Kentucky Fried Cash

The notebook rattled around the trunk of my 2006 Subaru Impreza, sliding to the back, getting wedged in between the spare waterproof floormats I would never use. A real gem of a Craigslist find, the car came in the nick of time. I had just depleted the last of my meager savings, had no backup plan, no prospects. My position as a substitute teacher in an early learning program was halted with no return time in sight. The pandemic had swiftly taken hold of my life and livelihood, and I was left, mouth gaping, wondering how I did not plan for a hundred year pandemic more thoroughly. My car payment was too high, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me when it was hauled away by the usually dreaded repo man. To me, he was a saint to take this burden off my back.

I found the car for sale for $1200, which interestingly was about what I had left after paying the bulk of my most pressing bills. Knowing I would likely be digging into that stale case of chicken ramen in the back of my cupboard, I did not hold out much hope for unemployment to kick in to save me anytime soon. I was afloat among a sea of stranded citizens, waiting and wondering how this all has happened to them with seemingly no warning.

The car belonged to an elderly gentleman who was happy to turn the keys over. He said that the car was his grandson's, but he had taken off a couple years earlier via a first class ticket to someplace tropical. He had, apparently, been more prepared for these times.

The transaction went smoothly, and I found myself sighing in relief that I had secured a vehicle. A bit rusted, not too quiet, and definitely in need of some work but it was sea worthy, and let's face it, I wasn't going too far.

I didn't tackle the random items always left behind when buying Craigslist cars. Anyone who has participated in this transaction knows what I mean. There are always pens, wedged paperwork that was important to someone at some point, coins, barrettes. CD's, or cassette tapes (depending on how much of a deal you were going for!) and other items of little importance that you would eventually chuck out when you got around to a thorough detail of your new ride.

It was by chance that my eyes focused on the dusty little black notebook in the trunk, and my first thought was, "this is the item that has been banging around when I take a turn a little too hard". But I was prepared to toss it like the gum wrappers and dried up pens, so I reached for it and instinctively opened the tough leather cover.

What I saw written inside jolted me. And to be jolted by anything after the year or so of near constant shocks relating to COVID-19 speaks volumes. It was at first absurd, and I chuckled. But then I wondered. Could this be legit?

What I had in my hands was, very likely, the secret that has transcended all time, all comprehension. The elusively secret recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken. I know what you're thinking. Who would believe this was authentic, and how would this jet setting grandson of a Craigslist poster have this in his possession? I felt like dismissing this, but then, a little piece of me wondered if this just might be the real deal.

It was comprehensive. It detailed the only other location of the recipe- housed inside a vault in Louisville. It detailed what was inside those eleven vials of herbs and spices, and oh man. I didn't know whether it was pandemic induced insanity or desperation or a brand new sensation of unadulterated hope, but I put that little notebook close to my chest and pondered my next moves.

Under other conditions, I might try to do the right thing. Turn it in, or use this found treasure to prepare the most delectable fried chicken and serve it to anyone who needed some comfort food. And it would be a lot of people.

But this was 2020, and that ramen was indeed stale. I did a little research, got ahold of the current owner of KFC at YUM! Brands and told them I had somehow been gifted this most unexpected bounty. They did not dismiss me as a prank caller when I had the facts to back up my claim.

And just like that, I was wired $20,000, a down payment for my silence. In return, I was to put the notebook in a lockbox and mail it to the Louisville-based headquarters. I probably could have asked for more, but I also could have never found the notebook at all.

In the end, I think $20K is fair. I helped an infamous recipe stay secret, I got a nice padding in my bank account, and I was able to toss out that ramen and live comfortably, riding out the pandemic with my bills paid, food in the cupboard, and a gifthorse in the form of a 2006 rusted Subaru Impreza with a bad exhaust sitting in my driveway.