Please Sign Here
Written by Jamal Barbari

I experienced my first chicken wing at ten years old on my dad’s birthday. He pulled me into the kitchen from the backyard, mischief written all over his face. “You know what you need, my boy? More vitamins!” I swear, the old bastard wanted to watch me suffer. He handed me chicken wings, drenched in mango and scotch bonnet barbecue sauce.

“These have vitamins?”

“Just eat it, son,” he said. A wretched smile formed.

As ordered, I finished one wing and went to another. Numbness assaulted my taste buds, and my dad hid his growing smirk behind a quivering mustache.

I finished the third wing.

“How do you like it?” My father snickered. “Good, right?”

My paralyzed tongue produced nothing but a grunt. Pronunciation was out of the question. Both of us turned red, he from laughter me from the bite of hell erupting in my mouth.

He patted me on the back. “Ah, don’t worry,” he said, laughing. “You’ll be fine soon enough. Go drink some milk.”

I never thought I’d be so happy to drink that repulsive white liquid. I dashed to the fridge on scrawny legs, threw the door open, grabbed the milk, and started chugging. Behind me, my father bent over, hands on his knees enjoying the scene.

“Do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t tell Mom.” Still snickering, he proceeded out the house. Thanks, Dad.

Smoke rose from the grill outside, rich with the scent of Vidalia onions and marinated beef. Children chased the neighbor’s Jack Russell, and Soca music emanated from an old boom box that neither of my parents had the courage to throw out. I willed my eyes to stop watering before anyone saw.

Mom entered the kitchen. She retrieved a tray of her special deviled eggs with homemade pickles and herbed mayonnaise. Casually asking if I was having fun, she glanced my way. I responded with a nod in an attempt to obey my father’s recent request. But moms sense insincerity.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I mumbled my answer around my numb tongue. “Nothing.”

She scrunched her eyebrows together. “Why are you so red?”

My rising hyperventilation stopped me from speaking. I feigned confusion with a quick shrug and returned the milk to the fridge. Mom loomed behind me. She didn’t say a word, just walked over and mopped the sweat from my forehead. She glared at the tears running down my cheeks. “Oh, your dad is in big trouble.”

She stomped out, and I rushed after her. Maybe I could stop her before—

Too late. Her screaming voice reverberated from the backyard, where my dad and his friends surrounded the grill.

“You’re ruining his intestines! We’ll never eat wings in this house again. Not even the regular ones!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father said, trying to hide a smile. “It’s just a little prank. Jordan is fine!”

I backed away slowly, hoping neither of them would notice me. This is all my fault. I should’ve hidden it better… but it’s not like I told her. I couldn’t even speak!

Needless to say, my father was right. My intestines were undamaged, and the cherry tomato color eventually faded from my cheeks. But Mom’s proclamation couldn’t be challenged. Chicken wings were never eaten in our house again.

Anytime Dad and I wanted wings, we snuck out. Our secret trips became a tradition we guarded well, safe from Mom’s fury and other tyrannical laws she could impose upon us.

***

Years later, my dad and I arrived in the parking lot of Chicken Wings and Dreams. Surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and smooth sidewalks, the restaurant is famous for its spicy hot sauce.

I swung into a spot between two minivans, their back windows plastered with honor student bumper stickers and happy family decals. The delicious aromas snuck up on me. Adobo, garlic, cayenne pepper, and mango habanero. People entered and exited the place quickly; some looked satisfied, while others appeared to writhe in pain. The drive-through line overflowed with cars waiting to order. This place was gearing up to be my new favorite restaurant.

The logo was a winner. Above the door, a drumstick and a wing resembled husband and wife. Angel wings sprouted behind them, and the anthropomorphized meat sticks stared into each other’s eyes. I appreciated the cheeky romance.

My dad and I hurried inside, afraid our matriarch would show up without a moment's notice. Employees bussed tables in dark green-and-amber uniforms. Parents scolded their kids to stop throwing bones at each other. Teenagers pressured their friends to try the “Spiciest Chicken Wings in the world.”

“Dad, you want to try their spiciest wings?” I said.

“Nah, my stomach can’t handle it anymore. I’m too old. I’ll shit all over the place if it’s anything hotter than a jalapeño.”

I chuckled. “Okay, which ones do you want then?”

“I’ll take six lemon pepper and six honey barbecue. Don’t forget the ranch dressing.”

“I never forget the ranch. You didn’t raise a dummy.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, a sly smile forming.

“Ugh, just go get us a table.”

He chuckled as he finally left me in peace. I waited in line. I read the whole menu, but the “Spiciest Chicken Wings” had no picture. A disclaimer beside the flaming words echoed the restaurant’s widespread marketing with a warning that any customer daring to try their super-hot sauce must sign a waiver.

“Welcome to Chicken Wings and Dreams. How may I help you?”

I stepped before the lady at the counter. “Do y’all have a picture of the “Spiciest Chicken Wings?””

“Sorry sir, we don’t. It’s a surprise. They’re not your typical spicy chicken wings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our ‘Spiciest Chicken Wings’ is actually called ‘Please Don’t Kill Me,’ and the sauce isn’t a traditional spicy look that you may be accustomed to seeing. They aren’t bright red. They don’t have that spicy aroma that makes you cough from the smell. It’s more like a barbecue sauce, really. The flavors are subtle at first until it sneaks up on you for a wild ride.”

I grinned. “Is that right? They sound wonderful. I’ll take six lemon-peppers, six buffalos, six garlic parmesans, and six of the ‘Spiciest Chicken Wings,’ the ‘Please Don’t Kill Me’ ones.”

“Of course, sir. Please sign this waiver while I ring up your order.”

I giddily signed the waiver, paid for the food, and sat on a wooden bench near the register. The group of teenagers nearby placed bets on who would cry first. On the other side of the restaurant, mischievous kids wiped their saucy hands on their clothes and their parents. Oh, the regret on those poor adult souls.

My number came up, and I grabbed a few wet napkins from the counter. I covertly removed and trashed the flavor labels from each container of chicken wings. My father found a seat in the middle of the restaurant with his eyes set out the window.

“That was awfully quick.”

“It seems they are pretty efficient here. Franchise and all that.”

“I like this place already. Let’s dig in!”

I gave my dad the lemon-pepper and the ‘Please Don’t Kill Me’ wings, while I tried my best not to smirk.

“No labels, Jordan?” he said.

“Yea I thought it was weird too. Maybe it saves them time to not put them on? Could explain the efficiency.”

“I guess so,” he said, inspecting the wing trays further. “Anyways, cheers, son!”

“Cheers, pops!”

We tapped chicken wings, as if clanging beers. I watched him eat the first wing, coated in super-hot sauce. I took a bite of my wing and chewed slowly as I patiently waited for his demise.

“Are you sure this is barbecue sauce? Tastes different.”

Feigning confusion, I answered, “Yeah, that’s what they told me. It’s a special recipe and not a traditional barbecue.”

“Well, they’re good, regardless.”

I slowed as Dad gradually turned scarlet. I set down my wing and watched the unfurling of cosmic justice spread over my father’s face. He was turning scarlet red, but I wasn’t sure if he could actually feel the heat yet.

“Still good?” I asked.

“Sure are! But I feel like this is spicier than a normal barbecue sauce.”

“Special recipe, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember—”

His face flushed with mixed surprise, anger, and agony. He stood and raced toward the bathroom. While he dodged children, teens, and parents in his mad dash, I gleefully sucked the last morsel off my bone. I wiped my hands and strutted across the dining room floor with my head held high.

Awkward grunts, thumps, and screams slammed against the bathroom door. I went inside. A forty-something year-old man cautiously washed his hands, throwing scared glances at the possible alien invasion unfolding in the bathroom stall. I sauntered over and knocked.

“Hey, you alright in there?” I asked. “What happened?”

“You little shit! You got me good, huh?”

“Dad, I think you’re the one with the little shits right now.”

We both laughed. I waited fifteen minutes for him to conclude his meditations upon the porcelain throne. He emerged with disheveled hair and drenched in sweat. His face was as bright as a ripe tomato, an all-too-familiar look. He wiped his cheeks with toilet paper, advanced to the sink, and removed the remnants of sauce from the side of his lips.

“Dad, can you do me a favor?” I said.

He stopped washing his hands. “Are you joking?”

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s something to benefit the both of us.”

“Oh yeah, and what would that be?”

Smiling, I wetted a few paper towels and dabbed his forehead. My voice lowered to a whisper. “Don’t tell Mom.”

Illustrated by Darren Botha