What I Learned From a Dirty Chicken Leg
As a high school sophomore in Odessa, Texas, I landed a job as a part-time delivery boy. I was part of a teenage team of drivers for a fast-food restaurant called "Broasted Chicken." We had a small fleet of VW Bugs, and we delivered chicken dinners around town.
My first night on the job—and my very first delivery—was a minor disaster.
The chicken was packaged in flimsy white cardboard boxes, and it took practice to handle them properly. When I arrived at the customer’s address, just as I was getting five boxes out of the back seat, I dropped two of them. The chicken spilled out, and all I could do was grope around on the floor in the dark feeling for drumsticks and wings, which I put back in the boxes, hoping they would be alright.