My grand-dad, like most grand-dads, was full of tired old sayings that he felt were important for me to know. Things like, “Boy, you better watch what you ask for, ‘cause you’re just liable to get it.” An old saying, indeed, but it was never more true than when the council of my hometown asked a local-boy-done-good to erect a monument celebrating the town’s anniversary.
For those of you who may not know of my hometown, it’s the county seat of Armstrong county, Texas, and bears a name very much like my own – Claude. My name in fact is Claude Texas, as I’ve related elsewhere. I’d recommend you look there for the full story on that mixup. I’d rather not go into it here.
Well, anyway, the whole thing began when the council decided that to commemorate Town Founder’s Day, they’d have a special celebration, and they began looking around for contributors. There was a hometown boy who’d made it good as a sculptor, and they sought him out to solicit a piece to help with the whole party.
They found him in Chicago, working under the name “Enrique,” and he’d made quite a success of himself. His works were on display in galleries all over the country, and some other parts of the world. I’d seen them myself on my travels.
Now Enrique, as he called himself, was an old classmate of mine in high school, only he wasn’t known as Enrique then. His real name was Jonathon Thomas Woody, and apparently that name didn’t sit well with him, for when he got out on his own the first thing he did was change it. But the town fathers knew him as John Thomas, and it’s hard to overcome the name they hang you with as a kid. I should know.
They contacted JT through the mail, and told him of their intentions. He’d had his share of differences with the town, but was still honored that they wanted a contribution from him. Perhaps it was a way for him to return victorious, as all of us imagine is possible. He agreed to come down for their next meeting to discuss it. It was during that meeting that his vision of victory proved as solid as west Texas dirt in a high plains wind.
When he got to town they gave him the royal treatment, and put him up in the newly appointed Presidential Suite at the Come On Inn. They did the usual things, like giving him a key to the town and free breakfast coupons at the local diners. The place he seemed to favor for his morning coffee happened to be my favorite place, too – The Quiche Deluxe, run by my friend Clive Periwinkle, and waitressed by the best thing in town, Darlene. I was by chance in town as well, and we had breakfast there every morning during his stay. It was good to catch up with him on all that had gone on in his life since he left town. We had a lot of fun swapping stories of the old days, and sharing our travels.
One morning, pretty soon after he got here, he seemed a bit uptight about things. I pressed him, and finally got the scoop. It seems the day before he’d had a meeting with the council, and they sprung a condition on him that he hadn’t anticipated. They informed him, after of course he’d already agreed to contribute a piece to the celebration, that they wanted his Christian name on it, not the moniker he’d adopted for himself. They wanted to kind of show-off on the local talent, I guess.
As I mentioned, he wasn’t a bit too fond of the name his mama and daddy had given him, and he voiced his disapproval there on the spot, couching it of course as “it would be much more valuable to you if it was under my internationally renowned name.” They were as unrelenting as dust, though, and by the time the meeting had adjourned, the issue was still not settled. He was to go back today, and resume his plea for the piece to bear his artist’s name, as that was how the world knew him.
It turned out that the council really had no idea about his work, and that they’d contacted him just because they’d heard he was famous now. His inquiries into their opinions of his work, and what it was that appealed to them, only uncovered the fact that they hadn’t seen any thing of his, only that they understood it was worth something, and they wanted one of their own. And they remained adamant about having his given name on it; they insisted that they wanted nothing more or less than to have a Woody on the town square. The meeting ended rather abruptly, with JT storming out declaring, “It’s a Woody you want, and a Woody you shall have!” The council considered themselves winners, and were quite pleased with the way things came out.
But when I had breakfast with JT the morning after this declaration, I’d have to say that he seemed like the winner. He was smiling, and a touch of mischief was in his eyes. I pestered him until he told me what had happened, and what he planned to tell the council today.
After giving it a lot of thought, he said, he knew what to propose to the council – that he would erect a monument to the one most responsible for the town’s growth, which he would dub “Member of the Council.” He believed his proposal would pass unanimously, as he rightly reckoned that each gentleman on the council considered himself to be that very fella. Well, as he expected, his pitch went over like gin to a cotton farmer. JT then busied himself with setting up a shop, and getting his supplies together.
From this point on, his project was shrouded in secrecy. I arranged for him to work out of the old equipment shed on my parent’s place, and made sure he had the proper locks to keep the curious town council out. He was very keen on no one seeing his piece until he was ready, and then he’d unveil it for all on the town square. He did let me in, though, since we were such trusted friends, and I must say that I never saw anyone work up a piece so diligently. He hand-crafted it with such care and passion, the likes of which I’d never seen. I’d never been into this kind of thing before, but I must admit it was amazing and thrilling to watch.
Finally the big day came, Town Founder’s Day, the day for the dedication. The council had orchestrated a full afternoon’s worth of events, with local country and bluegrass bands, a skit by the elementary school kids detailing the town’s pilgrim beginnings, speeches from county dignitaries, even press coverage, all eager to witness the manifestation of such a prominent artist’s piece.
Now in keeping with the secrecy he had wrapped his whole project in, JT had built a curtained-off stand for his monument. The curtain covered all four sides of the platform, and rose to a height just above 12 feet. Early in the morning he had transported his work, laid it flat on the platform, and then kept guard himself to see that no one peeked prematurely. When the festivities began that day around noon, the townspeople were filled with the anticipation and nervousness of the fabled chaste southern bride on her wedding day. JT looked more like the eager groom who’s been out learning a special maneuver or two.
Well, the last speech of the afternoon was the mayor’s. He spoke long and hard about the town – its colorful past, the modernization that was underway, the strong leadership that kept the town alive even when every other town was struggling – the usual things you’d find after a team of plow horses paraded through town. Just when I’s about to check my boots for any leavings, he wrapped it up, directing the audience’s attention to the curtain, where momentarily they would witness “the unveiling of our community’s very own personal Woody.”
The high school band began on cue, going full force into “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You,” and JT manned the apparatus that he had constructed to help him erect his piece. He cranked and he cranked, and slowly it began to rise, the very tip of it pressing slightly against the curtain as it got started. Once it reached its full and intended upright position, JT gave the signal, and to the cheers of the high school pep squad, the curtain fell.
“The Member of the Council” was greeted with a collective “Oh, my god” from the crowd, followed by a few gasps and then a most deafening silence. What they saw towering before them was 12 feet of phallic realism, painfully exact in every hand-wrought detail and rubbed to an uncommon lustre. If my grand-dad would’ve seen it, he’d declare that they were looking for the gold mine, but all they got was the shaft. Although in this case there were a few veins visible.
A few of the women passed out. Some were fanning themselves in great earnest. Most of the children were hiding their faces. I looked at Darlene and noticed she was cow-eyed and biting her lower lip. Standing next to her was Clive – he was biting his lower lip, too. I knew that about Clive, but I didn’t necessarily want to see it at a moment like this. As for JT, he was standing front and center, tall and proud, beaming from ear to ear. In a few minutes, people seemed to remember that they had a lot of things to tend to back home, and they never seemed so eager to get to their chores before. They pretty much ran home.
Well, judging from the reactions I’d have to say that this was the biggest thing this town had ever seen – too big to get their arms around, in fact. And I think it’s safe to say they didn’t rightly know what to do about it. They had signed an agreement with JT that his piece would remain on unobstructed display for 90 days. They’d protested when he had them sign that part of the deal – they maintained that they intended for his work to take up permanent lodging here, and wondered why he wanted such terms. Now I think they realized his reasons. I guess at that moment they didn’t consider it so much as lodging, but more like an outright intrusion. They were in a real fix now, kind of a compromising position, you might say. They were obligated by agreement to leave his Member there on the town square, naked to the world, for a full 3 months. Lucky for them it didn’t stay up that long.
For in a matter of days, the community’s very own personal Woody had been snatched from the town square.
There was immediately a mad scramble for the piece, with bulletins throughout the county, to be on the lookout for a rather interesting work of art, 12 feet in length, with some very distinct markings. It did pop up again, much to the chagrin of the town officials, who were actually relieved that it was gone even though they risked lawsuit.
It appears it had been stolen by a group of high school students, who took it on a series of joy rides throughout the county. Rumor has it that it figured prominently in several all night bonfire parties, and presided over more than one rite of passage. The kids’ little fling was interrupted, however, when a state trooper received an anonymous tip reporting a suspicious object poking out the back of a Chevy van on US 287. He stopped them in Pullman, just short of Amarillo. He ordered them to take their cargo back to Claude, where the officials were obliged to put it back into its proper place on the town square. But it wasn’t long before it once again fell to the mercy of local pranksters.
This time it found its way into the county carnival grounds, where a rather shaken ride operator discovered it in the Tunnel of Love during her morning inspection. They had to bring in some heavy equipment to pull it out, and in the process it got loose from the harness and fell into the storage area behind the ride. It lodged itself between a couple of snowcone-shaped refreshment stands, and remained stuck there for a day or so. No serious damage was done, but it did provide an interesting sideshow for the carnival-goers, who figured they’d gotten a real deal for the small admission charge.
There were other noteworthy engagements, some on the town square itself – like when the spinster librarian was spotted, naked as a jaybird, performing what appeared to be a fertility dance around it. And there was a random assortment of pole-sitters. But the final adventure involved a man the town would’ve considered least likely, the preacher of the largest Pentecostal church in town, the Reverend Headley.
As you can imagine, him and the other church people were appalled at this work of art, and he lead a coalition of them to get it permanently removed from the town. Not being content to wait out the 90 days, he devised a plan of his own to rid the community of this “wanton work of the devil.”
It seems the good minister had been stockpiling explosives in the shed behind his church, in preparation for the time when the Lord’s people might be called upon to fight for their kingdom. I seem to have remembered that Jesus didn’t want any swords or bombs being carted around by his disciples, but I guess the preacher would know these things better than I would. He did have a close personal relationship with the Lord, and that’s one thing I certainly couldn’t claim.
Well, anyway, he’d been saving up all these combustibles for some time, and he determined to use them on the offending Member the first chance he got. He’s lucky he got his turn. After all, it had done been all over the county and had established quite a busy reputation for itself.
It had been back on the square for one night, when he decided it was time to make his move on the Woody. He engineered his own theft, and had it brought to the lawn in front of the Sweet Jesus Full Gospel Assembly, where he was prepared to ceremoniously discharge it into the great beyond. After a rather heated sermon on the evils of sin, and living lives of lasciviousness and concupiscence, the likes of which I’d never seen and could barely pronounce, he then raised a torch high above his head, and asked the Lord’s blessing and strength as he attempted to “blow this Member to Kingdom Come.” Well, that’s what he meant to do, anyway. Like most people, he was a bit overly ambitious when it came to situations like this.
Well, the Lord must not’ve been in full agreement with the good Reverend’s plan. Just when Headley was about to apply the torch, the object of his unholy lust shifted, and instead of blowing it to the next life, he launched it directly through the front door of his church. It flew right past the sign urging the sinner to “Come unto me,” tore through the sanctuary, thrust down the main aisle, and finally stopped with its tip nestled against the pulpit of the preacher who attempted the blow. I understand that the church had been saving up for a new organ, but I doubt this is what they had in mind. Headley, by the way, was not to be found at church the next Sunday, having left town in humiliation after his rather bizarre twist on the old Bible story of Onan.
The preacher’s little tete-a-tete was the final blow for the town, too, and the council called JT in Chicago, frantically begging him to get his so-called Member out of their community. He had no trouble finding a home for it, as its fame had spread all through the art community, and bidders were lining up to get a piece of the action. He came to town himself to see if any touch-up work needed to be done, and to supervise its crating and shipping.
We met at the QD on the last morning of his stay, and talked about how his work failed to penetrate the tastes of the town. He was very upbeat about it. He really did consider himself victorious after all, though not as he had originally planned. He had received his agreed-upon fee, had gotten all kinds of free publicity, and lots of people were waiting to see his piece. He could now command a huge price for a single exhibition. Yeah, he certainly came out ahead in the whole thing. No one in town was particularly happy to see him back, though. Except of course for me, Clive, and Darlene.
“Well, I guess you made out alright, JT, all things considered,” I told him as we sat over one last espresso.
“Yeah, I reckon so,” he said, “but I pretty much blew my chances of ever coming back home again. I guess I shouldn’t have tried to force my Member on Claude.”
“Whoa, easy there,” I laughed. “But it is a shame we’re not down the road apiece. It might have been right at home in Henrietta.”