Normally, a story like this would never get told, at least not in print. Maybe it shouldn’t be. This is supposed to be a decent, sane world. But just look at the TV to debunk that theory. Or just look around you, easier yet. The participants mentioned herein have Real Lives, too caught up to document such exploits. And those Observers not taking part would prefer events like these Go Away. Overintellectualists, damn them, might label this a pedestrian exercise, something akin to encroachment on their own brand of insipidity. If that is how you Identify, then go ahead and stop right here. Nobody needs you ‘round here at ground level, on this Blue Marble. Same goes for those suffering Eclecticism in any form. Yeah, get lost. We shall continue, us Human Beings.
For one reason or other, like intoxication, inebriation, psychological impairment, or maybe malfunctioning Life Compass, perceptions that one abomination of nominal human after another keep assaulting every sense somehow can be all but impossible to ignore. Average Individuals, like yourselves, try to adapt to whatever situation arises, process the details, assess the finer points, and slog through with steady Darwinian aplomb. We’re not Super Heroes after all. More like Machines, possibly continually malprogrammed, glitchy, unaware, and uncaring.
For instance, well, we’ll need to take a detour. Just bear with us here, please. This writer has long been accused of such crimes as Long Windedness whilst attempting to relate some happening from experience. There is a long damning history of Asides, Run-on Sentences, Poor Grammar, Outright Blathering, Digression, and the very worst horror: Chronic Tangentialism. In this spirit, we will dive right into events barely pertaining to this story. It is felt the Reader should not be cheated out of this information. In this effort to illustrate a small but important point, a visit to Columbia University must be mentioned.
Dressed in a ten-dollar, ill-fitting black suit purchased at a resale shop, along with matching Florsheims in a state of High Dilapidation, this writer arrived at the school to accept a graduate research fellowship. The meeting went well. The Academicians there did not care what he looked like, only that he could somehow survive New York City on the available wee stipend while his singly-unique knowledge and experience of Communist Eastern Europe and resourceful research methods remained of some use to them.
Upon departing this happy introduction, he descended the subway steps at the southwest corner of campus. In doing so, he encountered a real New Yorker artfully and frugally Residing on the landing halfway down the stairwell. This individual sat busily scraping hot dog remains – ketchup, mustard, relish, etc. – into a large pile on wax paper. This comprised the man’s chief diet. It did not serve him well, digestively. Proceeding down past this individual to the platform, the writer was impressed that the man had acquired an identical aroma to animals he had seen imprisoned at the zoo. It could not have been easy, that accomplishment. Very gradual, most likely.
Waiting for the next train to arrive, his thoughts progressed to a story he had read in a syndicated column called News of the Weird, under the subsection labeled, “Thinning the Herd.” It was about a man who, in real life, habitually stuck his head out over the tracks, impatiently looking for his train. Who hasn’t done that? Well, he won’t do it anymore. The train he was looking for barreled in from the other direction, killing the poor idiot looking the other way, thus taking him out of the game, to borrow a phrase from Charles Bukowski.
This story disturbs the writer, but not nearly as much as what happened next. He had not noticed when the resident troglodyte ambled behind him and the other travelers waiting. It was then that the huge commotion began. After perceiving loud, almost human grunting noises, incredible gastric sputtering, and waves of splashing, he turned his attention that-a-way, along with a growing number of other unfortunate bystanders.
At the end of the platform, by the tunnel, Stairway Man clung to the ladder which leads down to the tracks from one hand, while holding his dropped pants with the other. His pale legs were thoroughly pasted with excrement. He was without shame. Just Another Day, as he continued to defecate roaringly. Until, that is, his hand slipped nearly causing him to fall onto the tracks. Yes, mighty unpleasant. This is one very difficult tangent to go down…
Oh, the Effrontery! Have we lost some readers? But it was not the Situation that most struck the writer. He felt for the Individual, who could be any one of us at one time or another. No, what impacted him more were the utterly false apathetic, blasé looks of concentration on the faces of surrounding commuters unlucky enough to witness the spectacle. Oh, they Heard. It was an extremely audible event. And they knew what was taking place. But they would not look upon the poor man as a Human Being. None acknowledged any sort of compassion whatsoever. Not a shred. Nor would any admit familiarity with the concept that, “Civilization is only as strong as its weakest member.”
Instead, these monkey-suited Numbskulls feigned, unconvincingly, deep interest in whatever headline happened to remain outwardly-oriented on their tri-folded copies of the New York Times. They clutched these papers so tightly their fingernails bit into the pages. That was the real story: Schmucks Casually Ignore Decline of Western Civilization. Thank you, Subway Animal Man, wherever you may be. You are a Frigate soaring over a land of Boobies. Surely, the Overthinkers, and Eclectuals, and the Esthetists have been maneuvered from this reading herd by now. Let’s the rest of us continue. There’s a story here, such that it may be…
Meanwhile, you may have gathered from enduring previous episodes in this series that Halloween is merely a day like any other of the year in Iowa City. Like a Tuesday, or whatever. College towns can be like that. They appeal to Lunatics, have drawing power. Truthfully, this town is home to a sizable, never-ending Freak Show. Locate a comfortable spot, kick back, and take in Life’s Rich Pageant. As you develop certainty of having witnessed the most stunningly-unconventional individual ever, another candidate will appear that blows that one right out of contention. Or hey, maybe you yourself could outdo them all…
Speed had no time or use for dressing up in costume. Honestly, his naturally-occurring appearance had the effect of walking a pet armadillo on a leash. People looked, all right, but he never really understood why. He didn’t care. He always said, “You can look, but don’t touch or I’ll break your arm. Or, how about both arms?” With a shock of spiky, natural red hair atop a tremendously athletic carcass, this third-generation Scot needed only T-shirt, jeans, and Doc Martens to move about. To him, the real Freaks were those who willingly sported suits and ties. Reaganites. Losers, like some sort of albatrosses around society’s neck. Living Antiques.
The young man was secure enough in himself that he had zero inclination to get on the horn and start calling anybody, trying to rally for an outing. No need to make sure all one’s Candy Ass friends would be at whichever bar or whatever event to act cool with, try to feel Normal or, lamely, provide Safety in numbers. No, he’d just break off and head out when he felt like it, and/or had time. Real Life is like that. Sometimes six in the morning made perfect sense. And if he saw you at the bar – great. If not, well, see ya next time. Who wants to go out and see the same damned individuals time-after-time, everywhere you go? Mix it up. Live a little. “It’s not where you’re at. It’s where you’re at…” Otherwise, it’s just the slowest-motion suicide attempt you ever did see. Every day. Day after day.
For a variety of reasons, this year seemed different. He became swept up in the whole affair. Speed actually succumbed to knowing participation in Halloween. His studies had become ferocious, and more satisfying leisure time was important. Also, a Tidal Wave of Peer Influence swamped his singular will. One or more women may have been involved. Hallucinogens certainly factored into the equation. Accounts of Tradition existing only in Iowa City assaulted his sensibilities. They were all especially strong influences that, when pelted with them in rapid succession, demanded his compliance and cooperation. Yes, with the Flow, Speed had to Go…
As resident of the Temple of Doom, up on the bluff, Speed found himself immersed in a Vortex of Woeful Behavior. Milquetoasts from his former life would not venture into the Brown Street environs. No matter. He felt, “Screw them. More beer for the rest of us.” His hard drinking, womanizing, narcissistic professors were his neighbors. They were infinitely more interesting, and much smarter. And they picked up the tab at the bar, which was something.
Vonnegut, on the other hand, spent most of his days holed up in his private quarters on his own farm across the street. Like Old Bull Lee in On the Road, nobody knew why. Or did they? That tangent will have to wait for another time. His fans, Speed included, remained mystified at how old Kurt managed to slip down to George’s Pub without being seen.
Black’s Gaslight Village, hidden among the trees next to the Vonnegut estate, made excellent cover for many spooks. There, an army of junkies of all ilks either rented or squatted in a main plantation-style manor and various mismatched outbuildings. In-between the collection of structures, haphazardly organized and tended, were gravesites dating to the 1700s. As the old stones and monuments were apt to fall occasionally, many stood propped against exterior walls of the buildings. Kinda spooky, gotta say. As previously mentioned, Halloween covered every day of the year in Iowa’s Old Capitol.
So many providers of the Earthly Delights making their homes in the neighborhood, like Speed himself, and so many junkies languishing in every other dwelling. Again, Speed included. All these distractions presented myriad temptations to the boy, off on his own, with no other home to go back to. Hell, even Dogbait lived just two blocks away. Too close, basically. Straight-edger though he was, psychopathy made him dangerously-interesting. He lived in a shared home above a Chinese Grad-Couple who kept a wok going around-the-clock, feeding the local addicts, infusing the house with fryer oil. They were nice people. Probably mathematicians involved with satellite telemetry or some such thing.
Strangers lurked everywhere at all hours, doing who-knows-what with themselves. Probably some level of stalking: assaulters (Speed-Daters?), drug seekers, burglars, car thieves, crazy winos, occasional dorm-floozies making their way back to the relative safety afforded by campus, and always individuals who have lost their keys or been kicked out. You know, not anybody you would want to jump into conversation with, polite or otherwise, if it could be avoided.
But Speed heard about it first from a local yokel who made his living collecting bottles and cans. Each fetched a nickel in Iowa, by law. These territories were fiercely carved out and defended, oftentimes violently. Brown Street belonged to Bottlehead, where he was known to all as an honest, earnest bum not to be fucked with. Speed routinely left unopened bottles for him in appeasement, as it appeared most of Bottlehead’s profits were directly plowed back into the alcohol industry anyway.
Sobering up with some coffee on the Temple’s front porch, Speed needn’t have glanced up to ascertain the rattling cacophony of Bottlehead’s approaching grocery cart, technically the property of Hy-Vee, upon the lovely red bricks of Brown Street. What happened next, in hindsight, seemed ominous. As he neared, wearing his one known set of clothes and, by the way, looking the spitting image of George Carlin with the longest, greasiest mullet ever seen, indeed, setting the bad trend at that time, Bottlehead happily, loudly, and melodically sang a short ditty:
“Apples be ripe, nuts be brown,
Petticoats up, and trousers down…”
The man was clearly quite amused with himself, singing his song. But then it hit Speed: This very tune appeared in the book he held in his hand at that same moment! It was The Wanting Seed by Anthony Burgess, maybe better known for A Clockwork Orange. How weird! How strange! Speed felt some sort of connection to the resident street urchin. Was it déjà vu, or flashback-related?
“Hey, Bottlehead! What’s happening?” Speed, for one, already felt an eerie unease.
“Just another day, Speed. Business as usual. Thanks for those full bottles yesterday. Very kind of you. A man gets awful thirsty…”
“Don’t I know it. No problemo, man. Every little bit helps. We’re all in this together, or so I’ve heard.”
“Speaking of which, youngblood, you must absolutely go to witness the Black Angel at midnight. Tonight. This night. It is something you will never forget in your lifetime, man. If you don’t go, you’ll never know…” Recycler, boozer, and rhyming prophet, that’s Bottlehead. For all Speed knew, the geezer may have had a degree in literature, or English, or philosophy.
“That’s the statue in the cemetery up the street, isn’t it?”
“You betcha. Check it out, sonny.” If this man was going there, the event promised to be a gathering of all manner of strange, or unique, beings.
“I’ll try to make it this time, Bottlehead. Thanks for the heads up.” But Speed did not like cemeteries. As yet, he had not gathered the strength to either bury or distribute his kid brother’s ashes because he once found himself involved in a car race around a cemetery in broad daylight. His car had actually struck a headstone, marring the monument. He had always believed thereafter that perhaps he was already cursed somehow. Oh, the awful things that can happen…
That afternoon, down to George’s Pub, he started asking questions, trying to find out about the Angel, seeing if he could get psyched up. His friend Burke Breathead, syndicated cartoonist, told him the tale as he vaguely understood it: “Well, ya see, my neighbor told me. Long ago a present was offered to Iowa City from a sister city in Europe, not really sure where. They sent the gift, a large metal statue of an angel, by ocean-going ship for the trip to the States. Hurricanes delayed the long crossing to no end. By the time the statue reached Iowa by train, the angel had corroded or oxidized fully to a dark black. Which, by the way, is a Quality, not a Color per se.”
“Yeah, that’s what the Artists tell me. Couldn’t they just fix it, you know, refinish the thing?” Speed exhibited nebulous interest.
“Oh, they tried many times, but she keeps turning back to black, every time. Usually within days, rain or shine, almost supernaturally, they say. They made such a big deal out of giving it and getting it, you know, intercontinental goodwill and all that, so she stays put right where she belongs, dead center of the cemetery.”
“Who’s ‘they’ anyhow?”
“Listen, bud. The Authorities, City Fathers, the Muckety-Mucks, Captains of Industry, blah, blah, blah.” Burke wondered in which barn Speed was born into this godforsaken Midwestern drained-brainscape.
“And that’s not all,” interjected redheaded Tom Robbins, Argonian-at-large, “they say every Halloween at midnight something like lightning zaps the Black Angel, brings her to life, ostensibly long enough for her to foist a terrible curse on anybody present if she wants to. I’m just sayin’, that’s what they say.” Now things were getting intriguing.
“Well, again, who is ‘they’ this time, guys?”
The dangerous looking one, Thompson, roused from his usual stupor. “Just shut up, kid. Here, have another Old Style. You’ll feel better and better with each one. Have one of these, too. It’s a cactus button. Mescaline. Perk you right up.”
“Thanks, Hunter. You’re right.” Speed pocketed the object for some other time. Nothing in his imagination was up to guessing where this genius of popular renown would be at midnight, or what sort of insanity would take place there. Instead, the youngster downed a few more Feel-Betters, and fortified himself with a couple of George’s Burgers, cooked in a pizza oven set behind the bar. He hated to leave the cold, dark, quiet and comfortable confines of the hideaway of the literati, but something was telling him it was time to move along.
Happy Hour came early that day, as it did most days for those in Speed’s social circle. He never was big on Exact Time, preferring more general terms like Daytime, Evening, and At Night. After passing crowds of Idiots Out Walking Around, he found himself eking through the legions of Alternative Lifestyle individuals on the several blocks leading up to the Deadwood Inn. Because, “Birds of a feather flock together.” Or, so he had heard somewhere.
Yes, of course. Speed had become One of Them somehow. He joined his fellow people, as his crew filed in over time to occupy the big, round, black-vinyl booths along the back wall of the large saloon. Several already sported Halloween gear, all geeked-up, a-purpose. Others just looked like it, naturally, like every day. Organically, talk of the night’s activities ensued, inevitably leading to discussion and speculation surrounding the Black Angel mystery.
“We’re all pretty much cursed anyway, so what’s one more on the heap?” reasoned Franny, a delightful Mod, tiny, sporting bobbed hair of a color that does not exist in Nature due to numerous bleachings and chemical treatments taken both externally and internally, most likely. She rocked a houndstooth miniskirt and crispy white waitress blouse, having arrived sporting a half-shell helmet on a two-tone vintage Vespa.
“Yeah, what’s the difference?” Like they’re gonna come up with an alleged president any worse than that bastard Ronnie? Real doubtful…” Lydia laughed. She knew all about really bad, cursed existences, coming from a family tenacious and smart enough to survive the Armenian Genocide.
The guys present reserved comment. Not one of them had enough to drink yet to speak amicably or coherently. So, Carol burst out with, “We’re all going tonight, right? There are plenty of parties on the way there. But midnight is midnight. We have to be there to see this. You’re with us, aren’t you Speed?” She made sense, and looked fantastic, knowing no bound to enthusiasm.
“OK, I guess. But I’m gonna hang here until Sid arrives, hopefully soon.”
“Regardless, we can all meet up there. Bring drinks! Some wine for me, please?” Michelle seemed inviting. Speed had a history with her, and so was nearly convinced.
“Will do. But let’s wait for Sid. He has something for us, you know.” Speed’s dialogue went internal. He thought, “Are we in one of those stories or what? I don’t want to end up in one of those Bill Burroughs messes. That would be regrettable. How do I get out of this? I don’t know. Just shut up about it, buddy, and play along…”
Indeed, Sid did arrive to fanfare. He quickly set about distributing Paper Squares, each imprinted with a likeness of Mickey Mouse. Pausing as one, each of the group stuck out their tongues to demonstrate to each other who was in the club, preparing for Lift-Off. Then, half the crowd departed for the promising party circuit, during which they would at some point Undergo the Change. The remainder stayed behind to wait for things to creep up on them. Speed began to Crest, drinking profusely, edging toward midnight, plugging the jukebox, nearing a date with the Black Angel.
Eleven rolled around. The remnants departed the Inn with regret, as always, to begin shagging up their strays at parties on blocks along the way. Mostly, their course pointed towards Brown Street in order to follow the spookiest route all the way to the cemetery. By the time they passed Gaslight Village and old man Vonnegut’s place their numbers had swelled by more than 30 wild-eyed revelers experiencing full blown Intellectual Overdrive. The group’s message had become, “Curses Be Damned!”
Here’s an aside: Who among us are familiar with the Struggle to Maintain when walking in the darkest dark, fully enjoying the Incredible Thought Process while chuck-full of potions cooked up by kindly, professional chemists, and conveniently sprayed on small pieces of paper so you don’t have to go messing around with a digital eyedropper? If you are, you know it is Key to Remember that you did ingest something powerful. It’s just the medicine. You are not losing your marbles. Nobody is after you. This is Fun!
Finally, after a stop at Hy-Vee, fraught with trepidation of possible Public Contact, to pick up some more beer and wine, they approached the cemetery. While they drew up across the street, legions of dark silhouettes lined thoroughfares and wandered dark paths meandering among the many gravesites. At least 500 Freaks lurked about, whispering and murmuring among themselves, “Maintain, man! Just be cool…”
Things were getting Real. Very few employed flashlights, as broad signage indicated the cemetery policy of closing ‘at dusk.’ Speed’s entourage skirted the area in order to arrive at the darkest possible ingress, flanking left of the Openly Crazy running around pell-mell like maniacs, doing every possible thing to attract Attention, ensure Apprehension, and then Incarceration by The Man. These are the individuals who could not Maintain.
Away from the streetlamps darkness reigned, concealing a world of possible trouble. For those Fully Enjoying the crystalline compound somewhat familiarly known as an amide of lysergic acid, comprehension became difficult. Not impossible. It just required adjustment, like shifting one’s spectacles.
Speed tagged along with his herd, like a troop of baboons. Very quietly, they made way to a spot roughly 100 yards in front of the Black Angel. At least, they thought they were quiet, and they thought the Angel was out there in the darkness. Well, probably it was more of a feeling. There, they congregated in the midst of enough unidentifiable dark figures, possible creatures for all they could tell, to fill a stadium, or so it seemed.
Few in this unruly, mainly unseen mob had the slightest idea why they were there, or what to expect, but for the thin thread of evidence provided by hearsay, or Legend. As though blind, Speed’s racing mind held onto his friends’ voices for dear life. What amounted to, or sounded like, unintelligible gibberish, or hushed asides (?) could be heard from surrounding elements of gathered curious Humanity. General unease seemed to take hold, out there, in the pitch dark.
Three minutes to go. Quiet descended despite growing anticipation. That is, excepting the OCD Control Freaks, unable to help themselves, loudly shushing, urging silence of the throngs. More reasonable, sane individuals loudly told those idiots to shut up as well. It is supposed to be a Free Country… Speed broke into an uncomfortable Big Sweat in his black trench coat while drowning his desperate thirst with gulps of Old Style from his usual quart bottle. It was good and reassuring to have something to hold onto, some excuse for a purpose. “We’re drinking. That’s what we’re doing. Yeah.” Yet, the bottle felt slippery in his hands, which was weird because, well, you know…
As midnight ticked over, even the Shushers themselves shushed, allowing for full silence. The tension was palpable, folks sweating in the Fall air. And, Holy Shit! Suddenly, the Black Angel was illuminated by a bright beam of light piercing the darkness! She towered atop her plinth, ruling in all her corroded glory, as the crowd erupted, screams echoing through the trees.
Speed’s intellect, such that it may have been, convinced him the statue had come alive. Did she have live Medusa hair? Momentarily, to him, she gyrated and gesticulated, somewhat like the flying monkeys in Wizard of Oz that gave him such nightmares as a young boy. Along with many others, the young man braced himself for The Curse, as legend promised.
Apparently, then, someone stood up, or something happened, blocking the beam and casting the Black Angel into darkness, ruining the view. Was it she that was howling frickin’ bloody murder? Or was it the surrounding panic-stricken bevy of assembled, intoxicated, inebriated, fun-seeking, curious onlookers? No matter. No difference. When, at that exact opportune moment, one of the Murray brothers set off a whole brick of Black Cat firecrackers. It was enough to light up everyone’s imaginations, and cause a Stampede! All hell broke loose into the night!
Nobody knew which way to run. It was Touch ‘n’ Go thereafter. Many individuals somehow reasoned that gunshots were fired. Yeah, they wanted to Believe in something More, like Speed did. After all, a lot of hype had been invested in this outing. This was still Iowa. Many people were born in barns, weren’t they? Some humans, morons essentially, cannot resist false drama. Two prime examples: the Fuzz, and the Press. This level of excitement seldom comes along in the Land Where the Tall Corn Grows.
The Terrified, physically shut down, screaming in place, resigned and waiting to be taken Into Custody. One poor gal, in the throes of some apparent awful Mental Health Crisis was reduced to rolling around in her own vomit, shrieking, bananas basically. Nobody could help that one. Possibly Dangerous. Her status was noted as Beyond Reason. In a place where those previously sent into the darkness, resting peacefully in everlasting Communal Dirtnappery, was she the only known, obvious example of one touched by the Black Angel’s Curse? We shall never know…
Had the Midnight Congregation reason to flee? They did. The Black Angel, as it turned out, had been so brightly and eerily illuminated by a Spotlight, attached to a Police Cruiser! As Speed and Friends hustled, hastily, hysterically laughing back down Brown Street they passed by at least twelve more Pigmobiles, and several Paddy Wagons. The latter never a good sign, given the number of Unfortunates that could be stuffed into them. Apparently breaking up the Halloween/Black Angel Tradition had become Priority One, because Good Honest Taxpayers had raised the alarm.
Local Blabbermouths had phoned in reports of Underage Drinking and Strangers violating cemetery closing time, and worse. Never mind that, in itself, paranoically peering out one’s windows well-past the Official Bedtime of Respectable Working Folks could also be considered strange. As Jaroslav Hasek’s Good Soldier Svejk exclaimed mockingly, “Without rules we would all be out climbing the trees like monkeys!” Come on. Would we really?
So, God Bless America, which Burroughs famously referred to as “A Nation of Finks, where nobody is allowed to mind their own business.” We continue to inhabit a Police State merely masquerading as a Free Country, grimly clutching our newspapers, pretending to read of All Hell Breaking Loose, while diligently hiding from Reality, and each other.
The Daily Iowan, wallowing in mediocrity, sketched the scene in typical, sensible fashion:
Police Beat
An annual unofficial gathering at the infamous Black Angel cemetery statue was ‘cleared out’ by Iowa City Police after midnight. Complaints of underage drinking, littering, and public urination were received, as well as apparently-false reports of ‘burial desecrations.’ Several dozen individuals were detained and taken to the Johnson County Jail. A ‘hysterical’ adult female was conveyed by ambulance to University Hospitals. None arrested remained in custody. No further information was released.
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