play.)
He took the bus from his home in Chicago/New York/Boston/Los Angeles/Paris or wherever it was and checked his backpack and Big Bird in the storage compartment of a Greyhound.
It’s been a long time since I’ve traveled very far on a bus, but in those days, the luggage compartment was down low, close to the pavement. There must have been at least a 50-50 chance that Big Bird was going to thaw out before reaching its destination.
But something worse happened.
Because the trip was a long one, Riddo had to make connections and switch buses. And somewhere along the line, he and his faithful plucked companion got separated.
It was never clear whether the fault belonged to Greyhound or Riddo. Was it bus company negligence or just a clueless college kid forgetting about that extra 12 pounds of tryptophan-laden poultry?
It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is that when Riddo arrived back on campus he just had his backpack.
The bird was somewhere on the road, thawing out in an unclaimed luggage storage room or being roasted by the exhaust of a big bus barreling down the interstate.
As to Riddo, he was philosophical about his loss. He just hoped that the bird was found before it went bad and that somebody had a chance to enjoy it.
And if they did, he hoped they’d save him some white meat.[[In-content Ad]]