Why did the chicken cross MacArthur?

I’ll give you one guess. Don’t blow it. Ready? What is the oldest joke in the world? Wait, here’s a hint: What is the oldest, dumbest joke in the world? Wait, wait, one more hint: There’s a chicken and ? this is important ? there’s a road.

Anyone? Yes, that’s it! I’m so proud of you.

But by the time we’re done, you will know at long last exactly why the chicken crossed the road, and it was not, hard as it is to believe, to get to the other side.

I first heard about the chicken from Heather Klein, a close friend who lives in Newport Beach in general and Belcourt in particular. Heather, an actress, model, mother and amateur orthodontist, did not actually see the chicken herself, but heard about it from Diana Tomei, also of Newport Beach, specifically One Ford Road, and no relation to Marisa Tomei, as much as I had hoped she was.

Friday, March 3, 2006. That was the first time Diana saw the chicken. She was in her car, waiting in a left turn lane on MacArthur Boulevard, about to turn onto Ford Road.

As she waited, patiently, idly, Diana glanced at the sidewalk and saw something odd. Actually, it was more than odd. Right there, smack dab on MacArthur, strolling along with a spring in his step and not a care in the world was a chicken.

Not a toy chicken or a stuffed chicken, not a grilled chicken or a rubber chicken or a shill in a chicken suit twirling a sign ? but a real, live, clucking, pecking, just-like-God-made-it chicken. You could have knocked Diana over with a feather.

“This is Newport Beach,” she said. “Home of Mercedeses and Hummers, Suburbans and soccer moms. This is no place for a chicken.”

A mountain lion in Corona del Mar? Big whoop. A stranded whale in the harbor? So what’s your point? But a chicken on MacArthur? It just doesn’t seem right.

Diana immediately called Heather Klein who said, yes, she understood and, yes, she knows what a chicken is, but inquired as to, maybe, perhaps, was it, you know, possible that Diana had been over served at a local restaurant, or that the left turn signal on MacArthur was long enough to cause a brief episode of dementia?

It was neither of those, Diana said.

It was a chicken, right there, on MacArthur, with a beak and feathers and really, really skinny legs.

Later that day, on Diana’s very next foray onto the mean streets of Newport Beach, there it was again. An absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it chicken ? strolling along on the sidewalk, occasionally doing that weird little five-yard dash that chickens do now and then.

Now Diana was worried. Really worried.

Not only was this someone’s chicken, but it seemed like a nice chicken. It was not bad looking, for a chicken, and it was relatively well mannered.

With hundreds of highly leveraged cars roaring by at any moment, Diana was right ? MacArthur Boulevard is no place for a chicken.

Knowing what had to be done, she called Newport Beach animal control. When Diana explained that she was calling to report a chicken and started to describe the chicken in some detail, the animal control person on the other end of the line interrupted and said, “Yes, ma’am. We are aware of the chicken.”

“Oh,” Diana said, unable to hide her surprise. “You are?”

When she tried to estimate where the chicken might be now ? given its last location, average speed, the occasional sprints ? the voice on the other end repeated, flatly, “Yes, ma’am. We are aware of the chicken.”

“Well, thank you,” Diana said. “You’ll send someone then?”

“We’ll do what we can ma’am,” the voice said. “Thanks for the call.”

Diana hung up and took a moment to reflect on everything that had happened. Not only did she feel good about herself, her city and her country, but she felt vindicated. There is a chicken. And now no one can deny it or doubt her. But she needn’t have worried.

Just one day later, on Saturday, March 4, 2006, Marty Klein, who as luck would have it is married to Heather Klein, ventures onto Ford Road from Belcourt, with sons Jack and Will Klein safely strapped in, when they spot the chicken strolling along Ford Road, obviously bored with MacArthur and ready to move on.

The chicken is nonchalant, as always, but inside the Klein vehicle, it is pandemonium, with Jack and Will Klein in a full-on chicken-induced frenzy and Marty doubling back not once but twice to give the boys another look at the little pecker.

As chicken encounters go, it is very intense.

Time passes. Days go by. By now, the chicken is everywhere, and the sightings are coming fast and thick. Whatever animal control is doing, the chicken is obviously not impressed.

On Saturday, March 11, Donna Hood, Bayshores resident and friend of Heather Klein, calls Heather in an excited state and reports that she and her husband, Greg, were driving along Ford Road, when she could swear they saw a chicken, strolling along the center divider like it was nothing.

Heather tells her to settle down, take a number and, no, there’s no need to call animal control. By now, it is all chickens, all the time at the Klein household ? with sightings from MacArthur to Jamboree, Ford Road to Bison ? coming in by telephone, e-mail and in person, one after another. There are also any number of animal control truck sightings now, clearly in hot pursuit, following every lead, trying every tactic, hoping to run the chicken to ground.

More time passes.

On Thursday, March 16, 2006, Diana receives a telephone call from Heather Klein that two animal control trucks are just outside the Belcourt gate and perhaps this is the end for the little guy. Racing there as fast as she can with her son and a friend in the back seat, Diana sees no animal control trucks, but there, hiding in plain sight, is the chicken.

Not only is he alive and well, but he is sprinting across Ford Road like a chicken on a mission.

“There it went ? zoom,” Diana said. “Head down, tail feathers flapping, one hop onto the curb on the other side of the street.”

It’s not easy being a chicken in Newport Beach. You have to keep moving, moving, without a moment’s rest.

Where is he now? No one knows. Is he OK? Can’t say. Where will the story end? Not a clue.

But Heather and Diana promise not to rest until it does, and they will bear witness in a court of law that the oldest, dumbest joke has finally been answered. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to Belcourt.

Hang in there little buddy. We’re all pulling for you.

I gotta go.