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AFTERMATH
The Daily Oklahoman Newspaper, November 1st,
1905:
The eve of All Saints Day is becoming
something to be dreaded by the inhabitants of Oklahoma City. The occasion is regarded by the youth of
spirit as one of the extreme holidays and what he can invent to annoy the
average citizen is amazing.
From
eight o’clock last evening until two o’clock this morning the telephones at
police headquarters were constantly buzzing with complaints relative to
depredations committed by the youngsters who were ‘out for a time…’
Many
of the warmest complaints were made by the ‘grown up boys’ who have forgotten
who they ‘raised Cain’ and caused peaceful people sleepless nights in the times
they are wont to refer as ‘the good old days of long ago.’
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Billy McGibbons cracked his knuckles and
sighed.
Heck, he thought, they all just wanna make this like any other day. Well I aint gonna
have it!
Now Billy wasn’t particularly mean-spirited, he wasn’t
some fiendish troublemaker out to harm the general population while spreading unprovoked
malice far and wide, and he was raised by parents who had earnestly tried to
instill a sense of righteousness into his daily ethic (for the most part). So
no, it was none of that, it had little to do with working out the tension that
tends to accrue within dormant musculature, it was merely the fact that he was stuck
in the worst of all possible sorts for an idle sixteen-year-old found around
these parts.
He
was flat-out bored.
You
see, nothing much happens around here unless one somehow summons it, unless one
steps forward into the dull fray and conjures his own special societal misstep,
and excitement doesn’t fall from these skies but instead rises out of the amorous
toil from one’s own mischievous hands. His
happened to be un-calloused, far too clean, and just aching for some kind
of imminent dust-up to get the blood flowing, the red corpuscles multiplying, hopefully
the direct result from a resplendent night of exhilarating exploits.
And this was certainly the night to do it, this Hall-o-Ween, the ball of ghouls, and if unruly shenanigans weren’t
exactly given a free pass on this one night out of the year, well, they could
be somewhat expected and tolerated as long as no real damage was done and no
one got hurt in the process. That had been Billy’s thinking anyway.
What’s
more, it had only been a week or so since the young fellow had finally regained
his full physical strength after an extended bout with the rabbit fever, or what the good doctor had more technically
referred to as tularemia, some kind
of foul bacterial infection he had acquired probably from snatching polecats
from within the muddy walls of Boggy Creek, or maybe back in July when he and
the gang had chased that brood of agitated beavers further on down near the
Canadian draw. It was a relief to understand however that it was not the result from his brief encounter behind
the outhouse with little miss Petula back
in the spring (for crying out loud, all he did was hold her hand and give her a
quick peck on that rosy cheek). Anyway, whatever it’s originating source, he
had surely been stricken by it, sick as a goaded prairie dog, and there had been
a few days back then which he couldn’t exactly recall and his brother said
that’s probably a good thing.
So no more polecats or beaver for him. He’ll stick to the muskrats and
the Arbuckle Hereford toads from here on out. They may not be much better to
look at but he wasn’t snagging any of them for their beauty anyway. And you
know what? Most anything can be peppered
and roasted to taste acceptable given the proper time and an adequate blaze.
But now here he was, healthy once again, supremely ripe, and almost bursting
with all of this accumulated machismo, and the boys were waiting for him down
at the corner of Reno and Broadway. His mother was in the kitchen slicing
pumpkin and who really knew where pop was? He slipped out the front door and disappeared
like a mischievous ghost because there was some good haunting needing to get
done.
AFTERMATH
The Daily Oklahoman Newspaper, November
1st, 1905 (continued):
On
North Broadway front porches were barricaded with sewer pipe and sections of
concrete walk. A complaint came from Sixth and Lindsay from a citizen who
reported that ‘a gang of boys were leading away his cow.’
Down
on South Harvey Street, near Reno, a bunch of the ‘terribles’ rolled a mammoth
metal tank onto the railroad track. Patrolman Frank Benoseh concealed himself
in the tank and a few minutes later the ‘gang’ returned. The officer succeeded
in corralling two of them.
THE NIGHT BEFORE
There was already a peculiar odor in the
air upon the arrival of the last straggler. Something not that far away was
burning but underneath that olfactory affront came the somewhat familiar smell
of decay, of life gone kaput, of some form of living waste being transformed
into ash. Which of course raises various questions but don’t go looking for
answers unless you’re prepared to deal with their potentially messy
ramifications. In any case these boys weren’t interested in solving someone
else’s old problems, they were bound and determined to create a few new ones of
their own.
Theodore Thompson III materialized from out of the expanding shadows and
joined the haphazardly assembled: the dimwitted Lew Lewis, the sly Oscar
Jackson along with Clyde Bodunk and Sylvester Jernigan and the new one, the
eastside boy, Rufus Jones.
“You
boys all ready to shake the cat and rattle the dog?” inquired Billy McGibbons,
a lit wad of rolled tobacco juttin’ from the corner of his mouth, and he blew
his smoke into the pimply face of Lew Lewis who couldn’t come up with a better
response other than to mindlessly blink almost as if to mindfully wink.
Oscar
Jackson leaned in and proclaimed, “Shoot son, I’m about ready for anything,
bustin’ up this place for dang sure, rippin’ it clean outa its tawdry seams,”
and he pumped out his chest and let loose a hoot that probably sounded deranged
from blocks away as it twisted through the thick autumn air. Clyde Bodunk
responded in kind, his a mighty holler that shook the rooks from the spindly treetops,
and Sylvester and even Rufus joined in and now the boys sounded like a
multitude of the deplored or possibly drunken councilmen aiming to do something
naughty and to do it as quickly as possible. Find something, anything, turn it over, kick it, smash it, trash it
trash it TRASH IT!
Human nature, despite its
calling to reach for the higher ideal, was always too willing to pay tribute to
its innate animalistic roots.
Theodore
Thompson III was wondering what he’d gotten himself into, the banker’s son
somehow attracted to this ragged outfit of misfit hooligans, and although he was
bright enough he was also incurably insecure and ultimately not strong enough
to say anything regarding the lack of wisdom in the performance of certain
reckless acts. He wanted to be wanted and so was along for the ride, there was
no turning back now, and as the boys commenced their search for potential opportunities
to unleash fresh depravity, young Theodore had little choice but to fall right on
in and march along.
And yet there’s another perspective being bandied
about a mere ten blocks away inside the Municipal Building. Sergeant Hiram Bell
seeks order, the end of chaos, the opposite of bedlam, only simple peace. He
craves it. And such whimsical mayhem will not do. No. It will not do at all.
The reports were coming in. A large mound of manure set ablaze and
burning just outside of these very grounds, police headquarters (the brazen
perpetrators had appeared in horse-drawn wagon, summarily dumped it, lit it,
and then skedaddled before anybody knew what had hit them), and Thelma Jackson’s
over-sized girdle had somehow been pilfered
from her bedroom drawer and was now flapping like a proud flag atop the
streetlight at Reno and Broadway, and there were several reports of
domesticated animals disappearing including a rather large bovine being paraded
down Sixth Street.
Sergeant
Bell looked over at his own crew of the justly assembled and gritted his teeth.
“If I’ve told them fool boys once then I’ve told ‘em a hundred times.
You will obey the law. Three-hundred
and sixty-five days out of the Lord’s solemn year. There are no exceptions. Not
even this dang night, this so-called Hall-o-Ween.”
He pounded the table with a balled fist.
“Now
get on out there and fetch me some dumbasses!”
It was Clyde Bodunk who in fact came up
with the idea. Couldn’t blame Lew Lewis for this one. And why would these boys even
bother? Well that’s simple – because it was there.
Clyde walked up to the stationery object and rapped his knuckles upon
it. The thin metal walls rang back with a high-pitched hollow echo.
“Empty,” he said as he turned to address the boys. “Why don’t we pick
the dang thing up and put it somewhere – somewhere unbelievable… like up a tree
or on a roof.”
Billy walked over and tried to nudge the metal tank. “Pretty dang
heavy,” he reported, “doubt we can find a way to stick it up a tree, but I
suppose we could place it in the middle of the road.”
“What’s it for, anyway?” Theodore Thompson III inquired, already
dubious, already concerned that whatever was in there could leak and create a
public nuisance.
“Probably storage for some kind of fuel,” Billy answered, “like gas for streetlamps
maybe,” but then Clyde piped up. “Nah, probably just water, I wouldn’t worry
about any of that.”
“Why don’t you open it up and look inside?” asked Lew Lewis and Clyde
said, “we can’t ya fool, the dang door is locked,” and he jangled the chain as
proof.
“Well what are we waitin’ for?” asked Sylvester Jernigan, “let’s just
drag it on over yonder to them railroad tracks and see what happens,” and before
you could say my-pop-will-beat-me-with-a-broom-but-he’s-got-to-catch-me-first
the boys had hoisted the large object and carried it over to the set of tracks
running north and south alongside the boulevard.
Theodore Thompson III wasn’t too keen on this development. Surely no one
in their right mind would just drop this thing onto these active tracks without
any regard to what may indeed become of it. Trains run through here at all
hours and there were real people inside those thundering steel machines. He
kept hoping that someone else would speak up, that someone else would admit
that this particular idea was perhaps a little too reckless, a folly, but they
all kept their mouths shut and looked the other way, each individual man-child
perhaps harboring doubts but as a group fiendishly committed to the performance
of the deed.
False
pride combined with fear of public reprisal – this is how wars get started. This is how good boys wind up in
detention homes.
Off in the distance a lonely train whistle blew.
Those boys all turned and ran like hell with none other than chubby
Theodore Thompson III leading the way!
Sergeant Bell had been notified. Presently
there is a large metal cylinder laying across the railroad tracks along Harvey
Street. A train went through there not fifteen minutes ago and narrowly escaped
slamming into the object. Luckily it had been running north on the parallel
track. A few Good Samaritans along with two police officers had somehow managed
to roll the thing off the tracks but left it right there in the streets for
Sergeant Bell to inspect himself.
That’s it! I’ve had enough!
With the young Patrolman
Frank Benoseh staring at him he spat out an order: “Grab your coat Frankie…
you’re coming with me.”
“Look at that!” exclaimed Clyde Bodunk as
he nodded toward a group of never-do-wells leading a cow down a deserted lane.
“Wonder what those boys aim to do with that old fella?”
“Probably nothin’,” replied Billy McGibbons. At least he hoped, because
in the passing glare from one of the boy’s lanterns he happened to catch a
glance of the poor creature’s fearful eyes, and once you view the terror in a
prisoner’s eyes, be them man or
animal, then the quest for pure debauchery can’t help but lessen. Unless, of
course, you’re really, really, misguided,
or perhaps, even evil.
“Maybe
they’re just gonna drag it to that church at the end of the street and leave it
in the sanctuary, make a sacrifice, somethin’ crazy like that.”
“Cow patties in the pews,” commented Sylvester Jernigan and they all
laughed. But then there came a disconcerting moo after one of those bad boys had
delivered a quick boot to the cow’s rear end and McGibbons and the rest of his
brood sobered up quickly. The creature was clearly at the mercy of random whims
from a pack of fiends as slightly tweaked with a pinch of mob mentality. This
they all knew. This they all believed with varying degrees of acceptance.
Sergeant Hiram Bell and his man arrived at
the railroad crossing shortly thereafter. And there it surely sat, a massive
impediment to interstate commerce and potentially combustible should any liquid
remain, and those boys or men or demons or whoever believed it somehow comical
to perform such an act would soon be in for their own shocking revelation.
Sergeant
Bell had an idea. He looked at the metal tank, looked back at officer Benoseh,
then looked again at the tank.
“Crawl
on in there,” growled the Sergeant. “That’s an order.”
“What do ya mean crawl on in there? What the Sam Hill for?”
“Those boys will be back. Whether it’s just to see what their evil act has
wrought, or whether it’s because their consciences finally woke em up and they
want to remove it, they’ll be back… eventually.”
“But
I don’t think I can fit,” mumbled poor young Frankie.
“You
can fit. And you will fit. All you
require is a little helpful nudge. But best take off your coat and holster
first.”
Frankie didn’t like the sound of it. But he was a first-year guy, in
fact only on the squad for a matter of months, and this was an order straight
from the Sarge that he would need to oblige. Or at least make the effort to
oblige. So off came the coat, off came the holster, and he sucked in his belly
while Sergeant Bell snipped the chain with some pliers. Once opened the smell
hit them both. Acrid, toxic, noxious fumes held within for too long a time had finally
been released and it was difficult to see inside and determine if any of its source
remained.
“Go ahead now, plenty of room for your skinny ass… I’ll leave the door
cracked open a ways to make sure you get some good air. You just sit there and
wait. And whatever you do, don’t light
anything.”
What else could Officer Benoseh do? He hopped on up there and shimmied
his way through and then slid down onto the slick and oily bottom.
“Got anything flammable in there?” the Sergeant queried and Frankie
said, “hell yes, but at least not liquid. More like a thin sheet of pork
grease. I won’t get the stink off of me for weeks.”
“Months probably,” Bell said, and then offered, “just part of the job.”
Sergeant Bell handed over Frankie’s holster and coat. “Best that these
stay with you.”
Thanks a lot you dang old fool Frankie
thought.
“Thanks,” he said, trying to
sound appreciative, and then, “how long should I stay put in here anyway?”
Sergeant Bell was already walking away. “However long it takes,” he said
over his shoulder, and he was already hot on the trail of one hijacked Holstein.
Sure enough, those boys circled on back…
eventually.
After determining that perhaps it might not be best to become obsessed
with the fate of one lowly and probably already doomed cow, the gang knocked
over some trash cans and saluted Thelma Jackson’s over-sized girdle as it proudly
waved in the wind, then busted open a few gates and rearranged some office
signs. They were mainly looking for the easy stuff now, general mayhem, nothing
too strenuous or potentially calamitous, and as they approached the corner to
turn and once again face the railroad tracks most of them were truly (although
privately) relieved to discover that there was no evidence of any impact, no
billowing smoke or urgent shouts or firetrucks clanging past toward the scene.
And yet, once they turned the corner and saw that the tank had been moved off
to the side, curiously, there suddenly was felt by most of them a rather tiny
pang of outrage, seeing that their very own defacement had itself been so
easily defaced.
So,
in summation, much relief at no physical harm being done to anyone else, but mounting outrage at being psychologically
harmed themselves.
“What
the hell?” cried Clyde Bodunk in mock exasperation, for it had originally been
his idea and if it came to it, if eventually any of the gang was caught and
questioned, he’d be an easy target to take the blame. It’s true, at same
undetermined point between now and half an hour ago his taking of credit had turned into the assumption of
blame because that’s how these things
usually go. But then again, at the time of the deed being done no one among
their group had protested and all had clearly been involved in the relocation
of the tank. In the end, if they were truly men and not frightened little boys,
they’d all have to own up to that one
fact or risk being forever tossed away into the swirling roil of Rat-Fink Hell.
“Let’s move it on back,”
suggested Oscar Jackson, but without much conviction.
From someplace unseen a few blocks away there came the sound of a muted
explosion. All of them heard it, all of them wondered what in the world was that? And all of them spoke not a word about
it.
“Not
sure if that’s worth the trouble,” said Billy McGibbons, and Theodore Thompson
III was glad to hear that.
“Why not, you scared or somethin’?” inquired Clyde Bodunk, clearly
scared himself, but all the same he delivered his query in a deadpan tease.
“Look fellas, the door is cracked open,” Sylvester Jernigan whispered as
he pointed toward the object. This certainly got their attention but none of
them viewed this development as much of a threat. Yet it was odd, knowing that it had previously been locked with a chain. They
all slowly began to approach the tank together, creeping closer, unwittingly taking
the bait and indeed learning firsthand how curiosity did kill the black bony cat.
AFTERMATH
The Daily Oklahoman Newspaper, November
1st, 1905 (continued):
On
West Main Street the sidewalks were barricaded with the entire catalogue of
vehicles, from a plebian dray to the patrician phaeton. Far down on South
Robinson avenue a coal shed of more than ordinary proportions was planted at
the intersection of streets. Numerous gates disappeared during the night and
the transportation of office signs presents a Babylonish confusion this
morning.
Several
of the youngsters were captured by the police and escorted to headquarters, but
as very little malicious mischief was wrought, they were detained for a time,
lectured by Sergeant Bell and sent to their homes. It will take a little time
and patience will be temporarily fractured, but the philosophy of the American
citizen will soon bring about the normal equilibrium.
THE NIGHT BEFORE
Officer Frank Benoseh heard the boys
approaching from a ways off. Muffled chatter, a low post-adolescent drone,
sounding as if their previous brouhahas had perhaps squeezed the very vigor
straight out of them. Good, he
thought, easy pickings, the kind I like,
and he slid toward the front of the tank and tried to hide his body off to the
side. By golly, when one of the lads looked in, snap, he’d grab him by the head, the hair, the ears, whatever, and
order the entire lot of them to cease and desist.
Frankie
rubbed his hands together – they were slick and a childhood memory of fifteen rabid
boys and one greased pig came to mind – ugly, futile memories to be honest –
and he wiped them best he could upon his trousers which were already just about
as slick.
Their steps grew louder, their words became intelligible.
Musta just popped loose when they moved it.
Guess so.
Not sure if we’re gonna be able to see much
inside but it sure do stink!
Wonder what happened to that cow?
Go on ahead Lew, take a look…
Without hesitating the dimwitted Lew Lewis
squeezed his nostrils shut with one hand and then stuck his big old head
inside.
“I don’t know what happened to the durn cow
but I know what happened to you!” Officer Benoseh cried out as he stuck
Lew’s hairy noggin into the wedge of one arm, attempting to secure his quarry
while trying to poke his head out and wave his weapon at the scattering boys. But
the dimwitted one easily slipped through that hopeless hold and was over those
tracks and gone before Frankie could even manage to point his unloaded gun. Enraged,
in an agitated state fueled by sheer adrenaline, Frankie shimmied through that
hole and flopped out onto the hard ground below, slip-sliding and flipping
around like a seal upon the slimy rocks of La Jolla Cove. By the time he had
somehow managed to find his feet those boys had all disappeared except for the
one.
The one.
The frightened.
The quick of worry and slow of foot.
The
chubby scout known as Theodore Thompson III stood there shaking in his shiny boots,
sniffling, preparing to ask for a little mercy if he could manage to spit the
words out.
Officer Benoseh approached him slowly with his weapon lowered to his
side. Little Teddy was scared but even more bewildered to find himself cornered
by the much-dreaded Creature from the Tar
Pit Swamp. His fear lessened, his sympathy expanded, and then came all that
smell!
“Names,
son, I’m gonna need a lot of names. And addresses to boot.”
You’re gonna need a lot of soap thought
the ensnared wanna-be hooligan.
“Look at the lot of ya! Stupid, stinkin’,
unsightly and behaving like convicts – my old hound Chester has more sense than
all of you combined and all he does is sit around all day long lickin’ his own purple
droopin’ balls.”
Sergeant
Hiram Bell walked back and forth across the raised platform of the conference
room eyeballing each and every one of them.
“Will
even a single one of you scoundrels ever contribute to the betterment of our
civilized society? Will you make your grannie proud, will you ever earn your
own damn keep? Or are you just gonna be takers, degraders, winding up like a
scab on the backside of old Chester?”
Yes, they had all scattered, then soon re-assembled back at their
prescribed meeting place – all except the
one.
“Any
of you lumps of coal got an idea of what coulda happened if that locomotive had
plowed into that tank of grease possibly derailing and then slamming into
God-knows-what? Can you, are your meager brain cells even capable of… envisioning the potential carnage?”
The
boys had finally come to the conclusion that perhaps it might be best to
surrender by their own volition rather than be fingered and then yanked by the
scruffs of their sweaty necks to this reckoning. Because they knew… yes, of
course, they knew that the fat tongue of Theodore Thompson III was prone to
doing much more than just sweeping
down endless piles of tasty vittles.
“Do
any a one of you have something to offer that might explain such inane
foolishness?”
Billy McGibbons spoke up. “I got the tularemia,” he choked out almost
questioningly, hoping that this might account for something tenable that could
lessen their overall punishment. “You know, rabbit fever, back in the summer.
Musta done something to my brain.”
“Only made a bad situation worse, if you ask me,” barked Sergeant Bell.
“That all you got?”
What
could Billy McGibbons say? What could any of them say? Only that these boys had
too much time on their hands, all these surging teen-aged tensions to be worked
out, hormones run amuck, simply bored beyond words. That this night was Hall-o-Ween and therefore everybody was
supposed to get a free pass?
Nobody
said a thing.
“I got your names, I got you addresses, I got your stupid pimply faces
branded into my brain… if I ever so much as stumble across you in any possible
manner, should your countenance ever cross my inquisitive vision at some future
juncture, no ifs-ands-or-butts, you’ll be summarily introduced to cold iron and
stale bread and a public toilet that only works half the time… now get out of
my sight!”
Officer Frank Benoseh was stunned. He couldn’t believe it. All his work,
all his sacrifice… and the Sarge just let them ago. Those boys were laughing,
slapping one another across the back, almost giddy as they shuffled back out into
the expunged night.
Frankie could not contain himself.
“But Sarge, really now, you can’t just…”
“Oh yes I can, I just did, we got bigger fish to fry and most of those
boys will get some kind a lickin’ once they get home at this late hour anyway.”
“But…
but… the effort I put in?”
The
Sarge turned his head to address his subordinate and smiled.
“You’re
gonna need a lot of soap. A lot of
soap. And one more thing you’re gonna need to go with it.”
“What’s that?”
“Time. Meaningful time spent alone. You like
to fish? I hear the crappies are biting over at Silver Lake.”
“Haven’t fished in years. Don’t have a
pole.”
“I’d suggest you get one.”
And in that one moment Frank Benoseh decided.
He thought, okay, sure, I’ll go to Silver Lake, and once I get there, hell if I’m
ever coming back here.
“Can’t I at least borrow yours?”
~~ Noble K Thomas copyright 2017 ~~
March of a Thousand Skeletons, OKC 2012, as conducted by the Flaming Lips
