Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

  The Filmnuts continued their weekly meetings, planning for the June film festival. Leonard Tchotchke created an abstract film of changing colors using crumpled up aluminum foil placed in front of a black backdrop. He used a four-color motorized wheel with a flood light that is typically used to illuminate silvered aluminum Christmas trees. He explained that his flop-flop was a simulated acid trip elevated by the instrumental music of Pink Floyd. Orson created a film in front of the vending machines in the cafeteria, walking robotically with a blue light bulb protruding from his mouth. He recorded the sound of a computer printer, and he narrated the film in his expressionless computer voice: “I am not programmed to respond to that request. Sorry, I am X32, the upgrade. Your request does not compute.” Johnny Lumens, the bright one, explored the world of stop motion animation using a burger, fries and cup of soda. Moving the objects between each exposure, the meal appeared to devour itself. Jane worked on the soul dancers, and Hank filmed the ice-covered trees during the enormous blizzard that shut down the eastern seaboard in February.

  Jack Malloy drove to work in his in-law’s pizza delivery wagon. He held the wheel with his left hand and pinched a cigarette between his index and middle finger. He drove slower than the speed limit, which allowed him time to think out loud to himself. Carol tasked him with a list of chores to follow before he returned home. He finished his smoke and drowned the butt in a half-filled Styrofoam coffee cup. Stopping by the Tower, he buzzed Jane’s apartment and drove with her to school. He wrote out the lesson plan on a mimeograph sheet. Walking to the utility room, he waited as the machine rolled with a rhythmic clicking sound. Gathering the lesson sheets, he returned to the classroom. His daily routine always began an hour before anyone else had arrived in the building.

  “This week were going to watch a documentary on the making of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid directed by George Roy Hill. The film was shot on location between Durango and Silverton, Colorado, and parts of Mexico. The film is a musical romantic comedy within the setting of a cowboy western drama. It’s a buddy film. The music is written by Burt Bacharach and includes the popular hit Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.

  The lights dimmed, and Hank sat mesmerized watching the filmmakers at work. His mind drifted away, imagining what it would be like to work on a film crew. The reel ended, and the lights dimmed up. Jack sat quietly for two minutes as was his custom; he allowed students to reflect on what they had watched before addressing the class.

  “I have the volunteer firetruck on hold for the break in the weather. We are shooting a homage to the Butch and Sundance film. Missy, you have the full-length white dress, and we will provide suspenders and a derby for your boyfriend. I found an old bicycle. We’ll shoot it in the field behind the gym. The snorkel will lift one student with a camera in the bird’s nest for the money shot. Pay close attention to the bicycle scene between Butch and Sundance’s wife. We want to capture the feeling of that ride.”

  “How did you get the fire department involved?” someone asked.

  “I spoke with Miller at the Merry-Go-Round. They take the snorkel out routinely to test the working condition of the mechanics. He is willing to bring it to the school parking lot and lift one student, accompanied by him, in the crow’s nest.”

  After school, Hank drove into Trenton and parked on Warren street. He waited staring at the clock on the church steeple across the street. He checked his watch, adjusted the radio. The passenger door opened.

  “I’m a few minutes late. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” the voice spoke.

  “I wasn’t here long, Heather.”

  “Just drive. Let’s go.”

  “I’m glad you’re back home. Everything working out?”

  “My mom and I don’t get along. I hope to move when I get a job,” Heather said. “Hummus?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s made from chickpeas. My brother belongs to an ashram. He turned me on to it,” she explained. “It’s creamy, made from sesame paste and chickpeas. They put it in a pita with shredded carrots and alfalfa sprouts.”

  “What’s an ashram?”

  “A retreat where they teach you meditation and how to eat healthy.”

  Hank and Heather parked behind the Whole Earth Center on Nassau street and ordered two hummus pitas to go. They sat in the parking lot while they ate.

  “Do you still play with a band?” she asked.

  “Sometimes, on the weekends. We’re not bad, but sometimes it gets loud. I can’t hear myself, so I turn up the amp. Then Roy can’t hear himself, so he turns up his amp. In the end, our amps are all turned up. We leave practice with our ears humming.”

  “That’s not very smart,” Heather pointed out.

  “I know. I also teach guitar at the organ store. The manager is my friend, and he is teaching me how to finger pick. I practice for hours. What about you?”

  “My parents sent me to the girl’s school. I read, and draw.”

  “An artist,” Hank reflected.

  What’s that?”

  “Your creative,” Hank said. “So, besides school?”

  “I listen to music. I keep to myself. It’s dangerous where we live. My mother wants to move, but my father insists on staying. We’ve lived in the center of town a long time.”

  “Afraid?” Hank asked.

  “The drug dealers sell heroin about a block away,” Heather said. “I run from the car to the door. A bum tried to stop me once.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wanted money. I ran. That’s why I carry this,” she said pulling a cartridge from the pocket of her jeans. “Pepper spray.”

  Hank bit into his hummus pita and swigged on a ginger beer.

  “I remember when town was on fire,” Hank recalled.

  “We fled,” Heather cried, “it was frightening.”

  “What you are going to do when you graduate?” Hank asked.

  “Find work, I hope. I can’t afford much.”

  “Can I be honest?” Hank asked. “I have no idea what I want to do. I drifted through school. Getting through the day was enough. I feel down a lot of the time. My father had a heart attack a while ago. He looked helpless all wired up to the machines in the hospital. He just stared at me when I visited him. No expression. I never knew my father to be weak. Thank God for my Uncle. He’s been carrying us, and mom works part-time at the cafeteria. I must work. I can’t afford to dream.”.

  They drove to Rosedale lake, and he pulled the Buick into the public parking area. “It’s chilly, but I wanted to show you this place,” Hank said. “Your hiding spot?” Heather asked. “A place to go when it’s warm. You can walk from the Pole Farm to the lake.”

  “The Pole Farm?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it’s interesting. The pole farm was a top-secret location during World War Two. The scientists from RCA constructed a huge transmitter which allowed trans-continental communication across the ocean. Roosevelt and Churchill communicated using the system,” Hank explained. “If it’s so top secret, how do you know about it?” she asked. “I grew up around here,” he replied. “It wasn’t such a big secret after the war.”

  A light rain began falling as Hank drove Heather back to her home. He pulled up to the curb and looked in the rearview mirror. “It looks clear. No bums,” he said. Heather leaned over and gave Hank a kiss on the lips. “Thanks for spending time, see you again?” She opened the door and sprang from the car through the front door of her home. “Next week,” Hank spoke out loud through the crack in the window.

  The budding Spring was uneventful, except that Uncle Phil locked the front porch screen door, so old lady Evans would stop letting herself in and bending Uncle Phil’s ears. The House Judiciary Committee began formal hearings on President Nixon’s impeachment, and the Symbionese Liberation Army shoot-out with the LA police was one of the largest shoot outs in US histo
ry as 9000 rounds were fired killing six SLA members.

  The tulips and hyacinths sprang from the ground, cherry blossoms bloomed, victory gardens were seeded, and high school students abandoned their desks. The senior cut day was an unofficial holiday periled only by a conforming lack of nerve. The threat of detention, or worse yet, repeating another year at the good old alma mater hardly deterred the absentees from taking off on a lark of an adventure.

  “Pharo, meet you in the parking lot,” Hank muttered under his breath. They left in the Buick. “Let’s get a six pack,” Pharo insisted. Heading for the Delaware river, and then north on River road, Hank spoke with excitement, “I want to show you the park.” The Buick winded down a gravel road to a dirt parking lot. The sky was clear, and the morning air was warm but comfortable. Hank led Pharo down a path along a creek. The water flowing over rocks soothed the soul. “Over here,” Hank pointed, “off the trail.” They sat down on a grassy patch of lawn surrounded by bushes. Pharo handed Hank a can, and he popped the tabbed ring. “I come out here with my friends in the summer. Sometimes we ride around the country roads for hours listening to music in the car.” Hank said.

  Pharo grinned, “I have to build the screen. Jack paid me.”

  “I’d be glad to help,” Hank offered.

  “No, we have the wagon. We just need to haul some two-by-fours from the lumber yard. We picked up canvas last week. I don’t know why such a huge screen. Jack crazy.” Pharo said. “Yeah, he’s a bit offbeat, but I like working with cameras. My father taught me the basics. He had to explain it a few times, how the camera works, he thought I was dense, maybe I am.” Hank said.

  “You’re not dense,” Pharo replied. “Buck is dense. He’ll do anything on a dare,”

  Pharo took a long swig of beer emptying the can. Hank mirrored him and belched out loud. “That felt good,” Hank said. “Here!” Pharo handed Hank a second beer and opened one for himself. “You know, Pharo?” Hank spoke in a mild beer buzz, “I didn’t feel like I belonged when I started public school. I grew up in Trenton and went to Catholic school. I felt alien. I figured everybody knew each other for a long time, spent years together in elementary school. I didn’t know where I belonged, so I hung out in Malloy’s room.”

  “Maybe no one really belongs,” Pharo answered. “You feel like everybody else.”

  “I don’t hate people. It takes too much energy. I was in town when the riot happened. I was scared to death a mob would beat down our door,” Hank droned on.

  Pharo kept silent; he sipped his beer staring at Hank, listening, then he broke his silence. “I remember the riot too. I lost a family member that night,” Pharo spoke softly. “My mother’s sister’s son, my cousin. He was shot in the back by a stray bullet from a policeman’s gun and died during that riot. He was home from Divinity school and only nineteen years old. He went down to the corner to try and talk the younger kids out of looting and destroying the storefronts. His name was Harlan.”

  Hank listened quietly, then spoke, “I’m sorry that happened. Your poor Aunt.”

  “My folks fled from Alabama because of Jim Crow laws.” Pharo related.

  “Pharo, I know about that. My grandfather didn’t arrive here until after the Civil War was over. Where he came from, they were fleeing ethnic cleansing. The Hungarians. My grandfather was from Slovakia. We never owned slaves. They were oppressed themselves. I think slavery is wrong.” Hank took another sip of his beer. “Frederick Douglass’s autobiography?” he asked.

  “No. I know who he was,” Pharo replied.

  “It explained a lot,” Hank confided. “Frederick grew up on a plantation, and he was taken inside the home. Back then, there were house slaves and field slaves. The owners prohibited slaves from being taught to read or write; they considered it a threat. There was a woman in the family took a fond liking to Fred, and she taught him how to read and write on the sly. The story he wrote about his life on the plantation is damning. Horrible! Painful to read.”

  They finished the six pack and walked along the creek back to the car. “Are you alright to drive?”

  “I’m fine. I walked the buzz off,” Hank replied.

  They drove along the River and pulled into a burger stand on the side of the road. After a roadside lunch, they drove past a canoe rental along the canal.

  “You want to stop?” Pharo asked.

  “Have you ever paddled a canoe,” Hank asked.

  “No, you?”

  “I’m game.”

  They parked the car and paid the proprietor. The canoe was berthed on a small wooden dock. Pharo placed his foot into the canoe and it rocked gently. “Be careful,” Hank warned. Sitting on the seat, he held the canoe steady, holding onto the launch with his left hand. Hank set one foot in and then the other slowly lowering himself onto the opposite seat and facing Pharo. “On the count of three, push away with your hand,” Pharo instructed. They launched and paddled away down the narrow canal.

  “You paddle on the left while I paddle on the right,” Pharo said, “then switch to the other side.” They rowed down the canal as the bow of the canoe sliced the surface of the water. “This isn’t so hard,” Pharo spoke with confidence. Hank began singing, “That Ol’ Man River, he keeps on rollin’, he must know somethin’, he don’t say nothin’…”

  “All right, Ol’ man, you’re not at the Grand Ol’ Opry,” Pharo teased. How about this?” Pharo began to sing:

  Moon river, wider than a mile,

  I’m crossing you in style, damn straight,

  You wise gator, you mashed tater

  Wherever you’re goin’, I’m runnin’ away.

  Hank burst out laughing uncontrollably. Pharo shifted the paddle to the left, and the canoe tilted to port. Hank leaned starboard trying to balance the canoe. Pharo leaned starboard, so Hank leaned to port. They swayed back and forth rocking the canoe until both tilted in the same direction. The boat tipped; they both went under. Hank felt his legs sink deep into the muddy bottom; his shoes buried in the muck. He pushed with his arms to ascend to the surface. The canal was only four foot deep. “Ahh…you tilted the wrong way! My legs sank in a pile of shit.” He complained. “No, I didn’t, you did.” Pharo echoed. They both stood up in the canal and righted the canoe.

  “You did.”

  “No, you did.”

  “No, you did.”

  “No, you did.”

  “Truce!”

  Pulling themselves back into the canoe, they both started laughing out loud.

  “The water is so disgusting! It smells like the toilet water at a rest stop.”

  They returned the canoe and squished their way back to the Buick. Hank felt uncomfortable as his wet briefs clung to his lower body. The socks in his shoes squished when he walked.

  “Remind me never to join the Navy,” Pharo grumbled.

  The red firetruck pulled into the high school parking lot. Stopping adjacent to the grassy field, Hank watched as the steel legs mechanically descended from the side of the truck. They reached the asphalt, supporting the truck, and preventing it from tipping when the snorkel was raised. The large steel arm lifted and moved forward over the front of the truck, then lowered the basket to the ground. “Abbott,” Jack yelled, “you’re our best camera man. Get into the crow’s nest.”

  Missy was dressed in a full-length cotton dress, and her boyfriend was poised on the bicycle in his plain white tee, red suspenders, and derby hat. Hank climbed into the square box attached to the end of the mechanical arm. The fire chief, standing behind him in the nest, shifted a control, and the nest began to rise in the air. As Hank slowly rose in the nest, the voices on the ground faded. He watched as Jack Malloy waved his arms in a sweeping motion. The cyclist began pedaling the bicycle with Missy riding side-saddle across the support bar. The crow’s nest rose to such a height that Hank stopped filming. He looked across the horizon from over a h
undred feet in the air. He spotted the tops of the buildings in Trenton, and the steeples of the church in the old neighborhood where he had served as altar boy. A stiff breeze blew across his face whistling in his ears. Suddenly, Hank’s world had become small. The school, the teachers, the houses and streets all seemed insignificant. Descending back to the asphalt ground, he was dumbstruck by the meaning of everything.

  June arrived, and the rehearsal for the film festival commenced. Mr. Malloy distributed clip boards with note paper and pens to the power crew. A large sheet of plywood was placed across the center of the two front rows in the auditorium. A convoy of wheeled carts rolled down the tiled hallway. Masking tape, magic markers, projectors, film reels, extension cords, flashlights all rolled along with the Filmnut caravan. Jack purchased an audio amplifier and speakers to flood the large space with crystal clear sound. Pharo raised the large screen and propped it from behind with two-by-four wooden beams bolstered by heavy sandbags.

  Malloy distributed the list of films to everyone. Each filmnut was given a job. Four students manned the slide projectors in the two side aisles along the walls. A row of six projectors lined the plywood table. A small desk was placed to the right of the projectors where the power amplifier and reel to reel tape recorder was situated. A filmnut manned the lighting cage controlling the house lights. Reels of film were threaded into projectors and carefully set on the scratched frame that synchronized the projection. Film and audio were locked and loaded. The doors to the auditorium were closed, and Malloy took charge of calming the pandemonium.