Write this off as Devil’s Work, Pure Evil, if you will, and believe in that sort of thing. Others may be inclined to explain these happenings as kids’ shenanigans, enabled by the idleness afforded by a bad economy, summer break, and the unemployment rate. Some will recognize the humor, which started off as pure pranksterism in response to outside agitation, on a picture-perfect 4th of July.
Underutilized, unenfranchised or already-disenfranchised, underfunded youth don’t always make great decisions. Roxanne didn’t start this day intending to perish before nightfall in grisly fashion. It just worked out that way. To her, the holiday was a day like any other. She toiled long hours, practically around the clock, holding hats, coats, and umbrellas in the foyeur of the Temple of Doom on Brown Street. There, she greeted residents and visitors alike at the ramshackle house, originally built in 1883 as a roadhouse, gin mill, and workplace of Paid Ladies of the Night. After a lengthy career in retail, this was her retirement job, minding the deplorable dwelling with its holes in the roof, uncountable bats swooping around inside, and dirt-floored basement teeming with vermin.
Dead, or just not alive, on her feet as usual that day, our doomed heroine blankly stared, oriented toward the front door, as she welcomed the inhabitants and their weird entourage at roughly two in the afternoon. Altogether an even dozen, they were a motley crew of scholars, outright freaks, sociopaths, idle rich, and penniless urchins. Many were true junkies. As the neighbor from across the street, Kurt Vonnegut, would remark, “The excrement was about to meet the air conditioning…”
Behind the window shades, all pulled down tightly out of concern for security, and paranoia, the boys laid out purchases made that morning in an auditorium parking lot in Cedar Rapids, where the Grateful Dead would play later that night. They peeled brown paper wrapping from a basketball-sized chunk of translucent, yellow-hued opium before chipping off hunks and passing them around in several pipes, all smoking like tiny chimneys.
Martin opened, hastily, a square corrugated box containing a foot-high stack of perforated sheets of paper, each centimeter-square bearing a wee print of an M.C. Escher work: the famous never-ending stairway. He doled out portions to each of the crew, who all then dutifully stuck out their tongues to verify that they were on board and prepared for lift-off. What the hell, really? It was the Nation’s Birthday and all, and supposedly this was a Free Country…
Thirst would become a priority, they knew, given the heat, raging humidity, and the impending Big Sweat brought on by medicinal side-effects. Twenty cases of brown, long-necked bottles rested under ice in the lengthy turn-of-the-century horse trough out back. Point, Rhinelander, Edelweiss, and Pickett’s, all less than $3.00 a case. The boxes and bottles could be returned for the $1.25 deposit. Those that survived the festivities intact, that is. Each case included a free church key (opener) back then. These were tossed into a nearly-overflowing metal bucket of the same in the kitchen corner.
Beer swilling commenced with gusto as the Social Misfits awaited onset of the desired psychological acrobatics expected, resulting from their purposeful behavior and actions. It would not be long before things really livened up. Together, the twelve merry-makers filtered out onto the front porch to await their fate. Only Roxanne abstained, for somebody had to keep their wits about them. Remaining inside, she observed with trademark alluring smirk, glaring through the screen door, as the Young Ones sauntered down the street paved with bricks toward the edge of the bluff, where Brown Street plummeted steeply down to the Main Drag along the Iowa River.
There, the Ne’er-do-Wells loitered, hoisting brews that too-rapidly warmed, despite an active breeze thermalling up from the valley. Birds sang, traffic hummed lightly. The big sun beat down, T-shirts showed sweat patterns, as they all casually surveyed the scene before them. Tents, pitched the day prior, staked the apparent best Fireworks Show Vantages. How folks determined this was a mystery. All manner of sporting pastimes like frisbee, croquet, baseball and the now-outlawed Jarts kept many busy. The drone of hundreds of music sources mixing together sounded eerie from up top. Picnicking proceeded; grills smoked. Many swam the swift, filthy currents of the river to cool off. Some jumped or dove from bridges before fighting that strong current back to shore.
On High, the Outsiders began to experience the desired symptoms of Altered States. Yet at the same time, resentment of the infestation of their territory taking place below built, for what they perceived to be hypocritical poseurs, like Enthusiasts for the Military and America. Consensus distilled during a surprisingly-brief discussion: Something needed to Happen. Some brand of Spectacle that matched the Affront of such a large crowd of basically-innocent bystanders, willy-nilly despoiling campus and the park, was called for.
Whether boredom, alienation, opportunistic serendipity, or the previously-noted prospect of Pure Evil, which some would argue had created One Dozen Bad Eggs that day, could all be debated. If anyone really gave a damn. Certainly, it was not the Escher Prints, for they had instilled in each of them the highest-quality sense of Well Being. Broad, unstoppable grins festooned each of their faces, as they could not possibly stop laughing on the way to the Mischief Zone.
Reader, soldier on with us here. Worry not about Inherent Evil, or some Devil or whatever other made-up boogey-men types designed to keep us on the Path of Righteousness, whatever that is as well. The boys had come to a decision, sitting all arow on the curb, feet resting on the brick gutter, finishing beverages like they could not possibly get enough. Action required full daylight for Maximum Effect, and the boys would swing into it with mucho gusto.
While the Societal Rejects returned to the Temple, Dez made separately for his A-frame cottage, situated amid an old cemetery, deep within mysterious Black’s Gaslight Village across the street. He would return with a change of clothes for Roxanne, pilfered from his girlfriend’s old wardrobe, along with shoes and some accessories. The rest piled past Roxanne as she stared silently and stonily. It would be the last time, they knew, but she did not.
Communal excitement developed into generally Yucking It Up. Our multiple protagonists struggled to Maintain. Equilibrium and focus deteriorated. The designated project at hand consumed most of the available brainscape that was able to be accessed given the circumstances. Many beers were drained, smokes smoked, fixes in the bathroom. Distractions abounded. Nobody, for certain, was the least bit interested in food.
Dogbait descended the rickety cellar stairs, battling thick curtains of spiderwebs, to look for a suitable, sacrificial bicycle among the more than fifty stored down there. Soon, up he stomped, sooty-faced, to report that it was refreshingly-cool downstairs. He toted a1970s green Raleigh 3-speed with fenders and a rack into the living room, where he grabbed the orange Silca pump and began airing the tires for Roxanne’s final journey.
In a most undignified manner, meanwhile, Roxanne lay half-on and half-off the couch, unceremoniously having her red dress removed by several young men. She remained stoic, wooden, non-compliant as the dress was discarded in favor of a similar garment. Purple and white, it was some sort of sundress, dowdy, faded after many seasons of wear, yet fitting for the hot summer day. Socks and tennies were slipped on her frustratingly-uncooperative feet. It was a struggle indeed, though she did not knowingly resist. Nobody meant to get rough. Not once did she blush, not even when a long brown wig was pulled over her head, and lipstick applied. This was her first change of clothes in months. At last, a blue canvas tote was pulled over her shoulder, lending the air of a shopping jaunt.
Raucousness had taken hold by that time. Dogbait, bastard that he was and is, produced four cheap Lapize bicycle toe straps, pilfered from the basement stock of cycles. The scene devolved. Things were getting Real. Ugly. The Cabal instinctively gathered ‘round, all smiles and banter, gulping beer, wild-eyed, toasting their final Good-Byes to unfortunate Roxanne. Truthfully, most of them had no idea, or held little faith, that the plan would work. She would be fine.
Then, with ceremony, Roxanne was hoisted onto the Raleigh. Her hands were toe-strapped to the handlebars, and her feet to the pedals. Huntley gave her a good shake to ensure solid attachment. Strapped-in tightly she was. He then gave her the Roll Test: bike and rider traveled smoothly as a unit. She continued to smirk demurely, as always, confident in her beauty.
Two advance lookouts moved out, and casually walked to the Edge of Nowhere. Brown Street was deserted, so they proceeded to give the All-Clear Whistle. The rest departed, wheeling Roxanne along. She looked terrific on that splendid summer afternoon. At the precipice, the boys tinkered with the machine some, and straightened her hair and outfit. Lastly, Lenny produced a big, floppy, yellow sun hat, and pulled it down to her ears. The overall effect of their efforts really was something.
Dogbait took over from there. He was, after all, the instigator. Holding the handlebars and the seat, he pushed off, running alongside like a parent teaching a child how to ride. This afforded the momentum necessary for what we call balance. Letting go then, gravity did the rest as Roxanne quickly gained speed on her own, descending the bumpy brick street, towards four crowded lanes of rush-hour traffic below. Then, things went very, very badly for her.
She flew past the STOP sign, but did not make it across the first lane of traffic. In a split-second, a stout Mack truck slammed into her from the left at full speed. Air brakes screamed as the driver reacted instantly and professionally, skidding to a halt. But it was way too late. In fact, the Raleigh, and most of Roxanne, had been devoured under the large truck’s wheels. All lanes of traffic screeched to the same halt in mortified terror and disbelief. Car and truck horns cacophonously howled at the unexpected interruption to progress. You know, there is really never any shortage of uninformed, misunderstanding and impatient morons in any situation the World over. Especially in America.
Our Dirty Dozen observed their handiwork from afar at a higher elevation in several respects, in shock and wonderment, jaws agape despite the grinding and gnashing of teeth brought upon them by medicinal side-effects. The rotund truck operator, clad in green coveralls, hair slicked back like Jackie Gleason, leapt from his cab. He clearly was beside himself, actually shrieking in terror. A grown man with probably an excellent driving record of many years in the trucking field had just been made to believe he had just killed a beautiful young woman.
Yes, Jackie whirled around the front bumper of his Mack, still screaming. He began to pull at what he believed to be a human limb protruding from the cracked-up chromium grill adorning the front of his rig. A seeming eternity passed before he was able to free what appeared to be a long section of human leg, with shoe attached. Something seemed to cross his mind, the unfortunate man. Staring at the appendage, he perceived discrepancy. He shook his head to clear his vision, as a prize fighter may when punch-drunk, as though he did not believe his own eyes. What he held in his hands so tightly, yet with frightened reluctance, made no sense. Something did not compute.
Roxanne’s demise on, in, and under the truck was of some little consequence to the twelve gawping knuckleheads at the crest of Brown Street. They liked her alright. But to them, in their states of impairment, the feeling was: Fun is Fun. Few would admit publicly that they had thoroughly outflanked Human Dignity, and traveled to a place that scared even themselves.
Jackie looked everywhere for answers, totally at sea. At last, he focused up the hill, and saw the boys to which he felt he could assign responsibility for his condition. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, panic spread through the ranks on the bluff, replacing glee and curiosity. As multiple sirens droned slowly closer, the trucker shook his fist at them before they all fled far past their Temple lair.
Roxanne was mourned officially, days later, when a sort of wake was held at George’s Pub, haunt of renowned literati. Some real feelings were expressed for a certain unidentified truck driver who suffered far more than she. Some youthful innocence was used up, for those twelve aimless, spoiled ninnies. But Evil? I don’t know…you should have seen the look on that poor guy’s face. It was really something. Priceless, at the time, I’d have to say. Of course, that is not exactly how the Daily Iowan covered the story, but we’ll leave this one up for the reader to research. It’s there, though. Oh boy, it sure is.
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