RUMFORD ROSWELL???

BUT FIRST, A BLAST FROM THE PAST TO SET THE TONE…

CLICK TO PLAY…

Mid-September, 1977, the Teachers’ Lounge…

Three or four of us were hunched over the far end of the lunch table. We’d been poring over the daily newspaper. They’d been checking out the local area high school football scores. Me, not so much. But anyway, after I folded the paper back into its original shape and arrangement, and laid it back down, front-page-up, I spotted that same news article that had caught my attention earlier, back at home during breakfast.

Me: “You guys see this one?”

One of Them: “What’s that?

Me: “Steven Spielberg. Got a new flick coming out. Gotta say, I really like his stuff.”

One of Them: Shark boy? What’s this one gonna be about? Killer whales?

Me:UFOs.”

One of Them: Well, that’s stupid.

One of Them: Come on. Science Fiction? Really? That’s a ‘step down,” isn’t it?

Me: “Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, I just LOVED Duel. And… Sugarland Express was really good, too. The guy’s a movie maker’s movie maker.”

One of Them: “What’s it called?”

Me:Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

One of Them: “Well now, that’s a hell of a title. Wonder who came up with that clunker.”

Me: “It’s a technical Project Bluebook classification.”

One of Them: “Oh yeah? Well, of course… you’d know if anyone does.”

Me: “But here’s the thing.”

One of Them: “Yeah?”

Me: “Says that after this movie hits the screens, authorities’ phones all over will be ringing off the hook. UFO sightings’ll start going through the roof. A UFO movie like this, it says, could generate a lot of mass hysteria. You know, like everybody and his grandmother’ll probably start seeing ‘em and calling’em in.”

One of Them: “Hmm. No shit. Well, that’s all this country needs, isn’t it.”

One of Them: “Christ, I wouldn’t know who to call.”

Me: “Well, I mean, Jaws did that, sort of. I mean driving everybody nuts about sharks. Put the ol’ bullseye on’em, didn’t it. Put’em right on the ‘World’s Most Wanted List.’ Not Dead or Alive, either, just Dead. All sharks must die. They’re Public Enemy #1 right now, whereas before…”

One of Them: “Well… they are basically man-eaters, aren’t they.”

Me: “I know I’m in no hurry to go swimming in the ocean. But this article’s saying the movie’s basically about UFO abductions. So, maybe it’s Move Over Time for the sharks. Little green men are about to be climbing up the FBI’s Public Enemy List.”

One of Them: “Well. They sure as hell aren’t too likely to turn out like My Favorite Martian, are they.”

One of Them: “Christ, listen to yourself. They’re not likely to turn out to be anything, stupid.

Me: Hell though, I still remember the nightmares from when I watched The Man from Planet X at age seven.”

One of Them: “I mean, little green men? That’s rubbish.

One of Them: “You know, I wouldn’t mind seeing one of these UFOs your keep hearing about though. I just wouldn’t wanna meet the pilot and crew, is all.”

Me: Well, if quote-unquote “seeing” one of them does become all the rage, maybe you’ll see one too. Maybe we’ll all become victims of mass hysteria.”

One of Them: “Baloney!”

One of Them: Whatever.”

Now although the timing couldn’t possibly have been more flukey, it was at this exact point of this discussion that the door to the lounge swung open and in strode math teacher, Jack Rogers. We each greeted him with our routine “Hi, Jack,” and “Mornin’, Jack!”

Jack, not saying Good morning back, marched straight over to our little group, not bothering to set his brief case down, take off his jacket, sit down, or anything. And he had the look of someone who hadn’t slept at all last night. He also had the look of a man on a mission because there he was, just standing there before us, kinda dazed-looking and staring down on all of us with the look of someone who’d just swallowed a June bug.

Hey, guys,” he said, sounding like he was a little out of breath.

“So what’s up with you this morning,” someone asked.

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear away cobwebs. “Something happened last night.”

We waited. “O…kay?

AND…?

“This is gonna sound weird, but… OK, here goes. So I was driving back from Portland last night, taking a shortcut over some back roads, when I noticed something in the sky, up and off to my left. A dim, flickering light.”

Right there, we all made eye-contact with each other. Deadpan eye-contact. But with raised eyebrows.

“And it was moving. Slowly. In the same direction as me. It was dark out, but I could still make out the tree lines off away on the horizon, and this… light… whatever it was, was above those. The thing was less than a quarter mile off to my left, and probably up, I dunno, maybe about 400 feet.”

“You telling us what we think you’re telling us?”

Jack nodded. “It’s like… it was like one of those UFOs you hear ab…”

We erupted in a thunderclap of raw, involuntary laughter!

Which was pretty unfortunate, as Jack looked like he’d just been bitch-slapped! His cheeks burned a feverish pink. He was hurt, and angry. And who could blame him? And I know I immediately felt pretty bad about it. I think we all did. But I mean, come on, what were the odds?

{Just a couple of notes here: (1) “Jack” isn’t his real name of course, and (2) “Jack” hadn’t been diagnosed yet, but for quite some time he’d been exhibiting symptoms of sugar diabetes: a seemingly-forever constant thirst regardless of how much water he regularly consumed and (2) a very touchy disposition where he sometimes would lash out in anger at things that were irritating him.}

But before I could say, We’re so sorry, Jack, someone asked, “Did you by any chance read the paper this morning?”

No! I didn’t as a matter of fact, OK?! I mean, after last night... Iyou know what? I wasn’t exactly in the mood!”

Oh yeah. He was really pissed.

“See, all I was in the mood for this morning… was to come in here and… try to… I dunno… screw it… try to talk to you guys! And…”

“Hey listen,” I said, “we are so, so sorry. We weren’t laughing at you. See, we…”

“Oh. Really? Had me fooled!”

“No, I swear! It’s just this article in the newspaper this morning. Here. Read it. You won’t belie…”

“Excuse me if maybe I don’t wanna read it. That OK with you?!

“OK. That’s fair, Jack. But please. Just hear me out?”

I took his glaring silence as an OK. So I ran pell-mell through what the article had to say and asked him to try to imagine what the effect of his entrance, along with his so unfortunately coincidental… revelation, had had on us. “And I swear to God, Jack, if you had been in here… and in on this conversation and I, or any of us, had come walking in through that door and said exactly what you saidwell… think about it. How would you have reacted?”

His glaring silence persisted. I got it. The sting of anybody getting targeted as the subject of a chorus of belly-laughs, like that one, would linger. “OK, but please, Jack. Just know that we really weren’t laughing at you. We were just… reacting to the un-frickin-believable coincidence of the whole thing. I mean, c’mon, what were the odds, right?

He just said, “Hmmmm,” placed his briefcase down on the floor, hung up his coat, came back, and joined us at the table. “You guys can think what you want. But you weren’t there. And damn it, I know what I saw.”

“And I believe you. I’m sure we all do. People are seeing things like that all the time. Which is why they created Project Blue Book in the first place, to follow-up on the thousands of sightings. So please, I hope you can work on forgiving our unintentional… but still pretty rude and thoughtless reaction.”

Jack just nodded. But finally he said, “So, can I tell you about it then, or what?”

I said “Yes, of course!” and everybody chimed in on that sentiment. And somebody asked, “So what’d it look like?”

“Well, you see… that’s the thing. It wasn’t saucer-shaped. Or cigar-shaped either, like they usually say. This thing, well… it honestly looked like (and this is gonna sound weird, but it’s one of the things that makes this so perplexing for me) like the top of a tower. Only floating.”

We were all duly puzzled. “Wait a minute. Like… whattaya mean, a tower?

“I mean, you could see sort of a structure to it, even though the thing appeared kinda fuzzy for some reason. Sorta… shimmery. But I mean… so just try to imagine the top of a radio tower off in the distance, OK? Upright? Tapered at the top? Only this tower’s lower half was missing. And the thing was floating. It’s crazy I know.”

“Well, that is sort of hard to imagine”

“Well, not for me anymore. Hey, gimme that piece of paper over there. I’ll draw you a picture of it.” Jack plucked a pencil from off the lunch table and went to work. It didn’t take him long. And this is what he showed us:

The four of us pored over it. Someone said, “Shit, that don’t look like any normal ufo.”

“That’s what I was saying!”

And then, seemingly right out of the blue, the first bell was ringing and all of us had to haul ourselves out of our chairs, gather up our things, and head for our respective classrooms.

End of discussion.

But it had been an interesting morning, to say the least.

And I still felt bad for Jack.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That Evening, 5:30-ish:

A cool autumn evening with the darkness threatening to settle in. We were seated around the dinner table, our family, partaking of the typical evening meal. Suddenly, a knock at the front door!

None of us was expecting anybody. “I’ll get it,” I said, rising from my chair and heading out through the living room.

I was totally surprised to find Jack standing on the other side of the screen door.

“Hey, Tom.”

Jack. Hi. This is a surprise. C’mon in.” I stepped aside and he stepped into the entryway.

“Who is it?” Phyllis calls from the kitchen.

“Jack. Jack Rogers!”

Oh.”

“What’s up, Jack? I couldn’t help but notice that he was appearing somewhat antsy.

“You busy right now? Or having dinner? I don’t wanna interrupt your meal.”

“No problem. Just finishing up. Maybe three or four French fries left. Why? You wanna talk, I take it?”

“Yeah that, plus I wanted to know if you’d be willing to take a ride with me.”

“A ride? What, right now? Where to?”

“Look,” he shrugs, “First, I apologize for how upset I got this morning, OK? But it’s just… this whole thing’s driving me crazy, alright? I mean, still.

“You don’t need to apologize. I…”

“But I know what I saw, OK!?”

“Sure. Look, I know you saw something… something unidentifiable. I don’t doubt that for a minute.

“Well, if you’d’a been there, you’d sure as hell’ve seen something too, damnit! And then…”

“I’m sure I would have. Look, Jack, I believe you, OK? I have no doubt in my mind you saw something, alright? Something weird. But listen, if anyone needs to apologize… well, it’s me. And I do. Again. And sincerely. I’m honestly sorry we all laughed. It was just… a gut reaction to the bad timing of that whole damn thing. I’m serious. Look, if you’d been in our shoes, you’d see that.”

“Yeah. So you guys all said. And yeah, I do get that now.”

“I hope so. It was just a bad… one hell of an unfortunate coincidence. I mean, there we were reading that very article, talking about it and everything… and in you come…”

“Yeah. OK. Whatever. I get it.

“It was like some slapstick scene right outta a sit-com, you know?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. So anyway… you got time to take a ride with me, or what? Right now? I just really need to go back there. And have a look. It’s driving me nuts!

“Well, sure. OK. I’m in. But honestly? You gotta realize that whatever it was you saw is more than unlikely to still be there. Right?”

“I know. Yeah. But I still wanna go out there. And just take a look-see. I just feel I gotta go back and… I dunno what!

Got it.”

“And I really just don’t wanna go by myself. Because on the off-chance there is something to see out there tonight, I don’t wanna be the only one. I want a witness.”

“OK, Jack. I mean this sounds like an adventure. I’ll get my jacket.”

As I lifted my jacket off the hook in the rear hallway, I stuck my head around the corner into the kitchen to say goodbye to Phyllis. “Remember I told you this morning, Jack told us he’d seen a ufo last night? Well… I’m going for a ride with him to check out the area. And who knows, maybe I’ll be abducted. Probably be back in an hour or so…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It seriously did feel adventure-like to me though, cruising on a UFO quest through downtown Rumford in Jack’s Jeep with the doors removed and the cool, rushing air breezing all through the cab! There was something wild and crazy about it. And right up my alley.

Then the town limits were behind us and we were tooling out into the woods on back roads growing spookily darker by the mile, what with the leafy branches from both sides of the road entwining themselves together and forming a canopy of even greater darkness over our heads.

But it was invigorating to be outside. Certainly better than watching the 6:00 news on the living room sofa.

Jack was detouring circuitously around, so that we’d be traveling down the road in the same direction he’d been traveling the previous night. “I know we’re not gonna see anything,” he bemoaned. “But I’ve just gotta go back there and be sure. I just can’t stop thinking about it. All the time.

“Yeah. I get it. But it would be amazing, really too much to ask, to be treated to the same sighting two days and a row. Too good to be true, most likely. But I swear on a stack of Bibles, Jack, I totally believe you. Actually, I just wish I’d gotten to see it.

The whole thought of it felt pretty exciting, in a goose-bumpy sort of way.”

And soon we were rolling down the road in the exact area where he’d first noticed the thing in the sky. There were acres of flat fields of grasses on either side, checkered with bales of hay lying in loose rows.

“Yeah see, it was right up over there,” he told me, with an index finger pointing at the horizon off on one side of the road. “Just a damn, dim, flickering thing, crawling right along up there low in the sky in the same direction as me.

And see, that’s the thing too: what you so often hear about UFOs is that they’re usually bright, not dim. And strobing, not… just barely flickering. But it was weird just the same.”

We rode along for a minute or two in silence. You could now see some of the stars coming out, glinting overhead. But nothing other-worldly. Finally, I asked him, “So whattaya wanna do now? Throw in the towel, or wait awhile longer?”

“Not ready to throw in the towel just yet, even though I’m pretty much positive we’re never gonna see what I wanna see. It’s just that about a mile up ahead is the turn-off, where I had to go right to head home and the thing… just continuing heading off and away in a straight line. Last I saw of it anyway.”

It was a crossroads where Jack finally let us roll to a slow stop. “Yeah. This is it. Where I had to turn off.”

Whoa. You forgot to tell me there was a graveyard right here.” There actually was.

“Honestly, I never even noticed it myself. It was dark, and I was keeping my eyes glued to the sky.”

We climbed out of the Jeep, walked around to the front of it, and leisurely leaned our butts up against the grille and the front of the hood. The stars were pretty and bright. But the dim UFO was nowhere to be seen. “The graveyard’s kinda spooky though.”

“Hey. Sorry I dragged you all the way out here.”

“Not at all. It’s all good. I enjoyed the ride and the fresh air. So much more exhilarating than scoring the stack of essays I brought home with me this afternoon.”

“I just wish I knew something… anything I could do to get this… anxiety out of my head!”

“Well, I dunno if, or how, it might help, but see that big barn over there’s some guy over there leaning in under the hood of his pick-up. Working on his truck’s engine. We could just head over there and ask him if he saw anything last night. Worth a shot.”

That gave Jack a little boost. “Good idea. Let’s do that.”

A minute later we rolled up into the guy’s driveway and climbed out. Right away the guy looked up and started giving us the hairy eyeball. I didn’t blame him. Two guys pull up in my driveway that time of night way out in the willy-wags, I’d have felt very wary myself. Jack called out a friendly “Hello!

I noticed in the light hanging above him that the guy picked up what looked like a foot-and-a-half long wrench. He certainly didn’t look too happy to see us. “Whatta you two want?

“Sorry to bother you,” Jack said, “Just have a question. See, I was driving down this road here last night, ust about this time actually, and I happened to notice a… well, a dim, flickering light in the sky right up about there,” he said, pointing. “No idea what the darn thing was, but it was moving at a pretty good clip. It’s been driving me crazy ever since trying to figure out what it might have been though.”

The guy just stood there staring at us, stock-still by the open hood of the truck, silent, waiting. For more of the story maybe? Jack went on.

“So I was just wondering. If you saw anything like that. Last night? Or any night, for that matter.”

The guy didn’t seem to like that question. “That, Mister,” he said, “is none of my business!

I felt Jack’s body stiffen, saw his face flash to anger! This morning he’d suffered the indignity of being laughed at by his peers in the faculty lounge. And his day apparently hadn’t been going so well since then.

What did you just say to me?!

Oh great— those were fighting words.

“I think you heard me,” the man snapped back.

For a second, I don’t know why, but I felt sure Jack was going to try to jump the guy. The guy with the big steel wrench. In my mind I could imagine hearing a couple of duelling banjos starting to pick out “Yankee Doodle.”

“Take it easy, Jackie. Please. And… time to go., right? Let’s just get outta here…”

Hey, you! All I did was ask you a simple, friendly question. A simple yes, or no question! And You? You…”

“Jackie! Come on!” I urged. “Let’s go!

OK,” said the Man with the Wrench. “Let me point you in the direction of somebody you should be asking that question! All right? Now, you see that white farmhouse right down that road there?” He nodded toward it, over his shoulder. “Next one down? They’re the ones you need to ask! Not me or anybody else. Because. As. I. Said. It’s none of my business.”

“So… let’s go. Let’s go do what the man said, OK Jackie?”

Jesus!” Jack growled. But he did back away and, thank God, slammed himself back into the Jeep.

But… I was wondering, what in the hell is going on here? What were we getting ourselves into? And more than that even, Did I really know anything at all about Jack? “You know…” I told him as we went barreling down the little dirt road spitting rocks out from under the tires toward the white farmstead, “we really don’t have to go to this place, though, do we?”

I never got an answer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In no time, we had mounted the little front porch of the main house, and Jack was banging his fist on the front door. He’d begun with a knock, but since we could see some of the windows were blazing with light while no one was deigning to answer the door, he’d started banging on it.

After a while, the door cracked open a little. A crack no more than five inches wide. And peeking out through the crack was a nervous little boy’s face. A boy maybe four feet tall, plus or minus.

Hello?” he asked.

“Hi,” Jack replied. “Could I speak with one, or both, of your parents please?”

The door opened to about a foot wide now. Swallowing noticeably, the boy said, “Uhhmm, they’re not home right now.”

“Oh. OK then, I guess I’ll hafta talk to you. So anyway… last night I was driving down the road back there and I saw something up in the sky. I guess I’ll hafta call it a unidentified flying object since I sure as hell couldn’t identify whatever the hell it was. You ever see one of those around here, up in the air at night?”

No sir. Never.”

“It was giving off a flickering light and it was moving, traveling, right in the same direction as me… and it’s been driving me crazy ever since because… all I wanna know is what the hell it was. OK? Because it was disturbing, you know? And then, on top of that, this guy and me here? We just stopped up the road at your not-too-friendly neighbors’ place and asked him the same question. And you know what? He got all pissed off and said if I wanted to know what it was, I should come over here and ask you folks. So. OK. Here I am. And I’m asking. What exactly was it I saw last night, Huh?”

It took a moment before the boy, looking down at his toes, pretty much whispered a meek, “I don’t know.”

Once again I sensed Jack doing a double-take. “Well, I’m sorry, kid. But I think you do know. And I can’t imagine why you would, but I think you’re lying to me. Because that guy back there, your Mister Greenjeans from hell? Hesaid you people would have the answer!”

“Jackie, would you please take it easy? You’re scaring the kid. Cmon. Let’s go home.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be sounding so scary, kid, if you’d just own up to whatever this is, all right? I mean I didn’t drive all the way out here just to be lied to. OK? So let’s have it. What was it I saw last night?! What’s going on here?”

Silence.

Well? I want an answer.”

The boy looked at him with imploring eyes, and then his gaze dropped back down to the toes of his shoes again. And then, in the saddest, softest little voice you could ever imagine, confessed.

Uhmmm… we’re not allowed to talk about it…”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You’ve just finished reading my true story, “Rumford Roswell Part I.” Part II will be following close on the heels of this one. Watch for it to find out about The Aftermath of Part I.

In the meantime, below is a little smile for you in the form of a short little YouTube video. Enjoy.

Please feel free to leave me a comment, below, if the spirit moves you.

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“If you could read my mind, Love…” Part 2

“If You Could Read My Mind, Love…” Part 1 ended with…

“At long last, he launches right into it. And all of us, the vast, entire WGUY radio listening audience everywhere, is finally given the lowdown.

“And the lowdown is… kind of incredible.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Yes, I’m here to tell you that the “lowdown” (note the quotation marks here) was indeed a tad incredible. And I remind you that you were warned in Part 1 that the story, though true, was a rather silly story as well. So there’s that.

But OK. The voice that came on the air came across as dark, authoritative, and rather harrumphing, leaving all of us 17 year old “adults” and younger (we, the demographic majority of WGUY’S listenership) suspecting that the man might be the President or CEO of WGUY, if not of the American Broadcasting Association itself. And in the following not-verbatim-nutshell, here is what he “regretted having to impart”:

  • (stock photo– not Jack Dalton)
  • It had long been no secret that our DJ, Mr.  Jack Dalton, considers himself a champion of Democracy, and had long been feeling seriously distressed about the indefensible state of affairs in East and West Germany— namely the Berlin Wall.
  • Mr. Dalton, who was obviously feeling the frustration of his utter sense of powerlessness that many lone individuals feel in the face of his inability to take effective action when needed, decided to take it upon himself to perpetrate a one-man protest.
  • Consequently, and unfortunately, he arbitrarily chose our WGUY broadcast radio station to be the platform to rally the largest population possible into action.
  • In so doing, he impulsively locked himself inside the station’s sound studio, and refused to come out.
  • He then began the playing and replaying of that dreadful song that had become his personal anthem.
  • And finally, our listeners must rest assured in the confidence that any other such event such would never be allowed to re-occur at WGUY. Mr. Dalton had just had been summarily fired.  End of story.

Now, I think a lot of us 17 year old and younger “adults”felt that firing the poor man was excessively harsh. We were used to seeing our own age group getting summarily punished, for our own little crimes and misdemeanors, all the time, but never an adult. Especially not an adult that we looked up to and who, in our callow opinion, had done little wrong.

First of all, the incident had given us something that was mysteriously fun to speculate on throughout the day. Something that wasn’t boring for a change. Secondly, we all pretty much loved our Jack the DJ Dalton. His was the disembodied radio voice that woke us up practically every morning, that spoke to us every day— an adult who actually seemed to ‘get’ us, you know? Plus, our daily entertainer; he’d come out with the wildest and craziest funny things sometimes. It was easy to feel he was one of the few adults who seemed… on our side. In a way, he seemed one of us.

But more importantly, he was the bringer of our MUSIC, which was our daily bread.

And then, there was something else to consider. Just what, exactly, was his “crime?” Standing up for something he believed in? Being against the Berlin Wall? I mean, who wasn’t? What, were we kids the only ones willing to look at this and see The Big Picture? I mean, the boys in my circle were starting to take the man’s firing personally. It was an injury, an injustice that had been perpetrated on them, damnit! And for them, this was a cause worth fighting for. The hornets’ nest had been stirred up. Oh, my pals were talking it up, big time. Like something needed to be done.

Honestly? I felt somewhat that way myself, onlynot nearly so strongly. In my home and upbringing, the parents laid down the law, and the parents administered the justice, so to speak. The rules were (well, mostly) common sense rules and you just had to go with them, didn’t you. I mean even to me, the little delinquent of the family, that seemed fair. Hey, I was a real little sneak when it came to breaking some of the rules, but every time I got caught at it, like it or not (and oh, I never liked it), it always turned out it to have been my own stupid damn fault.

So I guess what I’m saying is, I‘d grown up feeling that in the long run you just had to accept the status quo. Didn’t seem to me like there was that much of a choice anyway. So… when this WGUY flap went down, I felt bad for the guy, sure. And yeah, I felt some of the emotional turmoil too. But in the long run like I said, I was like, he got fired, that’s too bad. Yeah, I liked his show and everything, but… oh well then. What can you do?  

Little did I know that an onslaught of angry phone calls were being made from all over the place. WGUY’s office phone was reportedly ringing off the hook. People didn’t like their DJ getting summarily fired, did they. They were angry. And they were busy making it clear to the fire-ers that they wanted their fire-ee summarily reinstated.  But me? I was out of the loop. I’d just gone home, watched a little TV, and then to bed. I never found out until the following afternoon when I went back in to work and got the new “lowdown” from some of my friends who popped into the garage to tell me the “great news.”

Huey Cole’s Esso, 20 years before I worked there…

What great news? The radio station had been amazingly overwhelmed with the hundreds of protests and the owners had finally caved in to the demands!

Wow. I was shocked. Now my pals (who, like me, lived thirty-five miles away from the GUY studios) had found all this out through the grapevine, second-hand. They themselves personally had nothing whatsoever to do with the outcome. Yet, by the way they were strutting around and claiming victory, you’d think they’d stormed the Bastille and chopped off Marie Antoinette’s head.

Teen-agers. You gotta love’em.

But anyway, it was all over. It had been a bloodless coup. Jack Dalton was right back on the air that evening and right back on the old payroll, like nothing whatsoever had ever happened. The proletariat had won the day over their capitalist oppressors. The world that was WGUYville was still a democracy. So. There would be Jack Dalton’s music. And all was well in the land.

And sure, I was happy for our DJ.

But… SPOILER ALERT: everything I’ve told you… you’ve gotten from the point of view of my 17 year old self. A kid’s point of view. A kid’s version of “the lowdown.” But as always, there were other points of view. More about this soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The brain is a frickin’ file cabinet, isn’t it. And this one little pretty-much-forgotten event has been occupying one or more of my brain cells for almost sixty years. And in all those sixty years, I can recall only one other time that this incident conjured itself right up out of my subconscious memory. That happened ten or twelve years ago at the library where I work.

Four or five of us on the staff were, for whatever reason, chatting about some of our favorite novelty songs. Doctor Demento’s name had come up, bringing along with it such crazy titles such as Steve Martin’s “King Tut,”  Tom T-Bone Stankus’ “Existential Blues,” Napoleon XIV’s  “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Ha”, and “Junk Food Junkie” by Larry Gross, to name a few. And suddenly, bing!, the “West of the Wall” thing had popped up unbidden in my mind, seemingly out of the blue since the song is not a novelty tune in and of itself.

“Do any of you remember a particular song called ‘West of the Wall?” I asked.

The question got me blank stares and the shaking of heads.

So OK, I launched into the strange saga of WGUY’s for-mememorable episode when, suddenly, one of our library clerks, Jeannie Tabor, joyfully interrupted saying, “Oh my god! I DO remember that happening! It was so… weird, wasn’t it!”

Actual X-ray of my brain…

So there were a pair of us then! Two of us each with a brain cell that had been harboring this identical data (no doubt in the form of ones and zeros), data that had been lying dormant all these years like a little time capsule waiting to be opened! So then, excitedly, we both went on, telling the story together, as each of us remembered it. What fun!

But it didn’t take long after that for our little time capsule excitement to subside, the fun little memory curling up again in our respective brain cells and going right back to sleep. In my case, never again to be awakened from its little vampire crypt until… one month ago, it just popped back up in my head (who knows why) and got me thinking of the incident as a possible topic for this blog. And the rest, as they say, is history.

But wait, there’s more! As I began to compose this post, I remembered how ridiculously surprised I’d been when Jeannie had confirmed my little story. And I started to wonder… who else, if anyone, might also remember it.

So what did I do? I fired up my laptop and did the standard twenty-first century thing. I went to Google. I figured there must be more people out there who remember it.

Well, even with Google, finding info on such obscure little happening wasn’t easy. For half a day, I worked my butt off like a private eye. And finally… I did manage to find a few conversational traces of a thread in the Facebook archives.

The following four quotations from old Facebook messages (once posted by a few now-disembodied texters) are all I was able to dig up from the some six decades of the digital graveyard:

  • “Kent Taylor Smith Hi Kent. Yup, I was listening that day and heard it. It was about the same time that I went into radio. BTW: Are you still with THE WAVE?”
  • “On August 13, 1961, East Berlin closed its border with West Berlin and erected a wall to stem the flow of Easterners to the West. This brought to mind a song, sung my Toni Fisher, titled “West of the Wall” which was released the following year, around June ’62. Well, one thought led to another and Bangor’s dawn to dusk radio station, WGUY, came to mind. They played all the “good stuff,” including “West of the Wall.” So, now I’m thinking did they really play “West of the Wall,” continuously, one day as a kind of protest, or is this just the confused memory of a 12 year-old adolescent? I don’t recall the names of the ‘jocks’ at WGUY who might be able to answer this torturous question. Is there anyone out there to help relieve this pressure? Perhaps the guys from Bangor, Maine – Radio & TV?”
  • “The event happened, it was so long ago nobody remembers it other than it happened. I first started working for WGUY in 2000 at the 102.1 incarnation. Nobody involved with the station then, or since, was involved. I even asked Bob Mooney about it once and he could barely remember it.”
  • “Your memory is very good, John. I remember that incident. Yes, a DJ on WGUY named Jack Dalton played “West Of the Wall” continuously for several hours. I don’t recall it being a “protest”, but rather a publicity stunt to draw attention to the station. My memory is a bit fuzzy on the aftermath, but if my memory is somewhat close, he was “fired” and then “rehired.” Someone else might have a clearer memory on that part. BTW, publicity stunts were quite common at that time. A DJ would “lock themselves” in the studio and play the same song multiple times, get “fired” and get “rehired” after listeners protested the firing. Side note: studio doors don’t have locks on them.”

So: there were some little data packets of the same ones and zeros lodged in the brains of these guys, just like they’re still lodged in Jeannie’s and my own. Cool.

 I’m always finding it very fascinating to be reminded that each of us has one of these biological, state-of-the-art, digital recorders installed right behind our eye sockets and that they’re on all the time,  picking up any and all of the vibrations of our five (known) senses and forever cataloging, collating, and cataloging them. I mean, jeez, who knows what all else is stored away in these things? Could be anything. Could be everything. Put’em all together and what’ve you got? Maybe only the entire history of the earth. One soul at a time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So now, allow me to stop here and make this little shout-out to any of you (out there) who have happened by chance to stumble onto this particular post, right now… who were living here in the WGUY World greater area back in ’64, and who also have some first-hand knowledge of this event. If so, could you, would you (please, please, please) leave a comment or two about it in the comment field at the end of the post? Like, you know, what you were doing at the time, what you remember thinking about it at the time, etc. Who knows, maybe there’s a lot of us. Maybe we could start a club. Or a support group, lol.

But no, seriously, all kidding aside, I’d really appreciate you checking in if that’s the case.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alright, I’m going to close here by swapping my 17 year old’s hat for my 77 year old’s one, and focusing us on the last few sentences of the fourth quotation from the Facebook thread I’d unearthed with Google’s help. This is what the gentleman said:

“My memory is a bit fuzzy on the aftermath, but if my memory is somewhat close, he was “fired” and then “rehired.” Someone else might have a clearer memory on that part. BTW, publicity stunts were quite common at that time. A DJ would “lock themselves” in the studio and play the same song multiple times, get “fired” and get “rehired” after listeners protested the firing. Side note: studio doors don’t have locks on them.”

Notice the use of all the quotation marks, where he says “fired” and “rehired”? That’s not the same thing as simply saying fired or rehired, is it. He has also called it what it actually was: a “publicity stunt.” And if you were an adult back then, you would have seen it for what it was too. But on the other hand, if you were a 17 year old or younger, all full of piss and vinegar, you’d probably see it as a call to arms, as many did.

It’s like the station put on a little play. And why?  To generate more interest in WGUY… that’s why To do something that would increase the numbers of their young listeners, something their sponsors would appreciate. And of course, that’s what it did. It worked. The adults back then did know. Of course they did. And it’s easy to imagine them rolling their eyes and getting quite a kick out of it. It’s easy to imagine them sighing, shaking their heads, and saying something like, “These crazy teen-agers. They’ll believe anything.”

But it’s the guy’s last sentence, his “Side note” that’s making me smile today.

“Studio doors don’t have locks on them.”

That’s right.

They don’t.

THUNDER ROAD

COME ON BABY, LIGHT MY FIRE

~ ~ 1959 ~ ~

 “Hey Beryl! Gimme a Pine Tree Float!” This demand causes my little cousin on the next stool to giggle-snort unsanitarily. Which feeds my ego. I’m on a roll. I mean, face it: that was funny.

But then Beryl, the establishment’s senior-most matron, always humble and sweet and nurturing, actually does fill a counter glass with ice-water, placing it before me on a napkin. I spy the floating toothpick spinning like a compass needle on the water’s surface . “Oh,” I say. “I guess you heard that one already.”

She’s smiling her Glinda the Good Witch smile. “Yes, Tommy,” she replies, “back in… oh… 1935…”

Lanpher’s Drug Store, the local ‘watering-hole for us after-school junior high and high school kids. Belly-up to the bar after the long day’s ride in the classroom saddle, and wile away the hour or so till supper time, nursing a cherry Coke or a root beer Fuzzy. And there’s the juke box, when somebody’s lucky enough to have the required quarter. The soda jerks are a bevy of part-time housewives and moms who seem to take a matronly interest in our tiny soap opera lives, and (the biggest reason we guys hang out here) the part-timers, the pair of hot ‘teen angels’ from the high school. And because we are God’s gift to the otherwise bored world of our elders, we preadolescent good ol’ boys ‘entertain’ them with the little witticisms we pick up from our older brothers.

“So …” she continues, “will you be wanting some dessert, after all that?”

I look to my left and right, surveying my potential audience. The high-schoolers have pretty much been here and gone. OK, so there are a couple of ‘dumb girls’ down at the far end who look like they could stand to be impressed, so I call, “Yeah. Make it a Zombie.” Which elicits a delightful “YUCK!” and a “Gross!” from my intended targets. “Make that two,” says my little shadow.

Actually, I can barely stomach Zombies, which are a phosphate conglomeration of malted milk and every flavored syrup known to man: orange, strawberry, lemon, lime, vanilla, Coke, root beer, cherry, ginger ale, and sarsaparilla. But it is secretly believed, in an underground urban legend kind of way, that a drink tasting this ugly almost definitely has to get you at least a little drunk. My real drink of choice is the ever-popular Root Beer Fuzzy. Girls invariably drink cherry-Cokes.

“Sorry,” Beryl apologizes, “but only the Pine Tree Floats are on the house.

“No problem!” From my pants pocket I ferret out a thin dime and slap it on the counter. “Plenty more where that came from,” I lie. Then I leer down the counter at the girls, hoist my glass, and cry, “Bottoms up!” I perform the ritual chugging demonstration, managing seven or eight controlled swallows before my autonomic nervous system drop-kicks me right into Regurgitation Mode. Slamming the glass down on the counter, I convulse with a couple of involuntary lurches and a shudder that nearly dislodges me from the stool…

 “Eeee-YEW!” and “Ohmygod… you are so… disgusting!”.

“Ya got post-nasal drip,” titters my cousin.

“Napkins are right here, Tommy,” Beryl says in her patient, motherly voice. “Would you like me to wipe your nose, or would you prefer to do that yourself?” I glower, and pluck out a hank of them. Then, to kill time, I start to spin on my rotatable counter stool…

Oops! My knees bump into some high school kid seated to my left. “Sorry,” I apologize quickly.

“Watch it, shrimp!” He snorts at my limp apology, and sneers down upon my half-full glass. “Whatsa matter? Lose your appetite?

“No, I… Uhmmm… I’m…just waitin’ for my friend here to…”

Sure you are, shrimp boy, sure you are.”

I resent the implication that I don’t have the ‘stuff’ to down this drink in a single gulp. So I bring the glass up to my mouth, press my lips onto the cold rim, tip back the glass, and take a good pretend swig. Sporting a fresh Zombie moustache, I drop the glass back onto the countertop and produce a satisfied Hollywood “Ahhhh!

“You could really use some acting lessons, know why? Cause you stink at it.”

I glare down into my drink. Suddenly, though, I’m startled by a rock-hard click click click on the counter top. My new nemesis here is tapping a quarter on the Formica as if sending an urgent Morse code message. click click click! Beryl!” he calls. “Whattaya say? Hit me with a Hot Shot!”

I’m thinking, wait a minute… ‘Hot Shot’…? What the heck’s a ‘Hot Shot?’

Appraising him with her saintly smile, she dries her hands. “Oh no,” she clucks, a mother hen who knows what best for her chick, “You do not want one of those.”

He holds the quarter up like a playing card. “But I do though.”

OK now, see, here’s the thing. I practically live at Lanpher’s. I know the menu backwards and forwards. So this conversation is making no sense at all because there is no ‘Hot Shot.. So naturally, my ears have pricked right up. Not only has he asked for an unknown entity… but she seems to know what he is talking about. “No,” she says, shaking her head in a kindly, agreeable fashion. “You don’t.” What the…? What is going on here?

And here he does something really cool. He lays the quarter down on the counter and just stares at it for a moment. Then he places the tip of his index finger on it, dead center, and looks up at her. A dramatic silence hangs there between them for a count of about six, like he’s James Dean or something, before he inches it forward like a poker chip. “Like I said. One Hot Shot please.” Man, I‘m thinking, that’s how I should’ve paid for my Zombie. My index finger twitches as I imagine sliding that imaginary dime…

“Please don’t ask me to do that, Jimmy. I don’t think you …”

“C’mon, Beryl. I got things to do… places to go…”

“But after a Hot Shot, you might not be able to remember what those things are.” She smiles wisely with an uncomfortable worry. He looks at her. She looks back at him. It’s a standoff. Finally, though, she blinks. “I’m against this,” she says.

What the blue blazes is going on here…?

“Beryl, save it, OK?” He picks up his quarter and holds it out to her at arm’s length. “Customer wants to buy a drink.”

“Well… all right then. It’s your funeral.” Resigned, she takes his money and rings it up at the register. “I wish they’d never started this, though…”.

Guys like me are always on the lookout for tips on how to be cool. We model ourselves after the Cary Grants and Clark Gables on the silver screen. I’m an apprentice in training.  

She steps over to the high shelves, looks up, selects an object, returns, and places a little glass vial topped with an old-fashioned glass stopper down on the counter. With an inch of perfectly clear liquid at the bottom. Might be water. Could be white vinegar. The stopper clinks when she uncorks it.

“It’s not too late, you know,” she advises. He just shrugs that off. So with a sigh and a shake of her head, she produces a long-handled ice-cream-soda spoon from under the counter. Man, am I glad I’d decided to come in here THIS afternoon! He nods: proceed. Carefully then, lest she spill any, she drips out some drops into the spoon. When she puts the vial back down, I’m flummoxed. I mean, come on…THIS is the dreadedHot Shot? What is it…? What’s it taste like…? Why, there’s much less than a teaspoonful there!  A half-empty teaspoonful? This guy’s not so tough.

“Last chance…” she offers.

He looks her right in the eye, draws in a long, deep breath and holds it for about ten seconds. “Down the hatch!” This guy’s really something. Then he says, “Now!

I’ve never seen a kid his age get spoon-fed, like he was some bibbed-baby in a highchair. Hunched forward on his stool… eyes closed and mouth parted like some faithful penitent receiving the blessed communal wafer… (me, taking notes in my head and contemplating how long it’s gonna take me to dig upmy own quarter somewhere… and what the best day might be to do this, in terms of gathering up a suitable audience. I mean, boy will my twerpy little pals drop dead with envy, or what!)

The scoop of the spoon passes between his teeth. His lips close upon the handle. He swallows. The spoon withdraws, empty. I lean back away from him, the better to frame his reaction. Again, he and Beryl are locked in eye contact, when… Wham! A violent spasm snaps him like a wet towel. He goes rigid! Then his head starts cranking around, back and forth… left, right, left… slowly at first, then faster and faster, like geez, here comes Mr. Hyde!

A rising low-pitched-siren moans in his open-mouthed skull. It grows louder… approaches air-raid warning proportions, the perfect sound-effect for the movie scene where fighter pilots scramble to their jets out on the tarmac! Beryl shoves a clinking water-and-ice-cubes glass toward him. “Here,” she says. He rips it out of her mitt and cracks the rim of it off his front teeth, upending it, ice and all into his mouth. The siren halts as he gulps at it, but then he freezes! He seems to be staring off at some ‘vision’ over Beryl’s shoulder… “Gah!” Then he’s thrashing his head back and forth again, his jowls rattling with ice. And me with a ring-side seat! “More ice!” he commands, like an operating room surgeon demanding a scalpel. Beryl, the obedient nurse, wheels away at once to retrieve! This is incredible! But then his head jerks around and his wild eyes settle upon me. “The hell you lookin’ at!?”

Errr…” I wasn’t exactly expecting to get involved.

WHOA!” He spasmed, just about jumping me up off my stool.  Then exhales wide-eyed as if he’s just experienced some philosophy-shattering epiphany, and suddenly his desperate eyes are flitting up and down the counter as if he searching out a pen or pencil to jot it down, whatever it is. He’s blowing rhythmically now. Then his wild eyes lock onto my Zombie, right there on the counter in front of me. “WHOA!” he cries once again with another jolt, as if his previous unbelievable epiphany has just been replaced by an unbelievably even more incredible one!

Suddenly he just grabs my glass out from under my nose, tosses his head back, and chugs what’s left! Time to move down a few stools, I think to myself.

Nurse Beryl appears with a refill of ice and water. But with a vehement shake of his head, he declines it. He seems to be meditating on the last remaining intake of my Zombie, which he is now swishing like mouthwash around the inside of his mouth. “No. This… works… better,” he growls. He wildly scans the counter once again. Then suddenly, he’s digging down deep into his pants’ pockets. Out comes a comb, a book of matches, a small jackknife, and a handful of change.

He rifles the coins and plucks out two dimes, one of which he plants on the counter before me; the other he pushes over in front of my cousin. Then, with a big shudder, swallowing his current mouthful, cocks his head to the left in a four-second pose of introspection… sufficient time to clench some decision, apparently… and swipes my cousin’s glass off the countertop as well. And knocks it back.

Jeez! These taste like… crap! But they work!” Looking down into my cousin’s sheepish eyes, he adds, “Doin’ you a favor, kid.”

 “I tried to tell you,” Beryl offers.

“I know, I know. But hey, listen, Beryl.” He yanks a pack of Kools out of his shirt pocket. “You are an official eye-witness on this. Right?” He’s kinda gasping between words. “You watched me do it. So you’ll hafta tell’em, OK?

“Of course I will, Jimmy. You needn’t worry about that. I’m sure they’ll…”

“’Cause I got something riding on this, if you know what I mean.” He plugs a cigarette in between his lips. “But they’ll believe you, Beryl. You tell’em I did it…? Then OK… I did it.” He lights the Kool, takes a deep drag, and immediately forces down another gulp of Zombie.

“Oh, you did it all right.” Beryl pushes the nearest counter ashtray over in front of him. “Despite my misgivings.”

 “Yich!” he says, and takes another hit off the smoke. “Man! That ol’ Hot Shot! It just… it keeps on a-burning, don’t it! Thank God for menthols! I mean… by God! Whew! OK,” he concludes, tapping a fleck of ash from the tip of his cancer stick and then downing most of the rest of my cousin’s grog. And shivers hard. “Gotta get me some fresh air…” He shudders, rises from his stool, and is heading for the door, puffing up a storm…

Leaving me with much to think about…

OK, I already have ten cents in hand. Somehow I’ll hafta scrape up another fifteen… but, that’s what returnable bottles lying in ditches are for, ain’t it. But, need to get it by Thursday, because Thursday’s Boy Scout night over at The Hall, just across the street.



THURSDAY NIGHT…

Vanilla Cokes seem to be the going drink. And I like vanilla Cokes. They go down smooth, a lot like root beer fuzzies. But there is to be no vanilla Coke in my immediate future. Oh no. Tonight…? Water on the rocks!

And now that pretty much everybody but me’s been served their frosty little Coca-Cola glasses with straws, and the hub-bub has suitably died down, I slowly draw my right hand up out of my pants pocket with… The Quarter. And CLICK it, loud, just once, off the counter top, like Meeting will come to order! Then I let my lazy eye travel down the bar to gauge the powerful effect my dramatic move has just had on the denizens… OK… nobody’d noticed it.

CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK… CLICK!

There! That got their attention! Everybody’s pretty much all looking over at me now, quieting down noticeably and no doubt wondering, What the heck’s HE up to?

“Beryl?” I call down the aisle behind the counter. Beryl straightens up from jotting down some inventory in a little notebook.

“Hi, Tommy. Decided what you’d like?”    I set the quarter spinning like a little upright gyroscope. The two hours of rehearsals pay off; the coin spins on a single spot as if nailed there. And then… WHAM! My palm flattens it dead in its tracks! I place the tip of my index finger on it, dead center, look up at her, and let the dramatic silence hang there between us for a count of about six and then, James Dean-me, inch it forward like a poker chip. “One… Hot Shot, please.”

Everybody freezes! Beryl looks like somebody’s slapped her across the face. “Wha-at?

“What’s a… a… a hotshot?” somebody a few stools down wants to know. But this isn’t about him, is it. No, it‘s all about me tonight. I don’t even vouchsafe a response.

“Whoa-ho-ho-ho-NO!” laughs Beryl, but it’s a laugh in name only, one with no merriment in it. “No way, Tommy, are you getting one of those!” I’ve anticipated this response, and am pleased to feel the tension growing among the boys lined up and leaning on their elbows at the bar. Me, the gunslinger who’s just brushed back his coat tail to reveal the big iron holstered on his hip. I deliver my line.

“Oh… but I am, Beryl. I am.” Cool. Confident. So

Tommy…” she begins, and then just decides to end it with a simple, flat, “NO!

“Sorry, Beryl,” I say, patronizing her like, sure, I can understand your matronly instincts and so on, but they’re wasted on the hard likes of me. “I’ve got the money.” And with that I zip the quarter over the bar’s polished surface where it slows to a dead stop right in front of her. Heh heh… am I good, or what?

“That’s not going to happen,” she informs me.

“So… what’s a hotshot?” the voice still wants to know.

I go straight into ‘gunslinger mode.’ “I’ll tell you what a Hot Shot is, boys…” me, speaking to everyone in the joint with my eyes, unblinking, remaining locked on Beryl’s. “A Hot Shot is…” and here I allow the silence to tick some seconds off the clock, for suspense, “…twenty-five cents! For the guy that’s got it. Ain’t that right, Beryl.”

“Tommy, you don’t realize it, but a Hot Shot would just about kill you. You…”

“Isn’t that practically what you said to that other kid, Whatsizname? Jimmy? And didn’t I watch him walk out of here? Both alive and well?”

“He’s four years older than you! He’s in High school! And besides, he’s… OK, he doesn’t have a brain in his head!

I twist my mouth into a wry grin, and point to the quarter lying there on the counter. “I’ve heard that the customer is always right…”

“Well, that may be true, normally, but you…

“And this customer here is tired of slugging down the same ol’ Zombies alla time.” Heh heh.  Just imagine the whispers now: What? He matches drinks with some high school guy? He slugs down Zombies… practically like water? Wow! Man!

“Let me tell you something, Tommy. It’s true, I don’t want to serve you a Hot Shot. But more than that, you don’t want one. You just don’t know it yet. But if I give you one, oh boy will you ever know it then!

Hmmm. She’s hanging tough. But she’s a woman, and I sense her weakening. “You ever try one, Beryl?”

“No, I haven’t,” she says simply. “Of course not. And I’m not about to!”

“So… how do you know if I want one? Maybe if you had one, you’d like it.”

“Oh you’d just better believe I’m not having one! I know better.”

“There’s my quarter. Bring it on.” She looks at me with a quiet exasperation. But then her eyes soften. She tiredly shakes her head in resignation. “OK, Tommy… you know what? You’re about to learn a valuable little lesson this evening. A lesson I don’t want you to have to learn, but…” She turns and heads back down toward the end of the counter.

“Thank you, Beryl.” I toss a wink, like a bone, to the boys. She returns with the magic bullet: the vial. With a nod, I point once again to my quarter on the counter. Surprisingly, she pushes it back in front of me.

“Paying for this lesson would be adding insult to injury. This one’s on the house.”

Really? Hey, thanks, Beryl! This way, I get to save my money for the second one.”

She actually glares at me. Finally, “Do you think you’re ready, Tommy?” Her kind, empathetic voice is gone. She’s gotten the ice-cream-soda spoon out.

Well thanks to me, my audience is going to be treated to something special this evening. None of them’s even heard of a Hot Shot before. They’ll be talking about me at school for weeks.

 “Any time you say, Beryl.” I answer, all cucumber-cool sittin’ on that stool.

Again the stopper makes the crystal clink as she removes it. Positioning the spoon horizontally, she drips in a few drops. Hah! Look at how tiny that is! So. “Down the hatch!” I cry, eyeing my envious fans doing the only thing they can do… sitting there gawking on me in awe and wishing they had a quarter this evening. I vouchsafe them a wink as I close my eyes and open wide as the cold spoon grazes my lower lip going in.

And as it withdraws, my upper lip squeegees every last molecule from the spoon. The payload delivered…. I swallow. And pop my eyes open.

Whatthat’s IT?” I say. I can’t believe it!” The Big Dreaded Hot Shot, one big… nothing?

I start to glance over toward my Scout buddies, formulating a calculated smirk when…WHOA!

My face does a freeze-frame! And then, with a sudden will and mind of its own, my mouth just opens itself right up without any prodding from me, becoming a growing, gaping hole in the middle of my head! Like home movies when the film gets jammed up inside the projector, halting the reels dead in their tracks… the white-hot bulb melting a growing, black, bubbling, burn-hole in the celluloid which gets projected upon the movie screen like an unexpected, mushrooming wildfire…

…and suddenly, the burn-hole that has spread open across my face, is emitting a long, drawn-out, teakettle siren—  WwwaaaaahhWAAAAAHHWAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

And like the delayed shock-wave racing ahead after an atomic detonation? FLASH! The IMPACT bodyslams me! My brain goes up in flames like a gasoline-soaked rag! My tongue blackens, curls, and shrivels like newsprint in a woodstove…my throat is EEEing like a blistered steam whistle! A tsunami of hellfire flames comes rolling over and through me, instantaneously smashing down any and all neural breakwaters and dikes and dams and levees designed to fence in my other senses, leaving me hearing the flavor, smelling it, seeing it, shouting it! My entire soul, reduced in a flash to a single four-letter word (HELP!) that my lips and my tongue and my larynx cannot, for the life of me, articulate! And even though my eyes must be running down over my cheeks like molten egg-whites, I am somehow oddly aware now (in a blurred, tunnel-vision sort-of-way) of shelved shaving cream cans, tissue boxes, band-aids, shampoos, crutches and canes inexplicably flying past me, left and right, like I’m a runaway fire engine barreling down narrow streets… hell, I am a runaway fire engine… on fire! My siren caterwauling…! Me running amok up and down aisles past the paperback and magazine section, past the cold and flu supplies, past the vitamins… WAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!! …and back past the soda fountain again!

Tommy!” calls Beryl from some place embedded deep behind the steaming membranes of my personal nightmare. “Back here! Ice water!

Legally blinded by excruciation, I falter, veer left, then right, and finally lean into a hairpin U-turn to barrel-roll back toward the voice! I stumble up against the counter. A frosty glass is pushed into my smoking hands. Throwing back my head, and positioning my bansheeing wide-open mouth like some starving hatchling in a burning nest, I jerk the glass to my face and douse, more than drink. Cold water up my nose, down my gullet, down the front of my shirt, and… Hallelujah, Jesus! Don’t I feel salvation! I am redeemed, Brother! Blessed be she, the Angel Beryl, among women! I had thirsted in the desert, and I was slaked! I…

Gah! The reprieve! It’s only momentary! With all of the water gulped down, the lining of my mouth re-ignites like crackling tinder, despite the two ice cubes still pouched like acorns in my chipmunk cheeks. I try to cry out, More! but only sputter out a guttural, “MO!” My body and my brain have already done the math and figured out that… there is no way between heaven and hell that I can ever get MO! soon enough, so my legs are already doing what they know they need to… run! WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!! Because they ‘believe’ (the fools!) if they can only run fast enough, just maybe they can outrun the flame thrower! But.. heat runs at the speed of light, and…

WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!! Rat on fire in the maze! Look at him go! Past the prescription counter! Past the curling irons and Vicks vaporizers! (They’d warned me in Sunday school I’d end up burning in hell for all eternity! Oh, why hadn’t I listened?) Past the cigars and cigarettes! I’m afire in limbo here! Down past the front door, where…

Something snags my shirt collar and holds on firm, sending my feet flying right out from under me, jerking me around like a roped rodeo calf! I struggle like a drowning man to get free and flee, WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!! but am yanked back again by the front of my shirt. I know only one thing at this moment: broiling at a standstill is far worse than barbequing on the run! So I thrash! I lash out! And as much as a soul can realize anything when it’s a fireball, my brain suddenly acknowledges that I am inexplicably blinking (What the…?) straight into Mom’s face! WAAHHWAAAAHH!!! Where’d she…?  WAAAAWAAAAAH!!! Oh… yeah… pickin’ me up after Scouts…

“Just what, Thomas, do you think you’re DOING…?” She is horrified.

I sum it all up for her: WAAAHHWAAAAAAAAHH!!! No man stands still while going up in flames! I wrench myself free and go pinballing brainlessly down the aisles again like a ricocheting stray bullet. WAAAWWAAAHWAH!!!

Good Lord, I sound like Lucille Ball on I Love Lucy!

But… whatever goes up, must come down, and she recaptures me as I come careening back down the next aisle, this time in an iron grip. “Tommy!” she says, with a face that’s drained of color, a horrified face.You stop this nonsense!  Right now! You’re…” she’s beside herself, “embarrassing yourself! You’reHEY! I said, STOP it! You’re behaving foolish! You’re behaving… idiotic! Stop this right NOW! Right… this… instant!! You’re embarrassing me! Us! Right NOW, Thomas!

The poor woman… but poorer me! OK. I gotta try to explain it to her again! So…………. WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

This time her face snaps into Serious Emergency Mode. Suddenly she’s steeled, determined, ready to do… whatever she must! Like the fireman pulling a victim from a burning building, she is dragging me (me, her dark, flailing, smoking, family embarrassment and the imaginary engulfed building he’s trapped in!) right out the front door!

Outside, she hauls open the heavy passenger door of our big black ’48 Plymouth waiting at the curb, more like a paddy wagon than ambulance tonight, and I am installed on the front seat. WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

The door slams hard after me!

WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

Didn’t I just tell you to stop that?”

I’m practically breaking off the side-door window crank (Must… get… cool… air… into skull!) muscling down the pane. Mom hustles around to the driver’s side.

WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

And as she peels rubber out of that parking space like some hot-rodding badass High School Confidential teenager… WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!… me, I’ve got my gaping face hanging out the window like some tongue-lolling Irish Setter…

WAAAAAHHWAAAAAHHWAAAAAHHWAAAAAHH!!!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Turns out, I was one hundred percent correct.

Everybody’s been talking about me here at school for days…

NOTE: IF YOU LIKED THIS AND WOULD LIKE TO FIND OUT WHAT EXACTLY “‘THE HOT SHOT” WAS, LOOK FOR “COME ON BABY, LIGHT MY FIRE II” TO BE PUBLISHED SOON…

URBAN LEGENDS BLUES

“i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed

by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging

themselves through the negro streets at dawn 

looking for an angry fix…”    

— howl, by allen ginsberg 

it was almost practically an honest-to-god fact … 

(all the older cool guys confirmed it) 

& we could all recite all those well-known anecdotes 

seething with that rebel-without-a-cause wildness

the same walk-on-the-wild-side jazz we’d seek out in 

the breathless teen-angst movies like  

joy ride… & party crashers

“a single aspirin swigged down 

with a mouthful of coca-cola 

will render you staggeringly, 

knocked-on-your-ass drunk” 

one medicine show demonstration: a normally

“sober” & “respectable” older kid rapidly developing 

outrageously slurred speech patterns & flopping with 

histrionic helplessness on the playground lawn 

where he was reduced to a giggling, 

gravity-pinned, dying cockroach 

impaled on its back: proof-positive

so later, in the sanctuary of my room, 

after surreptitiously gulping down the  

deliciously-illicit white pill with a glass of Coke 

(which, as anyone could tell you, can completely 

dissolve a steel spike left in it over night!) 

& waiting over an hour for the magic… 

nothing… happened! 

boy, was i ever pissed! it was just like that time  

I swallowed the chokecherries & drank the 

glass of milk, which everybody swore 

would kill you… but it never did. 

it just tasted bad. 

i didn’t even get sick! 

I thought, face it:  

there’s no magic in this world— 

only lies