The case of the ketchup corpse
A three-year-old child is a being who gets almost as much fun out of a fifty-six dollar set of swings as it does out of finding a small green worm.
You know your children are growing up when they stop asking you where they came from and refuse to tell you where they’re going.
The new J.K. Rowling book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, is finally out, and the initial printing of eight million copies may not be enough to meet the enormous demand. In fact, approximately five million copies of it were sold in the U.S. alone during the first twenty-four hours of its release. And though many adults are among the devoted Harry Potter fans, I view this phenomenon as a positive sign for our youth; some of our kids still read for pleasure, using their imaginations to create visions from the written word as they do so.
Let’s face it. We now live in a culture in which fewer children feel the need to use their imagination or, for that matter, their bodies. TV, computers, and video games dominate the lifestyles of American youth. And if kids want to play sports, we adults assume that we need to organize and lead such activities for them.
It wasn’t that many decades ago that kids stayed outside all day during the summer, playing games and sports, swimming, and just goofing around. Growing up in Tullahoma, Tennessee in the 1950s we’d play cops and robbers, ride our bikes all over town, or spend the day at the municipal swimming pool. When we wanted to play baseball, we mowed the vacant lot, divided into teams, and played until we were called home for dinner.
In later summers we continued to create our own fun. One balmy June night in 1960, a group of guys—mostly rising high school sophomores and juniors—had gathered at a local drive-in restaurant to kill a little time until the slumber party at Cam White’s was underway and her parents had retired for the evening.
We ordered Cokes and hamburgers, and the waitress brought out our food and all the condiments, fitting the tray onto the driver’s window opening. Standing outside after we ate, I reached over for the ketchup container, a red squeeze-bottle, and casually squirted a stream toward my buddy Tom Poe. Quick as a flash, Tom grabbed the yellow mustard bottle, and the liquid food fight was on. We missed more than we connected, but at some point a blast of ketchup caught Tom squarely on the arm. I looked at the red blotch, he looked at it, we looked at each other and, without words, the practical joke was hatched.
Bill Williams volunteered to drive his parents’ ’53 Chevy; Charlie Bunds got into the trunk with his arm dangling out, and we doused his protruding appendage with the remaining ketchup. Bill, Tom, Billy Fisher, Edward Brown, Kenneth Kirkes, and I jumped in the Chevy sedan, and Bill drove it right up to the entrance of the nearest gas station.
An elderly attendant sauntered out. “Evening, boys. Can I help you?”
Remaining in the running vehicle, we replied, “Yes, sir. We were wondering if you might have a shovel we could borrow?”
“Well, I don’t think there’s one around here. Sorry, fellas. Y’all have a nice evening.”
“Thanks anyway,” one of us responded, as we pulled off at a snail’s pace, struggling to contain our glee as the attendant gawked at the “bloody” arm.
We repeated this scene at the other gas station that was open at this hour, but in due course, bored with our shenanigans, Bill decided to head for home, and the rest of us proceeded to the slumber party. After watching a couple of guys get drunk and stumble around for about an hour, we were ready to call it a night.
On the way home we passed by the house where Bill and his family lived and were shocked and amazed at the commotion there. The gas station attendants had evidently alerted the authorities to our activities and provided the license number of the Williams’ family sedan. Every city police car in Tullahoma (both of them), several Coffee County Sheriff’s Department squad cars, and a Tennessee Highway Patrol cruiser were parked at the scene with lights ablaze. The officers, weapons in hand, had surrounded the house and, with bullhorn, commanded the occupants to come out with their hands up.
Stifling the urge to step on the gas, we maintained a steady speed until we were out of sight. Then, aware that we knew the whereabouts of every lawman in the county, we accelerated into the night.
Under pressure from his parents and the cops, Bill spilled the beans, and we were charged with impersonating a corpse. Aided by our attorney, Tommy Wiseman, now a senior U.S. District Judge, we got off with a severe tongue-lashing and the threat of stints at Jordonia, the state reformatory for boys. We later expressed our gratitude to Tommy by cleaning up his lawn once or twice.
Though we’ve traveled different paths through the years, when the “perpetrators” of the case of the ketchup corpse gather, we often relive that exhilarating night of decades ago and marvel at how it’s remained a part of the folklore of our old hometown.
Saturday, June 28th, 2003No Comments »
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