Runnin' Wild
“Running wild, lost control, Running wild, mighty bold Feeling gay, reckless too. Carefree mind, all the time, never blue.”
“Take me to Webster Hall, 119 E. 11th Street,” Elm directed the hack in front of the Plaza Hotel. It was the address the concierge had given him, along with his card and a flyer for a “Carnival Ball.” Already dressed to the nines for a cortege, Elm went in pursuit of a place to recover his confidence.
The taxi drove crosstown, the cobblestone streets’ usual clickety-clack muted by the snowfall. The night wind scattered flakes like shards of broken glass around the dim cast from streetlamps. The village echoed the lazy allure of Paris. It reminded Elm of Montmartre; the windmill bathed in red light, the alley of suppressed desire.
Elm walked up the steps to the iron-canopied entrance to the ballroom. The doorman said, “Gotta ticket?” and Elm handed him the business card of the concierge. The doorman gave him the once-over and said, “The pageant’s over but the jazz band will play until sunrise. I’ll just charge you half-cover since you missed the new queen being crowned.”
Elm crossed the threshold into the velvety valor of the previous century with its plush-curtained opulent lobby. Cherubs and gingerbread balustrades accentuated a marble staircase to a balcony of opera boxes. Liquor poured free, and without disguise. To his right, a fair contingent of androgynous debauched Sheiks and Sheba’s slinked across the marble dance floor. Directly before Elm stood a large wooden stage and the band, Fool’s Gold. The musicians sat behind empty thrones of the departed celebrated beauties. They were playing “How You Gonna Keep ‘Em Down On The Farm (After They’ve seen Paree)?”
“Ruben, I’m not fakin, tho you may think it’s strange, but wine and women play the mischief with a boy who’s loose with change How you gonna keep ‘em away from Broadway, jazzin’ around and paintin’ the town They’ll never want to see a rake or plow and who the deuce can parleyvous a cow?”
That ditty always made Elm think of the end of the war. He lit up a Lucky and wandered down a marble staircase. There he found a small horseshoe shaped bar with convening patrons. They were all men, except one who wore a sash and tiara. All eyes were focused on Elm, so he squared his shoulders and approached the bar.
“Sir?”
“Whiskey, neat.”
The guy next to him spoke up.
“Hey, buddy, don’t I know you?”
He was about the same age as Elm, or a bit younger. He did not slick his hair but let it curl. He was built like a soldier.
‘I’m not from here,” Elm said, while he took a sip of his whiskey.
“Got another fag?” the young man said.
“Sure thing,” Elm said, as he extracted his cigarette case and handed it to him.
“My name is Clyde.”
“Elm.”
The name was not familiar, as Elm was bad about names. The face however---
“Unusual case. Looks like munitions metal, hand carved. Was this from the war?”
“Yes. You must’ve been there too?” Elm questioned, but even as he asked it, he knew the answer. Behind Clyde’s eyes lurked that haunted look, a look only recognized by another seasoned soldier.
Clyde now turned and Elm saw his eyes were hazel with arched brows over a flat nose. He fidgeted.
“Did you make this in a trench?” Clyde’s hands trembled over its engraved letters, his nails bit to the quick.
“Nah, my buddy made it.”
“Nice phrase that: libert’e, egalit’e, fraternit’e. I haven’t thought of that for years, but he left out ‘Ou la mort.’”
“Perhaps it was too morbid.”
“I’m gonna wait till you remember me,” Clyde said, while he blew smoke rings across the bar.
“Who did you fight with?”
“The 99th.”
“An observation boy.”
“We were all boys then…”
“You and I crossed paths?”
“More than once.”
“Was it in Champagne?”
“No, we didn’t fight there.”
“Army Air Service was based out of Toul...”
“Correct, but it wasn’t there.”
Elm took a moment to listen to the trumpets of war in his head. They played reveille and allowed the memories to come. Observation, reconnaissance, you had contact with those pilots. They were your eyes. You protected them from enemy attack.
“Might I partake in another fag?”
Something about the jocular way he used that term. Then he remembered: the guy who was a tramp for cigarettes! Most people called him ‘The Tramp’ while others bastardized it to the French expression, ‘Da Trop.’ Clyde was ‘la bouche’ in the latrine. The court jester with bestial favors.
In a series of flashes, he saw three exchanges with this Clyde: a hand-delivered directive from Commander Pershing, aerial photographs taken over St. Michel for the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, and then a shared foxhole.
He recalled the foxhole keenest of all. How they waited together at a radio command station. Without warning, shells hit 250 yards away, in no man’s land. Then the gas crawled across the ground and rose as it approached, like a wall of terror. Elm, Clyde and the communications man quickly jumped into a trench.
“Willard?!”
“Yes, that’s my surname.”
“St. Mihiel via Verdun into Meuse-Argonne offensive.”
“How soon they forget!” He offered a dramatic sigh, eyes rolling. “And I carried such a torch for you!”
“Paradise lost,” Elm said, shrugging.
“Whatever became of you?” Clyde asked, signaling the bartender for two more drinks.
“After the war, I went to Florida to work as a barnstormer.”
“Wow. Nifty. So, what brings you to our fair city?”
“I’m just here seeing off a good friend.”
“European holiday?
“Something like that.”
“The one who made this case?”
“Nah, I never saw that one again.”
“Someone else we fought with?” Clyde said, blowing smoke.
“Bolt Bratka.” Elm said, before taking a swig of whiskey.
Clyde’s eyes popped. “The racecar driver! How did you come to know such a daredevil?”
“We were all daredevils then…” Elm began, “It was on Daytona Beach, 1925—"
* * *
“WHO IS FASTEST?” enticed the billboard on Florida’s Dixie Highway. “Aeroplane vs. Automobile, Darrell vs. Bratka.” The poster depicted color portraits of the two contestants framed by a naïve sketch of an aeroplane hovering over a racecar. They faced each other as if squaring off for a duel. The pilot, Elmer Darrell, “Elm” appeared blond, cool, and detached. The driver, Humboldt Bratka, “Bolt” projected dark, brooding mystery. Below the artwork were the race location and dates: Daytona Beach, November 21-22, 1925. The 21st, Saturday, would offer the competition and wing-walkers. The event for Sunday, Thanksgiving, was a ladies’ exhibition race. In honor of the holiday, the Seabreeze Ladies’ Auxiliary offered free live turkeys to the first fifty ticketholders.
Elmer “Elm” Darrell stood resolutely on the packed sand of Seabreeze Beach, Florida. The mammoth Hotel Clarendon lurked behind him. Somewhere far off, he heard what sounded like a gaggle of migrating birds. When he looked up, he saw nothing. In profile, he watched clouds float past Daytona towards the lighthouse of Mosquito Inlet. This southerly wind would give his plane the extra advantage of tailwind. The air was cool, and Elm wore a V-necked argyle sweater with his jodhpurs. Mechanically he began to loosen and re-do the laces on his right leather boot, which aggravated the scars on his leg.
Elm did not like to do things fast, and he hated to be pushed. He preferred his freelance work for Hotel Clarendon. They paid him to fly aerial advertisement banners over the beach. In the distance he saw the hefty figure of his boss run back and forth before a crop of trees. Both of Elm’s employers, Daytona Flight School, and Hotel Clarendon, were among the sponsors for this historic event.
Barnstorming was the latest fad of the day and Elm felt reluctant to be its pioneer. He was not a poseur. He liked to fly, plain and simple. Flight maneuvers like nose-dives, wingovers, loops, and barrel rolls were things he had been trained to do during the war. The conundrum was how to live off those same maneuvers. The term barnstorming was literal: an aeroplane that flew over farmland to draw attention. Once a crowd was drawn, the pilot would offer rides for money. There was a certain freedom to barnstorming. Fly in, make money, fly out. Flying circuses on the other hand, made Elm feel like a trained animal.
That bird sound again. A clear warble. Awkwardly, his boss approached as he clutched a turkey! Maybe this was his problem; Chuck ‘Fats’ Jenkins possessed no physical attraction. None. Zip. Zero.
"Damnit Elm…” Fats yelled, his face red now to match his hair, “We were supposed to start 15 minutes ago! The Navy loaned you this brand-spanking-new flying machine, so let’s go!”
It was a lot like being in the Great War again. Despite the thrill he got from performing stunts, the risks involved were marginal to having fought Germans.
“Where’s the fire?”
“That goddamn turkey give-a-way. I thought the ladies’ auxiliary was gonna oversee it, but it was a hullaballoo. Now, get in that damn plane and start the damn race!”
Elm growled low like a yard dog. It was his sign to back off. It had started in his childhood.
“Please, Elm…”
“Blank, blanky, blankety…” Elm muttered and pulled on his leather aviator hat.
As he gleaned his reflection in the polished Curtiss R3c-1, he exclaimed, “Gads! What a magnificent beast!” The wooden R3c-1 one was the first of its kind: a single cockpit, designed for water or air. The R3c streamlined the Jennies wingspan to half, boasting a V-1400 engine as opposed to a V-8. The Navy expected a record to be set in this race.
At the start, the red Alfa Romeo RL Targa Florio racecar “Red Rooster” revved its engine. Its driver, Humboldt Bratka was not a patient man; he did everything fast. Hence, he was “Bolt” to everyone. Underneath his racing gear, perspiration trickled down his flanks, like the cold sweat of a racehorse. All his limbs twitched while his hands clenched the steering wheel.
“Hey Flyboy!” he yelled over the engine, “Do you wanna go for a ride, or a RIDE?!”
Flabbergasted by the effrontery, Elm raised his leather glove at his opponent, “A RIDE!”
In a series of well-rehearsed, fluid motions, Elm climbed into the sleek single cockpit while Fats assisted with the propping. For a second, he stewed about the arrogant driver who continued to rev his engine. Humboldt Bratka was not Sir Malcom Campbell, but he was known as a comer. For the last few years, he had won just about everything. There was something else --
“Switch off?” Fats called out.
“Switch off,” replied Elm, while he turned the switch knob downwards.
“Petrol on?”
“Petrol on.” Elm adjusted the throttle. About Bolt - - oh yeah, the flappers were wild about him. What had Zella called him? Devilish. Zella read all the magazines.
“Air closed?”
“Air closed,” Elm closed the extra air intakes.
“Suck in.” Fats called out. He then gripped the propeller by each blade in turn and pulled the engine over. He made several revolutions to suck in the gas to facilitate ignition. Once the cylinders were charged, Fats stood clear and yelled, “Contact?”
Elm turned the switch knob upwards. “Contact.”
He gave a thumbs-up signal in case his voice was not heard. Elm started the engine with a vigorous crank of the hand start magneto. He shifted into neutral, taxied down the beach, pulled back the control stick and lifted off into the air. Elm banked to the left over the ocean and approached the racecar on the beach.
“You buggerin’ muttonhead!” shouted Bolt. Among other things, Bolt was known for his colorful language. A real New Yorker. He was also known as a sheik, a gambler, and a boozehound. The decade had been one long party for the driver of the Farnsworth racecars and limousines. Dark, lithe, and handsome, he sported a pencil-thin mustache like John Gilbert, accented by full lips and a cleft chin. He was known on the party circuit from New York to Miami. Pursued by women and men alike, he was one of those people who never had money but always spent it.
The two drivers threw a glance in each other’s direction before the revolver resounded to start the race. The plane and car both burst into speed-- their polished wood and steel encasements dazzling in the sun, forcing viewers to shield their eyes.
Bolt shifted gears, gained speed, and began his race song:
“Always going, don’t know where. Always showing, I don’t care. Don’t love nobody, it’s not worthwhile, all alone, Running Wild!”
Bolt identified with an arrow. He loved to ride its crest, like a wave to the shore. Through his steering wheel he felt the power of acceleration, as it changed velocity. Controlling its trajectory over a distance was the equivalent to being shot from a cannon. When it happened, it was like a spectacular sunrise. His racecar made a sonic sound, but he was unable to hear. Bolt could only drive straight through the vector into its center. When he crossed the finish line, like a swimmer to the surface, his senses returned to normal.
Elm felt the push of the tailwind and noted he would need longer to land and come to a full stop. Once details were secure, his mind could wander. Inevitably, he would recall the war. He could still remember with exactitude air routes over the outskirts of France. His rage had been directed at Germany’s master pilot, Manfred von Richthofen. Richthofen had the most kills during the war, flew a red Fokker and was known simply as The Red Baron.
“I curse you still, Red Baron,” Elm said, with a raised fist. “And your damn flying circus!”
The feeling of battle was exacerbated by a pair of Curtiss Jennies that flew alarmingly close to take photographs. They circled like buzzards, while the crowd below teemed.
* * *
The four-mile race ended with two men who waved checkboard flags. The aeroplane crossed the finish line at 125 miles per hour and, five seconds later, the racecar at 120. Elm felt fantastic. He had flown an exceptionally clean run.
The racers taxied for another mile down the beach and trailed a cloud of sand. Elm’s team helped push his plane to a complete stop. Fans and press rushed forward like ants over an abandoned picnic. They pushed and jockeyed for the best angle to view the challengers. Fans thrusted out photos and flyers to be signed. Teams for the pilot and driver addressed the machines.
Both men removed their goggles and dismounted their crafts. Elm removed his flight hat, and the wind blew his locks about his forehead. Bolt kept his race helmet on; a dark figure who approached slowly and sized up the victor… “Congratulations, Mr. Darrell!” shouted a proctor who brandished a stopwatch. “You have a new aeroplane speed record, 125 miles per hour!”
They met in profile, betwixt plane and car, silhouetted by the clouds. Photographers moved in for the shot they would sell to the tabloids and weeklies.
Elm removed his glove and extended a calloused farm hand, “Capital race, bastard. That was as near as damnit...” he said with gusto and smiled a toothy smile.
Bolt gave a tight smirk and grasped Elm’s hand. “Who you callin’ bastard, old chap?”
Elm felt a nasty pinch from Bolt’s signet ring. An electrical charge, like lightning, passed between the two men. Elm felt like he had suddenly received communion after a year’s spell in a monk cell. Bolt’s anthracite eyes offered a kind of serenity at odds with his stormy surface.
The men still held hands, both unable to unclasp, oblivious to the hubbub around them. “That’s quite a grip you got there...” Elm said and returned the steely stare with one of his own.
“We called it the Princeton Press,” Bolt said, feeling almost hypnotized by Elm. Like a chess game, this exchange played out as flashbulbs ignited around them.
“On the farm we called ‘em good milkin’ hands. Go your hardest...” Elm said, in a low husky tone. Bolt pulled the pilot close enough for horseshoes. Elm couldn’t help but notice he had several inches on his opponent and yet, he was bossy. He had one of those barrel chests that expanded when he held his breath.
“An impressive record; it must be your first. I don’t recall you from last season.” And I would remember a hunky, corn-fed, war pilot who just made a fool of me, Bolt thought.
“Elmer Darrell,” he said with a final shake. “I taught, up in the air, all year. Tell me, does it always feel this sensational to win?” he asked, smiling again.
Bolt tossed back his head and laughed out loud. Elmer was infinitely more appealing when he smiled.
“Enjoy it while it lasts; the first kill is special. Tomorrow it could be broken. Permit me, I’m Humboldt Bratka…”
Suddenly, there seemed to be no physical difference between them at all. Elm felt like he had met his match.
"Your record precedes you, Bratka.”
“Bolt,” he commanded, with a slight wink.
“Bolt.”
“May I call you Elm? I saw it on the flyer.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m aware my name is provincial.”
“Elm is a right strong name; I like that.”
Elm felt himself color. Had Bolt just confessed that he liked him? Elm cocked his head and stared through Bolt again. The cleft in Bolt’s chin held Elm’s attention. It was like a caress made by the forefinger of a sculptor.
“Say, the boys are going to the Burgoyne Casino for Thanksgiving. To celebrate race weekend. You should join us,” Bolt offered.
“I’m barnstorming all afternoon with Zella Bixby.”
“The flapper flier? Bring her.”
“Might be zonked out; I’m not much of a hoofer.”
“Full dress,” Bolt insisted. “I’ll expect you two. There’s a table in my name, dinners at eight.”
With that, Bolt was absorbed into the crowd like an ink spot by a blotter.
Elm had two hours before meeting Zella for their barnstorming event. He was loath to ask Zella out to dinner, as he had sought to avoid her advances. She had the habit of using his full name, Elmer. Elm felt like a scolded child whenever she did it. Fats did not help the dilemma. He often created stunts around the pair, insisting, “You two look ripping together!”
* * *
The main event was, as promised, a “Flying Circus.” Fats had organized a daredevil group of fliers to perform feats of speed and grandeur. This was their debut as the newly christened “Fats’ Barnstorming Bees.” The crowd attended events like this as if they were Fourth of July fireworks. They wanted to sit, eat, and be entertained.
Barnstorming, usually done in a field, was given a new dramatic backdrop, the ocean. The sun’s strength began to wane and cast the beach with a golden hue.
Fats began to speak through an amplified megaphone, his strident voice echoing over the dunes. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we present the daring aeronautic feats of Fats’ Barnstorming Bees! Everyone gaze skyward for our first event. First, the circus! Then wing-walker Elm Darrell and his sidekick, the zesty beauty Zella Bixby! They will 15 astound you as they play tennis, three thousand feet up in the air! So lean back, feast your eyes on the sky and enjoy the ride!”
Vendors collided with spectators as each rushed to finish their tasks before the games began.
* * *
Elm ran into Zella in the grand lobby of Hotel Clarendon, where Fats had rented a suite for the bees. From there, they could be at their plane in minutes. Elm had just vomited from the dizziness he experienced because of the circus. She lit up.
“Hiya, handsome!” she squealed. Whenever Zella spoke, it was punctuated with a little nervous laugh.
“Hullo, Zella.” He attempted to hide his nausea with a sideways grin.
“Why Elmer, you look positively green; are you alright?”
“Just jake.”
“Elmer, no, you ain’t. You need some bicarb? I have a bottle in my bag. I know you always get seasick when you barnstorm…” There it was again, that laugh.
“Atcha...”
“Come here,” she cooed maternally and led him to a fainting couch, “Sit here while I mix it up for you…”
Elm sat and noticed how they were dressed alike, in their tennis whites. As Zella crossed back from the sink, glass in hand, she crinkled. Zella had heard that if you stuck Japanese lantern paper in your clothes, it would act like insulation. “I feel ridiculous, but if this keeps me warm, I don’t care,” Zella said and handed him a cup of bubbly liquid.
“I’m more concerned with how to stay on the wing. It will be hard to not want to leap off after a tennis ball,” Elm remarked and drained the glass.
“Elmer Darrell! I could pinch you for scaring me that way. Now, let’s go over the play again!”
Elm’s gut released a tangible belch. “Pardon,” he offered. “Wickets.”
“Huh?”
“On the wings -- pretend to play tennis. Hold on to the wickets,” Elm said.
“Ya feelin’ better?”
Elm nodded, “Watch for gusts, crouch low. One false move and it’s au revoir—"
“Oh, Elmer, I just love it when you speak French to me!”
“C’est la merde!” he groaned.
“C’mon, bees, it’s time to play some ball!” Fats said as he popped in.
Zella’s teacup crashed to the floor. “O-o-o-k,” she stuttered. Fats gave her a strange look and rushed out. Elm chalked up her stammer to nerves.
Minutes later Elm and Zella ran down the cobblestone walkway to the beach. Both brandished Bill Tilden wood racquets. They made their way to the parked Curtiss Jenny.
Elm heard Fats bark over the megaphone again, “Here they are, ladies and gentlemen, Elm and Zella, to thrill us with a daredevil game of love!”
“Oh brother,” scoffed the pilot.
“Bollocks.” replied Elm.
Like an acrobat, Elm put up a leg on the lower wing of the plane. Zella grabbed his gloved hand and climbed up his thigh onto the wing. The press was there, including Fox Films’ newsreels.
“C’mon,” Fats prompted the crowd, “Let’s give this fine couple a hand!”
The crowd began to clap in a slow, rhythmic fashion. Zella turned on her show business schtick and transformed into a different creature. “This is my good side,” she explained in a stage whisper to Elm. She danced the Charleston on the wings. She grabbed Elm’s hand and tried to engage him in the dance but all he did was lift a finger and spin it.
“Oh Elmer, please shake a leg or something,” she moaned between gritted teeth. Maybe because he felt better, Elm indulged her. He pulled Zella up against him and began a tango. Zella’s body followed his every move, and then he dipped her into a dramatic finale.
“Now you’re on the trolley!” Zella said, breathlessly.
* * *
Three thousand feet above sea level, Elm lay face-down on the wing and held onto the rigging. Zella was tucked low into the first cockpit. The pilot gave a thumbs-up sign to start wing-walking. Hand signals were crucial; it was useless to shout over the wind. The photography plane slowly circled, the Kodak camera on its tripod strapped to the top wing.
Elm stood up and planted his feet, as the wind whipped his white tennis pants against his muscular legs. Zella stood, slightly bent over, and climbed out of the cockpit onto the right wing. She held on to the cross-brace wires, while Elm walked to the far-left wing. Moving with deliberation, they grabbed their racquets and pretended to play tennis. It was all a pantomime, without a ball. Elm hit and Zella returned. The tiny net in between them shuddered in the wind. After each ‘hit’ they held onto their wicket. Zella did not attempt anything cute, and Elm did not see the terror in her eyes.
“Aren’t you amazed, folks?” Fats shouted. “Give them another hand!”
Zella and Elm tucked the racquet grips into the back of their pants. As they fought the wind, they clambered down the struts and grasped the brace wires for support. They moved quickly, like a spider and fly engaged in a delicate zigzag across a web. Zella got back in the cockpit and Elm took his place on the wing.
* * *
When the festivities were over, Fats invited the Barnstorming Bee’s for a celebration at Mortimer’s. The ice cream parlor was situated at the dusty end of Seabreeze Avenue.
Zella sat on a bar stool at the counter, surrounded by men in flying uniforms. Zella held the sides of her crocheted hat, “Zowie!” she exclaimed at the board menu. “So many goodies!”
Fats touched her arm and breathed hotly in her ear, “Order whatever you want, tootsie. You were a very good girl today.”
Zella wiggled out from under his double-chin and hopped off the stool. “I’m torn between Peg O’ My Heart and Brooklyn Bridge,” she said loudly to the other Bees.
“I’d like to see her eat the whole Brooklyn Bridge,” Floyd snickered to Eustis.
“I just wanna see her lap up the nuts and cream, like a kitten,” Eustis said, and sighed.
Elm was quiet. He preferred an Eskimo Pie, but they were only available on the beach. But it’s Fats’ treat, so maybe a Buster Brown? It was 10 cents.
Fats stood uncomfortably at the counter, clearly in a hurry. “Hey boy,” he barked at the soda jerk, “I’ll pay for a Bull Moose for me and a Brooklyn Bridge for the chickadee.”
“I thought this was your treat?” Elm said, with a confused look.
“What do I look to you -- made of money?” Fats said and slammed down exact change on the counter.
“Looks like it’s ice cream cones for us,” Floyd said. “I’ll have a cone with a double scoop of chocolate.”
“Ditto,” Eustis said.
“What a cheap skate.” Elm said. He dug into his pockets and extracted three dull pennies. “Make mine a single vanilla,” Elm muttered.
“Cup or cone?” asked the soda jerk, in a broken teenage voice.
“Cone.”
Just then, a busload of people arrived. A commotion started to take place. Fats was trying to shovel the whole Bull Moose into his mouth at once. Zella was surrounded by people who wanted her autograph. Elm made a Hollywood exit as he gobbled his cone.
It had been a long day. He was exhausted, but still wired. He moved like a somnambulist to his car and then drove over the Seabreeze Bridge. With steely determination, he sped through the dark on Route 92 towards De Leon Springs. One thought: Y.M.C.A. Camp.
Far overhead, headed west, a farmer’s moon lit up the sky near Lake Winona. He felt the usual stir in his loins, but he willed it to subside. Not yet.
The moon hung low over the lake when Elm pulled to a stop. As he walked near the brambles, there was a mustard glow, like fallen pollen, across the navy-blue water. Elm stopped at a defunct cabin closest to the lake. Its roof was gone, making Elm recall French farmland during the war. There was usually someone lingering here on the weekends, like there had been at the Army latrines. It was the best place to have a smoke and get your boots polished.
Elm stood expectantly where two corners of the house met. He was rewarded by the red flash of a cigarette in the darkness. In its illumination, he recognized a lifeguard from the swimming hole sitting atop a stool on the other side. Elm adjusted his breeches, undid his laces, and sidled up to the plank. He lit a Lucky and gazed at the moon.
This manly exchange continued as Elm’s boots shuffled in the dirt. Small reflexes through his legs caused the planks to knock like stalks of bamboo. Ripples in the water caused the reflection of the moon to dance. Moments later, he sighed.
Afterwards, as Elm drove home, he discovered a gob of vanilla ice cream still stuck in the corner of his mouth. With both hands on the wheel, he used his tongue to melt the confection.
The prospect of going back to his tiny bungalow was more than depressing. So, Elm banked onto Big Tree Road and headed to his favorite place. His old Ford chugged its way down the boulevard of live oaks that met overhead to form their own hermitage. Elm parked in the dirt lot and stared at the magnificence of the Big Tree.
It was old, an estimated one thousand to two thousand years. It was vast; from its girth of thirty-six feet its monstrous limbs spread over a whole acre of land. Clumps of Spanish moss hung like bloated corpses and did the dance of ghostly apparitions.
Elm scaled its scaffold to reach a height of thirty feet, where a wooden dance floor had been erected. On Saturday nights, young couples gathered to dance to the tune of a bow fiddle. Elm never attended social events; he preferred to be alone and to have the Big Tree to himself.
A horned owl flew past the full moon and landed on an upper branch above Elm’s head. He cooed with a low who, who, who-who-who. Elm returned his call. What was the old Boy Scout lore about a visit from an owl? Change. Elm whistled the Red Moon Waltz, bowed to the owl, and proceeded to spin until he was so dizzy, he collapsed.
(End of Chapter 1)
