by James Alexander, Dr. of Journalism
To fully understand what truly happened on the fateful night of August 27th, one must realize the incredible influence the surrounding environment had on what took place. The location for this strange scenario was the sleepy and peaceful county seat of the county of Ellis, US of A, known to the locals by the old Waxahachie Indian name of:
WAXAHACHIE. Waxahachie has long been known as a place of culture and learning, which is made obvious by its out-of-business bead shop and its out-of-business handmade soap factory.
Its other main attraction is its red granite courthouse, dating from the late 1800s. The Courthouse was recently restored to the tune of $15 million; however, it was discovered that the necessary tax increase threw so many people out of the street and into a life of crime that another courthouse had to be built directly across the street.
The Courthouse is known as "The 8th Wonder of Texas", and is shrouded in mythology and folklore. The most credible of these accounts involves several miles of Masonic tunnels, which lead to various places of interest, such as The Odd Fellows building, The Nicholas P. Sims Public Library, and
Oma's Jiffy Burger. There is also the persistent rumor that there is still a "whites only" sign hung over the water fountain in The Courthouse basement. Needless to say, Waxahachie residents are very proud of their courthouse.
Another one of Waxahachie's places of interest is Getzendaner Park. The park is a great favorite of picnickers. There is also a Health and Fitness trail, which fell into disuse after the grand opening of "Curves Exercise Studio". "Curves" is now out of business.
Moving on, we come to the aforementioned
Nicholas P. Sims Public Library. It was founded by Nicholas P. Sims, who can, in turn, be found in the next stop in our little tour, the Waxahachie Cemetery, where the majority of graves read the following epitaph: "Died fighting for God, home, and the Confederate States of America".
We had been scheduled to play a show at
Zula's Coffee House, which was perhaps Waxahachie's last lone outpost of civilization. I came in early for publicity purposes. Having printed up some attractive-looking fliers, I proceeded to scout out local businesses, hoping to scrounge up even the faintest interest in this God-forsaken part of the country.
I was greeted with open arms by the simple country inhabitants, who, recognizing a stranger in town, rolled down the windows of their pick-ups and welcomed my with friendly salutations, such as:
"GET A HAIRCUT!" and "HEROIN FREAK!"
That all-too-familiar fear began to rise in my gut. This, I thought to myself, was no ordinary city. Some strange aberration in the earth's magnetic field had frozen these poor souls in some twisted, grotesque 50's T.V. show. I had to finish this job quickly and leave before sunset.
I passed from store front to store front, desperately searching for a lonely wall, yearning for expression. Even the very architecture had remained unchanged since
"Bonnie and Clyde" had been filmed here in the 1930's.
My main problem was explaining the apparently unheard-of style of music called "Indie Pop" in a town where
Jerry Lee Lewis had been kicked out of college for playing "The Devil's music".
I was stumped when one elderly store owner asked me if I was part of a religious organization, as she only permitted postings of a religious or educational nature. At this point, I felt I could make a pretty good case for being educational, but gave the subject up as a lost cause. How could I explain to these people? The ignorance before me was too great, too overwhelming, too omnipresent. I felt lost, wandering in a vast, empty wasteland, searching blindly for any oasis of truth. My eyes glazed over and I groped for the door. I had to get out before I was crushed by this heavy cloud of unknowing.
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| "Average Donkey" |
Feeling numb from this much rejection, I was heartened by my next visit, where one kindly soul allowed me to put up a poster on account of the "pretty picture on it".
Looking over the other posters on the community bulletin board, my eye caught a neatly-printed Notice of Estray, which informed the public that the county sheriff had impounded three donkeys and a young filly, which was described as being "a light chestnut color with white socks and a white snip on its forehead". The donkeys were described as being "average donkeys".
Below it was a neon yellow poster advertising the "Annual Health Fest", an event billed as raising health-consciousness in Ellis County. "Free breakfast provided by Donuts Plus and lunch provided by The Cotton Patch Cafe."
I placed my poster between another promoting the
"Sonz of Thunder Bluegrass Ensemble" and a public service notice. This
public service notice advised residents not to drink the water if they are young children, the elderly, pregnant, have struggled with immune disorders, or have contracted HIV. This gruesome warning was due to contaminate levels in the water supply which were well above the state minimum. I shuddered.
After soliciting three more blocks of assorted shops and boutiques, I came to the city's lone
head shop next to the Triple A Bail Bonds on the seedy side of town. Although some unseasoned reporters might have assumed the existence of a head shop to be a sign of culture, the truth of the matter was it made a large chunk of its income selling black light posters of Confederate flags. I went in and looked around for the proprietor, but there was no sign of any life whatsoever. I waited for a few minutes, sweating under the black light.
The sickly sweet scent of Nag Champa and Dragon's Blood, mingled with the smell of utter terror, charged the atmosphere with an almost overwhelming intensity. The crossed stars and bars of the Confederate Flag glared menacingly down at me like the eye of some pagan god demanding a sacrifice. I began to sweat almost incessantly now. The acrid, cloying smoke choked the air and made it difficult to breathe. My eyes began to burn, and the right side of my face started twitching uncontrollably. The fear I had been fighting for the last ten minutes finally overtook me.
I gave a shout, but there was no response, leading me to assume that the owner either saw me coming and mistook me for a Narc and stepped out the back door, or was involved in his own chemical experiments in the back room and couldn't be bothered. I left a poster on the counter, sensing he would not be in any state to notice a small detail such as a mysterious paper miraculously appearing in his shop, nor would he possess the physical coordination it would take to remove it.
After this harrowing experience, I decided to call it a day.
I was up early the next day prepping The Star for a local photo shoot for promotional purposes. On the way to the location, pulling up at a stop sign at the corner of Ross and Farley, I was distracted by three homemade plywood signs, about 4' tall and 4' wide. Printed, screaming, on the face of one of these signs with a black spray paint can was the desperate cry:
"BRING OUR PEE-WEE HOME! HE IS SICK AND NEEDS HIS MEDICINES! *#$&*%!"
My mind reeled. What sort of town was this??
"What sort of twisted mind would steal a young innocent child in the throes of illness?" I raged. "The poor parents! We must do something!!"
The Star's eyes welled with tears. I was about to swing the car around to see what assistance we could render to these unfortunate souls when The Bodyguard interrupted from the back seat.
"Idiots," he snarled. "Pee-Wee is their dog."
Somehow I had overlooked this alternative explanation. Pee-Wee might be the name of their miniature chihuahua.
"How do you know this?" I balked skeptically.
"It says he has worms," said The Bodyguard.
"Their child could have worms," said The Star.
"Excellent point," I concurred. "Remember the Water Report. Besides, what sort of sick, perverted individual would steal a chihuahua? Especially one with worms?"
I might have stopped and gotten to the heart of the matter, but we were running late as it was.
We got to the location, parked the car, and stepped out. It was a beautiful scene, perfectly reminiscent of some 18th century pastoral landscape. I immediately began working out camera angles.
I always shoot in natural light. I love the heightened contrast and the intense play of shadows that can only be obtained by photographing in natural conditions.
As I directed The Star in a pose and began shooting, a passing car honked repeatedly. I did not think anything of this until the next two or three cars also began laying on their horns in similar fashion. The Star seemed to be enjoying the attention; however, The Bodyguard began to get restless and antsy. I knew I had to do something quickly.
"It is perfectly understandable," I explained, with forced heartiness, after a black Firebird whizzed by in a blaze of speed and sound, its occupants whooping, hollering, and whistling.
"Think of it," I went on. "A fast car, a girl with extremely tan legs standing in a field of freshly mown hay, bringing to mind the agrarian beginnings our society was founded on. It's the American dream, here and now!"
"I thought I was Colombian," said The Star.
"Shut up," said The Bodyguard.
"You'll be Colombian when I want you to be," I admonished. "Now, hold that lovely pout."
"You people make me sick," said The Bodyguard, storming off, cursing in Spanish under his breath.
We finished the shoot and headed home to rehearse.
On the night of the performance The Bodyguard and I loaded the equipment into the car and waited another hour and a half for The Star to emerge from her dressing room; she looked radiant, as only a woman who has spent three hours grooming herself can. We all piled into the car and headed out to Zula's.
I can't tell you much about what happened that night. I seem to have vague recollections of twin dogs nestled in a baby carriage, yapping in the front row. Vaguer still was the group in the back who had wandered in from a nearby trucker's convention. Through it all came the possessed scream of the amplifier, wailing like some wild beast in the night, sometimes more or less audible, but always there as an undertone. The harsh odor of espresso hung in the air. The voices of the customers placing their orders carried faintly to my ears, like some ancient arcane code. "VENTE MOCHA DECAF LATTE ESPRESSO-TWO SHOTS!!!" The fear was growing. The harmonica sounded weirdly off-key. I had to get out. I stumbled out the back door and into the cool night air.
The night was still, as if the whole universe had stopped to listen. I found myself sitting in a rusted-out folding chair at the back of the building. A cool breeze from the north-east swept over me. I looked up at the stars, spangled across the vast face of the night. The childlike, soothing strains of "Big Rock Candy Mountain" floated serenely to my ears. I took a deep breath. I still did not know if I accepted this wild and virile chaos I had been thrown into. But I felt, in some strange, silent way, that it accepted me.
