Palm Wine Junction

Intro: Over the past ten years there have been a number of attacks (by so called “domestic” elephants) on human beings. xxx They trotted out of the large, brilliantly lit ring; gently gripping each other’s tails, as the clang-bang music of the Bunkurn Brothers Circus band covered their exit. Zumbi, the largest and the last member exiting, was required to do a little Bojangles backwards shuffle just before he made his exit, a little taste of ol’ fashioned vaudeville. Hundreds of children, men, women, parents, circus lovers, screamed and applauded as the elephants, bound with huge balletic tutus around their middles and tall dunce caps on their heads, made their final exit from the Big Top. They followed their “trainers” in an obedient file to their tent quarters; Lucy, O1’ Tom, Snowflake, Jupiter, Sunny Boy, Bucko, Sally, Zumbi, the Bunkum Brothers Circus elephant “performers”. They felt mentally tired from being forced to go through forty minutes of playing “soccer” with an oversized beach ball, of sitting on multi-colored stumps, pretending to be school boys and girls with dunce caps on their heads, of shuffle-dancing the samba, sometimes with pretty circus girls on their necks, of being forced to pretend that they were huge, surrogate human beings with no connection to human beings beyond being forced to obey. Zumbi lifted his trunk to sniff the cool night air. Chicago. I can smell lake water and the odd smelling trees they grow here. In the Middle West, always the scent of fresh water. On the East Coast there was the chemical stench of pollution and on the West Coast, that reminded him most of his native Kenya, there was the odd odor of death. He had often discussed it with his fellow captives. His friend and fellow ex-Kenyan Jupiter, had a unique spin on the West Coast funk. “Zumbi, I believe that we are really smelling death. I think that the outer space ones are dumping their cremated bodies into the valleys, into that big basin called Los Angeles. Maybe that’s why they call it Los Angeles, “the angels”.” He found it difficult to refute this notion. He didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t find a valid reason to reject the idea. They waited patiently for their “trainer” and his assistants to place chains around their left ankles, to fork bales of grass and wheat straw (reinforced with barrels of Jonathan apples) into their separate feeding troughs, to supply them with water. They ate and drank, glad to be away from the bright lights and the brutal noises of the crowd. The subsonic message was received by all of them, but it was directed to Zumbi. Roxy was calling again from the zoo. He had started calling from the second hour of their arrival in town, two days ago. “Roxy, the Rogue”, he had been labeled by the press after killing one of his zoo/prison mates (“she was in love with her captivity”) and badly injuring an abusive zoo attendant. The zoo was only a few miles away and, after a bit of fine-tuning; they had managed to work out a very clear channel of subsonic sound. “Roxy, the Rogue Elephant” had been granted a reprieve by authorities after eyewitnesses testified on his behalf, validating claims of cruel and unusual punishment by Roxy’s trainer. And, of course, because of his notoriety, he became a top-drawer attraction at the zoo... “Come see Roxy, the Rogue Elephant! Bring the whole family.” “Tonight, Zumbi, tonight while they are sleeping, tonight...” Seven great heads turned casually in Zumbi’s direction, but tension was the fuel for their attention. Zumbi shook his head back and forth with annoyance. No, no, no, Roxy, not tonight. The time is not right, not tonight. We need to work out a careful plan. I will tell you when. Their communication ended abruptly. Roxy is not pleased by my reluctance to join him in rebellion. Too bad. Perhaps he is too young to recall the last time we moved against our oppressors without proper preparation. The Bunkum Brothers head “trainer” wandered into the elephant living quarters, to double check the giant chains cinched around the ankles of the eight captives, the “performers”. The “trainer” puffed on a fat cigar (a smell they all hated) and gave, what he felt was an affectionate slap on each elephant’s sensitive trunk. ‘Night Lucy, ‘night ol’ Tom, Snowflake, Jupiter, Sunny Boy, Bucko. ‘Night Sally. Looks like you’re puttin’ on a little weight there, honey. Night, Zumbi, ‘night boys and girls.” The part they hated most, after the nauseous cigar smoke, the patronizing pat/slap on their trunks, was his” ‘night boys ‘n girls”. They had had many “after hours” discussions about what they wanted to do in response to the “trainer’s” parting reference to them as “boys ‘n girls”. “Ol’ Tom”: “Well now, c’mon y’all, it ain’t such a bad thang as all that, is it?” “Snowflake”: “Well, I don’t see anything really cool about it, it’s undignified. And besides, I’m not a “girl” and my real name is Uganda, in case anybody’s interested. “Jupiter”: “I think we ought to take this asshole out! You know what I’m sayin’?! I agree with Lord Roxy, I think we ought to take each ‘n everyone of ‘em out who disrespects us. You know what I’m sayin’?!” “Sunny Boy”: “Awww c’mon, Jupiter, you wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing babies, would you?” “Jupiter”: “You heard what I said, each ‘n everyone of em who disrespects us - out!” “Bucko”: “Too much talk, not enuff action, that’s what I say.” “Sally”: (flapping her ears to cool off), “I don’t really care to be bothered by all of this.. .Negativity.” Zumbi kept his opinions to himself. It was a clever way to demonstrate that he wasn’t in complete agreement with any of his friends. Or Roxy. Or out of touch.