By Amy
A little over a week ago, the Oregonian ran an article about a Mr. Tremayne Durham of New York, who was accused of killing a Gresham man in an ice cream truck deal gone wrong. Tremayne had special-ordered the truck, probably the kind that plays cloying tunes like "Music Box Dancer," from an Oregon company for $18,000, but later changed his mind and was unable to get his money back. So, as any reasonable person would do, he crossed the United States by bus, police believe, to Oregon, looking to exact revenge on the company's owner. Tremayne ended up tracking down a former employee of the ice cream truck company, Adam Calbreath, and shot him to death instead.
Two years later, Tremayne appeared before a Multnomah County judge, facing the death penalty on aggravated murder charges. He cut a deal: He would plead guilty to the accusations in exchange for a fast-food chicken dinner from Popeyes. The judge agreed to the offer. That afternoon, the newly minted murderer feasted on Popeyes chicken (with some KFC chicken thrown in, too), mashed potatoes, coleslaw, carrot cake and ice cream.
Although I don't understand Tremayne's reasoning regarding his plea, I can empathize with his addiction. I face Popeyes twice a day at the No. 6 bus stop near my house. The sight of the mustard-brown-and-red restaurant triggers my craving for a deep-fried, golden-battered, artery-obstructing temptation that comes with a spork: a two-piece Popeyes chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy and a buttermilk biscuit.
When an east wind blows, the aroma of Popeyes chicken wafts into my backyard—it's as if the restaurant had stored the pure essence of fried-chicken scent in a pressurized tank and pumped it out of a rooftop vent to tempt everyone living within a half-mile radius. Sometimes, I'll be outside mowing the lawn or gardening and the smell of it will hit me and I'll drop what I'm doing to get some. I'll drive the half-block and use the drive-through (I have never sat down inside—for no reason except that I prefer to order and eat Popeyes in private). And if it's well into the evening, such as when the bus drops me off after work and the restaurant doors are locked, my behavior is even more shameful: I will walk through the Popeyes drive-through, aware that people are staring as I belly up to the window to collect my bag of food. But I'm not the only one—on a weekend night not long ago I saw two teenage girls in short skirts standing amid a line of cars and Cadillac Escalades, their skinny legs appearing vulnerable in the headlights as they waited for their order.
In 2005, when I was buying my current house in the Eliot neighborhood, the previous owners—a white, professional couple in the advertising industry, stapled their own word-processed addendum about their impressions of the neighborhood to the official seller's disclosure form. Under "Things We Love," they mentioned Wild Oats organic market (now Whole Foods), the easy bicycle access to the eastside esplanade, and Acadia (an "awesome Creole restaurant"). Under another heading, "Things We're Most Disappointed With" (not "Things We Hate," mind you, but are disappointed with, as when parents are most disappointed when their 5-year-old smacks another kid at playgroup), they mentioned the people who go door-to-door and beg for money and the junkman who used to live across the street and pick engine carcasses apart in his front yard. As for Popeyes, in their Love list they called it "the best fried chicken in town," but they were Disappointed with this disturbing trend:
"Some inconsiderate people throw their trash from Popeye's chicken right on the sidewalk. About once every three weeks, there's usually a piece of it somewhere on the front parking strip or the retaining wall."
I haven't found many chicken bones in my yard since moving in, but I am pleased to have discovered that the time it takes to walk from Popeyes to my house is exactly the time it would take to consume a piece of chicken smaller than a breast. [Also, if the couple who sold me the house is reading this, I'd like to say I'm most disappointed that you failed to disclose the fact that the refrigerator and dishwasher leaked, that the basement had a tendency to flood during a heavy rain, and that during our final real estate negotiations you tried to sell me your houseplants for $450 because you couldn't ship them to San Francisco. But, on the other hand, you did have someone redo the wood floors and paint all the rooms pretty colors, so thanks for that.]
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