A/N: This short is NOT based on a specific movie, but rather a genre as a whole - the adult movie industry, particularly the 1970's.
Brown Chicken Brown Cow
Harold Johnson sighed as he looked at the calendar on his bedroom wall. A gift from a local auto parts store, it featured a buxom bikini-clad model holding a carburetor. He had a good working knowledge about routine auto maintenance, but had never seen such a beautiful woman in the store while he was shopping for parts. In fact, he had never seen any woman quite like her before – she had a look that just invited the viewer to come investigate closer, and it probably wasn't whether the carburetor had two or four barrels.
"I know girls like that don't really exist – but I sure wish they did," Harold muttered to himself with a grin. Recently graduated from high school as salutatorian, he had enough brains to know that advertising was just that – a fake world that had little resemblance to the one he lived in, no more than the TV shows that came on in the evening.
But what he also knew was that his parents were due back from their vacation tomorrow and he had things to do before they returned. He picked up the last of the laundry and got it started in the washer before putting away the cleaned dishes from his late breakfast. He was about to pull out the vacuum cleaner when the phone rang.
"Johnson residence," he answered.
"Hey Brig, you still up for the movie tonight?" a voice asked from the other end.
A casual observer might wonder if it was a wrong number, but Harold did not always go by his first name. He had been named Harold after his maternal grandfather; however, his father stated flatly that his son was NOT going to have to go through school being known as 'Harry Johnson'. Harold always wondered what it was about the name that made his father so angry and his mother giggle, but he wound up going by his middle name of Brigadier; that in turn got shortened thanks to his mother calling to him for such things as "Brigadier, be a dear and bring me the forks" or "Brigadier, be a dear and call your father in for dinner". As with many names, it eventually got shortened to 'Brig' to family and friends. It was Harold for introductions and the general public, Brig for those closer to him.
"Come on Scott, you know I wouldn't miss it," he replied to his best friend. "Bring the pizza over at four and we'll eat and leave in plenty of time for the showing at six."
"Cool. See ya then, Buddy." The phone went dead and Harold waited instead of hanging up. After about two minutes the line clicked and Scott was on the other end again. "Hello, I like to…"
"Gotcha!" Harold said with a laugh and hung up. It was a game they played; the line would stay connected until BOTH parties hung up and sometimes one would try to catch the other trying to make another call afterward. It was fun but he wasn't going to stay on the line all day – not and maybe miss "Mutant X Almost Kills Everyone II", sure to be the biggest movie flop of 1973. The first was painfully awful as it was, but the sequel just HAD to be even worse. Getting more excited at the prospect of seeing a movie that was so bad it was good, Harold grabbed the huge set of keys hanging in the kitchen and headed out the front door. Over the jangling of twenty-three keys on the key ring while he locked the door, he heard an "Ooph…" behind him followed by a clattering. He turned around and saw someone sprawled in the street.
"Oh my," he said as he rushed out to help. Fortunately no cars were coming down the residential street from either side, so he bent over to help the person up. "Are you okay?" he asked the girl.
"I don't know," she said slowly and Harold helped her back up again. "I was skating in the street and must have hit a rock or something. I mean my wheel hit it. Whoa!" she said as she nearly fell again, but was steadied by Harold's strong arms. "I think I need to sit down."
"May I suggest out of traffic," Harold said as he half-carried half-guided her to the sidewalk that lined the edge of the road where she could sit on the curb. After letting her down gently, he asked "Did you hurt yourself?"
"Knocked the breath out of me," she said softly.
"Take slow, deep breaths."
Her chest rose and fell as she tried to control her breathing. Harold noticed the pace and was satisfied she wasn't hyperventilating. "I'm still not very good yet. That landing was pretty hard."
"Let me look you over. I got the Boy Scout merit badge for first aid years ago." He carefully and gently took her toned legs one at a time and examined the parts not covered between the socks and short shorts.
"Are you a med student?" she asked, warming to his touch.
"No, I just like science – and anatomy IS a science."
The expression on her face changed and she got a big smile on her face. "I think I landed on my butt. Maybe you could check it out indoors somewhere? My name's Anna." Through a window across the street you could hear the neighbor's stereo playing:
Bow chicka bow wow
"I wouldn't worry about that, Anna – your clothing, although not fully protective, seems to have averted any surface harm to your gluteous maximus. But that right elbow might be a problem."
"Really?" Her tone changed from dreamlike to confused.
"I'll be right back – just a moment." Harold dashed into his house after fumbling with the keys, and returned a few minutes later with a small first aid kit. "Oh, I'm Bri…Harold, by the way. This might hurt a little bit."
Anna starting softly singing "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key…" while he poked around her scraped elbow before he pulled out a few pieces of asphalt, causing her to stop singing and bite her lip. He followed it up with a square bandage and checked his work.
"I don't have any antiseptic in my kit and we're out of hydrogen peroxide. Do you have some at home?" he asked.
"We have some Iodine."
"That'll work. Go use that and rebandage your elbow. That way it won't get infected. Don't wait – do it as soon as you can before it gets really sore. It's going to get that way anyway, but at least you won't have a bad infection too. But I suggest you walk home instead of skating since you might be a little unsteady."
"Um…thanks, Harold. I guess I better get going." As she walked away, Harold studied his bandage work again and missed the form to which it was attached. After putting his kit away, he relocked the door and went out into the garage. Opening the heavy garage door, the daylight illuminated a brown and green vehicle.
"The 1967 Country Squire Wagon. Truly a classic if there ever was one," he said to himself. It had carried his parents, himself and his older sister on many trips before she went off to the Peace Corp last year. After six years most of the chrome was still on the luggage rack and the wood paneling only had to be glued down every few months. But it was covered in a light coat of dust – his father had hinted that his mother would really appreciate a clean car when she got back from their trip.
He climbed in and headed down the street. He had never been through an automated car wash before, but he had noticed a busy one by the interstate and decided to go there – if it was popular it must be good, he reasoned. He soon drove into the "Acme Car Wash – We're Topless!" lot and parked by the office. He whistled a bit at the price of the wash as he viewed the sign above the counter, but if no other car washes could top this one it must be extra special. He paid the cashier (oddly having to provide age verification, probably for insurance purposes he figured), who was a woman dressed in a maid's outfit - that she cleared miscalculated to be a few sizes too small – and was told to put the ticket on his dash when he drove into the line.
As his car inched forward toward the entrance, he saw two girls clad in swimsuits directing drivers onto a moving belt. Harold thought the swimwear was probably a good idea considering all of the humidity and water spray in the air but wondered what they did when the weather got cooler. He positioned the car as directed, and while he waited he was startled with a sudden thought: What did he do with his free movie passes for tonight? He jammed his hand in his shirt pocket and found them, but noticed that there were exclusion times on the back in small print. He ducked down to the passenger floorboard to look for a newspaper to look up the show times just as the interior got dark from entering the car wash and Harold had to rummage by feel through the cavernous glove compartment for a flashlight. Meanwhile the music playing over the PA system boomed a catchy tune:
Bow chicka bow wow
He found the light and used it to get the newspaper and flip through the pages for the entertainment section, which he scanned until he found the listing; he just managed to confirm his movie passes were valid for the evening show when the long hood of the station wagon emerged into daylight again, sparkling clean. Harold marveled at the job the automated wash seemed to have performed, unaware that the process had been complimented with a bevy of female attendants throwing themselves into their work so much that in their exuberance they had managed to lose whatever uniforms or clothing they had been wearing above the waist. The curtain at the end of the process hid from his view several young women puzzled at a driver who seemed more intent on looking at a newspaper than ogling them. Any loss of self esteem they might have suffered was restored with the admiration from the long line of drivers that followed.
While he was out, Harold decided to stop by the Ayce Auto to pick up a few things for his mother's car. "Hello Harold," the bald-headed man behind the counter said when he walked up.
"Hello Mr. Hanson," he replied.
"No Harold, you're graduated now. Call me Curly like everyone else. What do you need today?"
Harold ticked off his fingers. "Air filter, oil filter, spark plugs, points, condenser."
Curly wrote down the order. "This for the wagon? Has it been 5000 miles since your last tune-up already?"
"Yes sir."
"Okay, gotcha. It's a 1967, right?"
"Yes."
"Engine?"
"Three ninety."
"Two or four barrels?"
"Two."
"Automatic?"
"Yes."
"A/C?"
"No."
"Cigarette lighter?"
"Yes."
"Eight-track?"
"Just AM/FM."
"Alright, let me look these up. Give me a few, okay?"
"Sure thing."
Harold waited while Curly disappeared into the stacks of parts. He looked at a duplicate of the calendar he had at home then looked around the store. Nope, there wasn't a girl around here - he should be so lucky.
After about ten minutes Curly returned with an assortment of small boxes. "Here you go. The book says this air filter should work whether you have an eight-track player or not so I think you're good. Put 'em on your dad's bill?"
"Just until Mom gets a new car and I get this one," Harold grinned. "Then I get to pay to keep it running."
"Okay. Let me know when you need another case of oil."
Harold did the math in his head. One case was good for a little over a month of regular driving, but while his mom was away it was mostly parked. "We should still be good for about two weeks. They're back tomorrow and I'll ask Dad then if he wants another just to be sure."
"Sounds like a plan. Drive safe!"
"Sure thing Mister...Curly," Harold corrected himself. "Bye!" Another rite of passage into manhood, he thought to himself as he put the small boxes into aircraft hanger-sized rear cargo area and drove off. On a first name basis with other adults!
Two hours later he was in the garage, under the hood and giving a final twist to the wingnut that held the new air filter in place when he heard a woman's voice call "Hello? Anybody there?"
Harold pulled himself up straight while using a shop towel to wipe grease off his hands. "Hi," he answered to the stranger. The woman was wearing tight mid-calf pants, a plaid shirt tied in a knot above her belly button and a large-brimmed hat.
"I'm your new neighbor, Annika Gutterman. Well, I mean Annika Svenson. Force of habit - I got rid of a husband and a name neither of which really suited me. Tell you what - just call me Annika." She stayed on the outside of the garage looking in, and Harold definitely noticed a Scandinavian accent.
Harold came around the side of the car and introduced himself. "Harold Johnson. Welcome to the neighborhood. My parents will probably do the same when they get back from vacation, but it might take them a few days to get over and say hi. I don't remember seeing a moving truck."
"It comes tomorrow. I'm just going over the backyard right now to see what needs to be done. Do you know anything about gardening?"
"I didn't get a garden started in time this year because of getting ready for graduation, but I've learned a few things from a few years of trying not to kill vegetable plants."
Annika laughed, perhaps a bit too gratuitously. "I like the sound of that. Could you help me identify a couple of plants in my backyard?" She tipped her hat to one side and gave a sly smile. "Maybe you could show me a few things."
Harold shrugged good-naturedly. "Sure. I'm done with the tune-up and…" he said as he looked at his watch "…I've got a little free time."
"Perfect. Follow me and we'll go through the side gate." Annika slipped out of view and Harold tossed the shop towel onto a bench as he hurried to catch up. "Come on!" she said, looking over her shoulder while swinging open the gate. Harold noticed how she was swaying her hips greatly and wondered if her shoes might be ill-fitting. "I'll need to get some of this cleared – the previous owners let it get overgrown before they sold it."
"That was the Lakewoods. They've lived here for as long as I can remember. I used to talk out of my bedroom window across to Mr. Lakewood in his bedroom sometimes, but they've gotten older and wanted to move to a smaller house."
"That's nice. Now then, what's this plant?" she asked as she bent over at the waist in front of him.
Harold couldn't see around her shaking posterior to see what plant she was talking about or obviously struggling to pull up, so he stepped around. Reaching over, he easily pulled up the plant. "That's Monkey Grass." There was a transistor radio on a step nearby, playing a tune
Bow chicka bow wow
that he was sure he had heard before.
"Is it a bad plant?"
"No, it's pretty harmless. It's related to asparagus."
"I don't like asparagus; it gives me bad breath. You don't like bad breath…do you?" she asked as her head turned toward him as she remained bent over.
"I don't think anybody does."
"Good point," she giggled with more than a little exaggeration. "I never saw Monkey Grass back home in Sweden. Of course some things are the same all over the world," she said as she grinned and stood up slowly, arching her back in a long stretch, jiggling most of her body from hair to toes and parts between.
"I know. Like spiders – we've got lots of them."
The mischievous grin disappeared off Annika's face. "Spiders?"
"Oh sure. We've got really big ones called grass spiders that are the size of a tennis ball, but they're not poisonous. The bad ones are the much smaller black widows. And I have seen one trap door spider, wolf spiders…"
Annika was shivering. "Stop, stop…just please stop. I hate spiders. I fear them. What can I do?"
"Call an exterminator and have them spray really well before you move in. That should help a lot, and then once a month they come out and do it again. That should take care of most of them."
"Who do I call? How soon can they get here?"
"You can look in the phone book if you have one."
"I don't…" she said, wringing her hands.
"Give me a moment and I'll get you one," Harold said before he returned to his garage. A few moments later he came back with the item in his hands to find his new neighbor standing in the middle of her driveway, nervously eyeing the cement around her. He quickly flipped through the yellow pages and found what he was looking for. "I suggest Pest Squashers. They're really good and I think they might be able to come out today." He handed it to her. "You can keep it – it's last years but most of the numbers should still be good."
"Thank you. I'll call now," she said as she hurried into her house. Harold glanced at his watch – enough time to shower before Scott came over. He put his tools away, closed the garage and proceeded to take a shower.
Afterward he was drying off when he heard the doorbell ring. Assuming it was Scott, he wrapped a towel around his waist and answered the door. Instead of Scott he saw a woman in t-shirt and shorts standing on the front step with a pizza box in her hand. The name "Pie-opolous" was stretched across the fabric of her shirt as it clung tightly to her chest.
"Yes?" Harold asked, surprised not to see his friend.
The woman looked up at the young man. "Hi. I'm Wanda Bunch the assistant manager at Pie-opolous and I'm looking for a Big Johnson." She fought to keep a straight face but started to redden.
"Excuse me?"
She started to stammer. "I mean…ah...I'm looking for a Mr. Big Johnson. I have something for him. A…a pizza, I mean. Is that you, I hope?"
Harold noticed that song playing again, this time through the open window of Wanda's vehicle parked in front of the house:
Bow chicka bow wow
"Oh!" Harold said after a moment, laughing. "That must be a typo. I go by Brig Johnson to my friends. Scott must have ordered the delivery instead of picking it up."
"That's not…never mind. It IS your pizza then? I saw the name and insisted on making the delivery myself instead of the normal driver."
"Yeah, I guess it's mine. I…ah…don't seem to have any money on me to pay for it."
"That's okay – it's already paid for. But I'll…ah…will accept a nice tip. You know…whatever you can think of." Harold didn't think it was exceptionally hot outside but the young woman's face was getting quite red – her ears looked like they were on fire.
"Well, I have something I was saving until later but I guess now's a good time," Harold said as he ducked out of the doorway. He popped back with a five dollar bill. "I keep it for emergency gas but you can have it." At that moment a car drove up, honking it's horn. "There's my friend who ordered the pizza." He waved at Scott and handed the money to Wanda.
Not alone with Harold anymore, Wanda left disappointed. Scott came in and the two friends ate the pizza while discussing various methods for defeating crazed killer madmen on the loose. When the time was near, they packed into the Country Squire and drove down to the theater in time to catch the first feature, the original "Mutant X Almost Kills Everyone". During the intermission before the sequel started, Harold made a run to the concession stand for snacks.
The girl behind the counter looked both ways to see if anyone was looking before bending low over the glass display case to ask Harold "Do you see anything you like?" His eyes were focused on the candy in the case and missed any other treats that might have been viewed courtesy of a low-cut blouse.
"What do you recommend?" he asked, eyeballing the licorice whips. The music playing over the lobby's sound system changed from a theme song medley to another instrumental number:
Bow chicka bow wow
"I can think of a few things," she said coyly while twirling her hair around her finger. "I just LOVE the sugar-free gum to keep my figure slim." Kathy was a classmate of Harold's sister and had always admired Harold in more ways than one. Now that he had graduated, she was even more interested.
"That stuff isn't good for you," Harold countered.
"What?" Kathy stood up and arched her eyebrows. "Why not?"
"The artificial sweetener. I was just reading an article about the stuff they use. Saccharin has been linked to health problems in lab animals."
"Really? How bad?" Concern crept into her voice.
"It takes a while to build up. The results are preliminary but rats got tumors in their bladders."
"Eww!" she exclaimed, nauseated at the image that thrust itself into her head. Unable to control her suddenly lurching stomach, she excused herself and Harold had to be helped by another worker.
The movie proved to be as awful as they had hoped and the ride back home was filled with discussion of how the plans of Mutant X went wrong, what the inevitable sequel would be, and just what should you call the combination spoon and fork the snack bar served with the Freeze-E drink. Scott held that it should be called a 'spork' since the spoon was the larger of the two parts; Harold maintained that 'foon' would be better because the fork part went into your mouth first.
After seeing Scott away, Harold went over the house to make sure it was clean. All the laundry was folded and put away, there were no dirty dishes, and he went over the thick shag rugs with a vacuum cleaner one more time before he was satisfied and headed off to his bedroom upstairs. As he prepped for bed he went to close his bedroom window. Across the way, he could just make out the silhouette of Annika through her curtains. The lighting in her room was such that Harold couldn't help but notice her moving around, arching her back and stretching in poses that others would have thought highly suggestive. Harold noted to himself that perhaps she had an issue with her skeletal system and not ill-fitting shoes like he thought earlier. Obviously she was well aware of the benefits of stretching – perhaps she had gotten some advice from a chiropractor. Happily, he turned from the sight after drawing his shade and flipped off the light before going to bed.
Peeking around her curtain, Annika was disappointed to see that her show wasn't being watched and she went downstairs to flip on the TV while looking through some personal want ads. Then she remembered the cute pest control man who gave her his business card with the hand-written number on the back and grinned before reaching for the telephone.
The next day Harold's parents returned from vacation the way any normal person would – tired, poorer and glad to be home. They were appreciative for a clean house and car awaiting them, no laundry to do and actual groceries in the kitchen. That evening his mother went to check on her son in his room. Harold had been fiddling around with an electronics hobby kit, but when his mother entered she saw him staring at the calendar on his wall. She smiled, and shook her head. "Daydreaming?"
"No," he said as he quickly turned his gaze to his mother. "Just thinking."
"About girls I'll bet," his mother said knowingly. "Brig, when are you going to stop thinking about girls and pay attention to the world around you?"
The End
A/N: I had heard years ago a reference on the radio to "Brown Chicken Brown Cow" as being a transliteration of the typical style of instrumental music in adult cinema during the 70's – I didn't know there had been a country song with the title dealing with the same "code" for typical activity during such musical interludes. But since I hadn't done a parody of an adult film yet, I thought I'd tackle the whole stereotypical genre at once. Research seems to indicate that modern films of this type have done away with plot and just…ah…concentrated on the action sequences rather than trying to link scenes with a vague and poorly-acted story.
For the record, I've had the spork/foon debate before. I just couldn't convince anyone that 'foon' would be good just because it SOUNDED funnier.