The Screaming Room

Good afternoon to you, people. And good afternoon. And good afternoon.

Today is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. You will punch out of work, make the long drive home, have supper, put the kids to bed, and pour your first drink of the evening. You will sit on the deck, put your feet up on the railing and realize for the first time that the sun is still casting light on your day like a ghost that does not want to leave you.

The sky will still be a faint blue or a darkening purple by the time you draw the first yawn of the evening. It will occur to you that daylight is going to outlast you this night, and you might marvel on this a bit before the second yawn comes along and then you're done for the evening.

If you put aside Halloween, the summer solstice is my very favorite time of the year. I love that the Earth is tilted at such a precise angle that it has a hard time shedding the light of the sun. There is something so cosmically beautiful about the longest day of the year that primitive people constructed monuments to mark the occasion. The ancient ones, who possessed wisdom that may have been lost to us over millennia, celebrated the solstice in ways we now consider bizarre, or at best, quaint. They knew that the extra seconds of sunlight meant that we were extra blessed and they found ways to profess thanks for the gift.

I live close to downtown Lewiston. Any thoughts I might have about building a monument to the solstice would be quickly shot down by the Planning Board and I'd be billed just for filling out the paperwork. Any ideas about dancing naked around a bonfire would be quelled by the indecency laws and the current burning ban. Not to mention the embarrassing injuries I'd suffer.

And so, I celebrate the solstice in other ways. I wrote a book about it, for starters. It would be gross exploitation for me to plug my book here, and my editors would frown on it. Just go to your local bookstore or library and ask for it. I believe they keep copies of the book in the pink room.

But the idea is to celebrate this long day in your own special way. Pitch a tent in the back yard and invite your spouse to spend the night there with you. Let your kids stay up extra late and watch them catch fireflies while the light hangs and hangs and hangs in the sky. Call that brother you've been ignoring for six years because of that dispute over the inheritance and say something like: "You know, bro? On any given day of the year, I'd rather eat lint than give you a call. But this day is so long, I thought I'd look you up and ask how your life is."

You're laughing at me, aren't you? You think I spent my solstice drinking red wine that goes nicely with poultry but better with melancholy. But the fact is, few times of the year affect me so profoundly as the solstice. I want to roll around in the grass, watch the sky and savor its tenacious appetite for light. I want to jump into Lake Auburn and thrash around under the moon, even though doing so will result in a $1,000 fine, as clearly stated on signs posted every 10 feet along that gorgeous stretch of lake. I want to pay the fine in dripping dollars to the scowling cop who waits upon the shore.

Because darkness comes back soon enough. The returning darkness of the planet is as inevitable as the darkness of the human soul. No fewer crimes against man will be committed on June 21. No fewer people will die on this date from diseases they didn't invite. It's a special day only for those who pause to consider it.

The hard thing is that it happens but once a year. The light hangs there, and hangs there, and hangs there in the sky. Then it's dark again, night has fallen, the steady decline of daylight hours carries on. You awake the day after your solstice reverie and there will be some shrill-speaking crone nearby to herald the hideous news: "Well, that's it, you know! From this point on, the days get shorter and before you know it, winter will be back! Better start thinking about getting snow tires for your car and you just know the cost of heating oil is only going to go up."

Run that crone over with your car and call it part of your solstice ritual. As long as you celebrate in one form or another. Because to overlook the joy of the day would be an insult. It would be an insult to me and to the planet that tilted so precisely toward the sun to make it happen.

I don't know how my wife puts up with me. In addition to my obvious shortcomings (I'm actually just four feet, nine inches tall, I have a beastial fixation, a wart on the tip of my nose and I've killed people), I've developed a new bad habit. I simply cannot sit down at a restaurant without informing the waiter or waitress that "I'll have the roast duck. With the mango sauce."

The couch potatoes among you will recognize the line immediately. It's those whacky cavemen from the Geiko commercials. Is it me? Or are those Geiko ad campaigns hysterical? I mean, I thought they hit it out of the ballpark with the talking gecko. But that ball has been sailing over the left field wall for more than a year and now they have the literate, cultured cavemen.

Man, oh man. I'm dabbing tears of hysteria from my eyes as we speak. A caveman! Ordering roast duck with a mango sauce! And, do you remember the very first episode? Where the anchorman announced that "it's so simple, even a caveman can do it?" And the caveman came lunging out of the studio yelling: "That is NOT cool!" Brilliant, man. Sheery hilarity.

So, I'm pretty sure I'm getting a divorce.

Ah, the beach wedding. Such a beautiful way to say "our union is as vast and timeless as the ocean itself. Our love will conquer all, the way the mighty tide conquers time and the planet it rules. Or love is depthless and mysterious. Our love will…"

And then a gaggle of giggling topless women go strutting by, and then next thing you know, your blessed wedding photos are plastered all over the Internet. You don't need a best man, you need a breast man. And it serves you right, fool. Because while it's hard to match the serenity and joy of the ocean, few places are more unpredictable. And let's face it: the American Legion Hall down by the feed store is still the most reliable location in which to get the deed done.

Here's to you and your wedding horror stories. If you are one of the topless women shown above, call me. I got a friend who's very interested.

We've all done it. There's a lottery jackpot worth tens of millions and we discuss, almost in hushed tones, exactly what we would do with such gobs of cash. We'd give some to charity. We take care of all our friends and relatives. We'd continue working because, I mean after all, our jobs are the essence of our lives. Blah blah blah. We're all full of crap.

So, Bill Gates has announced that he'll step away from the Microsoft money machine and turn over more control to trusted aides. I worry that Bill and his wife may have to go out and find real jobs to supplement their lavish lifestyles. But it is needless worry. The Gates are known to give away a billion dollars a year to charities. A billion. It is a word so difficult to grasp, it almost sounds made up, like something from Dr. Seuss. But Wikipedia tells me it's true and even illustrates the enormity of the number. God bless Wikipedia. A billion thanks to them. And here's a helpful image of what a billion pennies would look like thanks to the MegaPenny Project.

• About a billion seconds ago, the parents of middle school children were themselves in elementary school. (One billion seconds is roughly 31.7 years.)
• About a billion minutes ago, the Roman Empire was flourishing. (One billion minutes is roughly 1,900 years.)
• About a billion hours ago, modern human beings and their ancestors were living in the Stone Age (more precisely, the Middle Paleolithic). (One billion hours is roughly 114,000 years.)
• About a billion days ago, Australopithecus, an ape-like creature related to an ancestor of modern humans, roamed the African savannas. (One billion days is roughly 2.7 million years.)
• About a billion months ago, dinosaurs walked the earth during the late Cretaceous. (One billion months is roughly 82 million years.)
• About a billion years ago, the first multicellular organisms appeared on Earth. (The universe is now thought to be about 13.7 billion years old.)

• A billion inches is 15,783 miles, more than halfway around the world and sufficient to reach any point on the globe from any other point.
• A billion centimeters is about the distance from Chicago, Illinois, USA to Tokyo, Japan.
• A billion meters is almost three times the distance from the Earth to the Moon.
• A billion kilometers is over six times the distance from the Earth to the Sun.

Few things are grosser than boogers.

So, you despise your wife so intensely, you cannot bear to let her live. Yet, some affection lingers and so you hang on to her pretty noggin for a while after tossing the rest of her out with the garbage. I know, I know. It's a variation of the same old story. Man kills wife, keeps her head, crashes into another car. Dismembered head flies from the wreckage and goes bouncing across four lanes of traffic with that dead scream trapped on the decaying face.

There really is no reason to shave a cat.

I am blinded by tears while writing this. Those who know me understand how much the city of Lewiston means to me. That city whose soul was formed by many faiths. Without regard to creed or race. And whose sons are proud to call you home. And whatnot Oh, it's just all too much. Does somebody have a tissue?

I don't mean to make fun of Lewiston and it's staggering attempt at a city song. But when I think of Nick Knowlton and his merry band bawling this tune enroute to California, I get shooting pains in my spleen. My vision blurs and I can't stop thinking about the hookers, crackheads and panhandlers standing shoulder-to-shoulder crooning along. I get misty, is what I'm saying. Seriously misty.

I just want to wander to Bartlett and Walnut, grab the first person I see, and hug him. I want to tell him: "We are all sons of this proud, embattled city. We are brothers of Lewiston, as sure as I'm standing here hugging your skinny ass. I love you, man. I love you."

Seriously, does anybody have a tissue? Because I'm about to get shot in the ass.

Oh! Lewiston

This town was built by the strength

of the working hands

By the hearts and souls with a sacred plan

To build a town that would always stand

For family and home

It stood every test you could give a town

Through the long lean years

When the mills shut down

It was built on faith and in faith it found

A way to carry on

Oh! Lewiston, you move like

The Might river

Onward forever with your

Shoulder to the stone

Oh! Lewiston, all your sons and daughters

Speak of you with pride

And are proud to call you home

Your soul was formed by many faiths

Without regard to creed or race

It's the love of all

The makes this place

All that it's become

So here's to everyone of you

Who carry on those dreams come true

Of the place where everyone can do

Everything they can

I like to believe there really is an escaped lunatic out there with a hook for a hand. I like to believe he roams the lovers lanes of America looking for young couples who are being really, really naughty. And I like to believe that, now and then, the fiend falls to pieces when one of those freaked out Romeos tears out of the lot with the killer's hook dangling from the car door.

I like to believe a bereaved mother lives inside every mirror in the world. And if you stand before the looking glass, uttering "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. I killed your child" not once, not twice, but thrice, the deranged woman will come lunging out of the glass to drag you to doom.

I like to believe the calls are coming from inside the house. I like to believe that little Mikey from the Life Cereal commercials snapped, crackled and popped to his death while munching pop rocks with coke. I like to believe stuffing your mouth with pennies will throw a police breathlyzer test off the charts and thus, render it inadmissable in court.

Human fingers have been plucked from the throats of dobermans after home break-ins. A young geek's zits have erupted and tiny spiders have crawled out. The coffins of various famous people have been exhumed to reveal claw marks on the lids and lightning has restored sight to the blind.

Urban legends have always worked because we want to believe. And yet, feeble effort is exerted by this new band of story teller who spreads his tales over the Internet rather than the school playground. These days, the weavers of wild tales rely on mathematics rather than taut prose to spread rumors like infection.

If you flash your headlights at a high-beaming motorist coming at you, you will likely get shot, because it's part of a new gang initiation. Gassing up your car could kill you because a sadistic fiend is placing vials of infectious disease in the handgrips of the nozzle. A madman is posing as a police officer in [Your Town], USA and raping the women he pulls over.

Yawns all around. The World Wide Web is killing rather than enhancing the timeless telling of urban legends. These tales spread quicker, it's true. But they are diluted and weak. And they compete with million dollar promises from Nigerian princes, creams that will make your penis grown to inner tube proportions, low rate mortgages, and master's degrees that can be bought for a buck and a quarter.

Bring back the guy with a hook for a hand, I say. Bring back the ghostly hitchhiker, specteral in her prom dress, at the side of the road in [Small Town], USA. She's out there every prom night, year after year, you know. Tell us once again about the guy who died, turned blue, and swelled up to an enormous size in his car after he was scratched by his Siamese cat. And I'd like to hear again from the dude whose baby alligator grew into a 15 foot eating machine of the sewers after it was flushed wee and harmless down the toilet.

Seriously, man. Give me anything. Because otherwise, I'll start chanting "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary" into the computer screen and then we'll all be screwed.

The call that came over the police scanner went like this: “Units, please respond to Oak Street, near Blake, for a report of a man lying in the grass.”
Call me a loafer if you will, but I did not overturn my chair rushing to this scene. Granted, it could have developed into the Big One I’m always waiting for. But I envisioned the police response going something like this:
Cop: “Hey, there, fella. Whatcha doing?”
Prone guy: “Lying in the grass. What are you doing?”
Police are always getting called out to different parts of the city where people are said to be acting strangely. But to me, strange behavior is relative. Is the woman who ceremoniously twirls in circles before every sidewalk crack acting strangely? Or is she aware of some obstacle from another dimension of which you and I are not aware?
Exactly. Odd behavior is a matter of interpretation. And with this in mind, a few colleagues and I concocted a plan. With the help of some enthusiastic, unpaid volunteers (you), we will orchestrate bizarre behavior and see how long it takes to get reported.
One of you will be asked to walk backward as you move about the downtown area. Stroll through Kennedy Park in reverse. Stop into Victor News for a magazine and walk backward to the counter. Be careful around thorn bushes and curling irons because girlish screeches will get you disqualified.
I guarantee someone will report this behavior to police in minutes. And in even less time, police will investigate and determine, after careful consideration of the statutes, that there is no law against walking backward.
I need one of you to walk a stuffed animal on a leash through a heavily populated area. It can be your little tickle bunny, your beloved Pooh or just some furry thing your last boyfriend bought for you before you dumped his sorry butt. I don’t care. As long as you strap a leash around its neck and drag it through a park, drawing the disgust and concern of your peers who believe they are qualified to identify odd behavior. Police response: six minutes.
Others will be asked to simply stand somewhere downtown and stare at the sky. Hilarity will be soon forthcoming, because it is human nature to look up when somebody else does. Several people will become victims of overfed birds. But our actor will stand in that position for an indeterminate amount of time until some wary do-gooder makes a call. I estimate 15 minutes will result in a call to the gendarmes.
A couple of you will need to pair up for a lively game of catch. I’ll need you to stand 50 feet apart throwing a ball back and forth and making elaborate catches and favorable comments about your friend’s prowess.
I’ll need you to fret and cuss whenever you miss a pass and have to go retrieve the ball. The twist here is that your ball will be imaginary. Bonus points if you accidentally hurl it at a car window and then take off running. I predict you can get away with this for nearly an hour before someone reports you and your friend as complete loons.
Much heralded will be the volunteer who wanders the city mooing at everyone he passes. No need to get elaborate with these bovine exchanges, a simple “moo” will do. Moo hello to a stranger, moo your requests to a store clerk, moo your anger at a passing motorist. There is no doubt that police will come within 20 minutes, so you’d better get mooving.
It is absolutely essential that one of you dons scuba gear and wanders through the city. Yes, you need to wear the flippers. Yes, you need to have the oxygen thingy in your mouth. You will flip and flop everywhere you go and the cops will be sent for you in roughly 15 minutes. I would guess even less time, but there is a good chance witnesses will find the sight so odd, they might question their own sanity for a moment or two.
The more amorous of the players will be asked to roam around kissing trees. It can be a quick peck, or a long, romance-movie makeout session, whatever you choose. Those who choose the latter will draw the suspicion of myself and other organizers of this experiment, but no matter. We’re all adults here. Cops will come within 20 minutes and they may have to search extra hard to determine whether any existing law applies. Not to worry, though. They’re barking up the wrong tree.
Play chess with an invisible partner and engage in loud arguments over the game. Come to attention at every dog or cat you see, salute and say, “Sir, yes sir, commander!” Stand on Park Street and pretend to be a parking meter. Offer to photograph strangers with an imaginary camera.
In Lewiston, the police have seen it all. To draw attention, we need to be creative. I welcome suggestions and I appreciate your hours of volunteer time. Now I have to go take my dog for a walk. Stuffing is starting to pop from a seam and I don’t need that kind of mess on the floor.