The Meadow People^{© Series}

IN TRIPLICATE
by R.D. Henry

We called him ‘Hump.’ At that time Mark Humphries was a fuzzy kind of fellow, with a breathless, wheezy laugh much like that of the canine cartoon character, Mutley. We all liked him. Popular throughout the high school, he had his pick of who he wanted to hang with. He certainly had sufficient physical prowess to gain entree in the jock’s clique. But, instead, he hung with the socially marginalized freaks: an original Meadow Person.

Hump was not an egotist. In what pretty much amounted to a personality contest, he beat me out for Eighth Grade Student Council President. As runner-up, I assumed the office of Vice-president. When Hump found out our first order of business was, during summer recess, to write a constitution, he cut a deal. He offered to resign the presidency if I would, as my first act, appoint him Vice President. I agreed. Pretty astute: this was five years before Nixon appointed Ford to cover his ass.

Tragedy of tragedies, Hump’s dad transferred to California just before our senior year was to begin. It was a delicate time for the two of us. We’d both declared our intentions for a pretty little waif, Miss Debbie. As far as I know she hadn’t chosen between us as yet, but up against his soft charm and general good nature, I knew I had little chance. We stayed good friends throughout Deb’s decision-making process. It was hard to be jealous of Hump - he had an uncomplicated ability to enjoy pretty much whatever came his way.

And so it came to be. Hump passed from the scene that evening. As sort of a farewell tour, Wuss agreed to take Hump up to the Sourland Mountains to bid fond farewell to Miss Debbie. Since our summer vacation had started, the valiant green Valiant was chock full of guys from the Meadow who didn't have to get up in the morning. Wuss drove and Kenny Pizzomaro, a beefy lad we called 'Big Pez,' rode shotgun. Probably Pez’ little brother 'Nardo' sat squished between them - in the middle of the bench seat. Sull Nuts shared the back seat with Hump and I. Only Hump and I were tripping, however. I don’t remember if there wasn’t enough LSD to go around or what, but he and I had extended to the same transcendental wavelength. Far beyond the other occupants. Wuss was carrying, though. A man who knew quality dope, he had a cigar tube of some fine weed somewhere on his person. In fact, Sull Nuts (who could roll a joint anywhere; even on the back of a motorcycle in the rain) had twisted up a doobie of the said fine weed and had handed it around the cabin.

To everyone but Hump and I, at any rate. Our fingers didn’t work too well and we were far too high to need any pot.We were actually having trouble remaining upright in our seats. We had also assumed telepathic powers and no longer relied on the English language to communicate. As I recall, we were having problems with the dotted white lines on the highway. They kept peeling off the road, floating in over the hood, and whooshing through the cabin. It was while we were busy ducking those objects that Hump began seeing and hearing in triplicate. I think he told me three times at once.

I don’t remember whether I envied Hump's condition or proud that I had it (relatively) together. I was only seeing double when the place suddenly exploded in light. Great spectral blobs of blue bounced into the car while brittle shafts of red light scythed through the cabin like rotor blades. All the while a mushroom cloud of brilliant white light was emerging from the center of the universe - somewhere above Wuss’ right shoulder, I believe - a spotlight stabbed back at us from his rear view mirror.

We all bathed in it’s revealing purity... despite the fact that the car was full of somewhat greasy smoke.

Hump and I huddled, shoulder-to-shoulder and facing backwards, in the footwell behind our intrepid driver, as the valiant green Valiant rolled to a mood-dropping stop on the bridge spanning the Millstone River. Whispered scurrying inside the car distracted us.

Undoubtedly, my eyes were large as saucers (dilated pupils prominent at twenty paces) as Trooper Lamonica of the New Jersey State Police swept a beam from his long, black, official State Police issue, skull-cracking flashlight across my anxious face while he strode up to tap on Wuss’ window. Lamonica. A ball-buster. A Statie in a hat and greatcoat that might have been designed by the SS. Lamonica. Known to exceed his authority to make an arrest. He didn’t play fair and had no sense of humor.

Hump’s and my nose rested on the back of Wuss’ seat as it became apparent, even to the two astral travelers, that the Officer of the Law was getting impatient. Somebody switched off the wild, ecstatic strains of Jimi Hendrix’ machine gun. No sense in tempting the pig - he was armed, after all. The sudden musiclessness left a swirling void in my skull. Then, gently, the lights strobing from the police car began emanating with their own reverberations, and I returned to my groove, bobbing and weaving in the frantic illumination bathing the valiant Green Valiant. To the beat of a different drum, to say the least.

We knew the drill. License, registration and insurance card. Most of the front seat was united in a frantic search to secure the documents: merely not having the paperwork meant Big Trouble, like having the Staties tow the car and haul Wuss off to New Brunswick until his Dad could come and get him. An all-night-long bummer for Arnold.

Even though Hump and I were preoccupied with dodging the colored shapes careening around us, I knew our situation had taken a turn for the worse when Wuss rolled down his window. Only a crack, mind you. Just enough to get his papers out to The Man.

No luck. The thick, grey cloud that had filled the Valiant’s cabin broiled out the window and whipped up into the square-jawed face glaring down upon us. Trooper Lamonica actually smiled. My heart sank. He knew he had us. The sick/sweet odor gave him probable cause that a Crime was being Committed.

The next thing I knew, we were being marshaled onto the shoulder of NJ State Route 206 - to stand upright in a blizzard of swirling, multicolored lights. Before God and everybody. There was initial confusion as we tried to perform the intricate feat of assembling in a line. Pez was busy acting like he wasn’t chewing down two scratchy, dry marijuana cigarettes. Wuss was as white as a ghost as the stalwart policeman began searching his car. Nardo was licking his fingers as he announced, loud enough for Lamonica to hear, "Ashtray’s clean, dude." He’d eaten the roaches. Sull Nuts had assumed prime responsibility for keeping Hump and I from wandering into traffic.

Here we were, roughly lined up along our home town’s main artery: a very public place, a potentially humiliating experience. I was on my turf, though. A proud Jersey Boy, I turned to admire my nearby handiwork. Some months before, I had hit the concrete wall of the bridge with two tones of spray paint. In red: "Who killed Kennedy?" and, with silver initial caps: "Conspiracy Inside America."

We knew the second part of the drill: browbeating. Trooper Lamonica had not done a thorough job. Pigs had been known to tear out armrests and stereo speakers, pull seats out of cars, really mess things up. All he’d done was get Wuss to pop the trunk. "All right, just tell me who has the pot and I’ll let you go."

Yeah, right. Frankly, I think the cop thought Hump and I were far too weird to mess with. In what probably appeared to be a swivel-hipped dance, we were dealing with trails of vaporous light, spilling from head- and taillights snaking along the unlit highway. We were in a fairly good humor, despite being so publicly paraded. "There’s that Henry boy again. With the police." I heard Mothers clucking as they passed.

Trooper Lamonica bore down on Pez, who had a higher profile than the rest of us. He’d already been busted, he was destined to drop out of school. Besides, his old man, while incarcerated in the county jail, had condemned their plumbing. While inside. As a prisoner. Shut the place down. Turned out, he was a County Inspector. Really pissed The Machine off - to lose the use of their lockup. Besides, Pez was a big boy and there was a War on. The Man looked at our boy's physical stature and thought 'excellent cannon fodder.' With a mustache and thick mop of black hair, our parents warned 'bad example, don't associate with that boy.'

I think Lamonica felt he was missing out on the fighting: we were his gooks. He probably thought it would be gratifying to use his long, black, official State Police issue, skull-cracking flashlight on Pez’ shaggy mass of jet black hair.

Tired of baiting Pez (I’d never heard our boy be so polite - "Yesh, sir. No sir." Swallow.), Trooper Lamonica barked at the lot of us. "Last chance! Let’s see the pot or I’m takin’ you all in."

"We’re busted," sighed Hump, as he sat down beside the bridge. I crouched protectively beside him, hoping he was not about to bum out.

"Officer, there’s not enough room in your car," chirped Sull Nuts.

"Who’s got it?" demanded Lamonica, pacing and slapping his flashlight in his palm. Then, with a 'Tink,' as loud as you can imagine, the aluminum cigar case holding Wuss’ dope emerged from his pants leg to strike the pavement. Time stood still.

Attracted by the unusual noise, Hump and I stared at the silver tube standing at Wuss’ ankle. It took us many seconds to figure out that Wuss must have stashed the thing in his waistband and it had slid down his leg and into view. Everybody but Wuss and Trooper Lamonica seemed mesmerized by the sight. Blinking about a dozen times, I realized I should not be staring so blatantly at the Incriminating Evidence. Wuss, chin up, stared about a million miles into space. Rather intently, if I recall. Trooper Lamonica had his ear cocked. A cloud of grey static, The Man’s voice hissed from the patrol car.

Summoning their boy.

Events sped up considerably at that point. "All right. Back in your car, next time I catch you, won’t be so lucky," barked the retreating trooper. Us Meadow People kinda shuffled around, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. "I’ve got your number, Pizzomaro," challenged Lamonica, aiming his menacing glare and the butt end of his long, black, official State Police issue, skull-cracking flashlight at Pez' slowly spreading grin.

As the Pig dropped into his seat, to radio in, Wuss - in one of the more graceful moves I’ve ever seen him execute - knelt, swept up the cigar tube, opened the nearest door of the Valiant, jumped in, and sat down. The rest of us just kind of stared at him. It was his car. He just sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead like he didn’t know us. I don’t think any of the rest of us had a license yet, so we just kinda hung out, scratching our heads in the glare of the flashing police lights, wondering what we should do.

Of course, it was Pez who had the presence of mind to go around to the car and get in behind the wheel. The rest of us were still trying to figure out how to get Nardo back into the front seat. You could practically see steam erupt from Trooper Lamonica’s ears as he prepared to burn tax-payer’s rubber. The last thing he must have heard, leaving the scene, would have been Hump: "You mean we’re not busted? I thought we were busted. Didn’t we just get busted?"

I remember fighting down my jealousy to demonstrate the courtesy of letting Hump and Deb spend some time alone in her driveway, when we finally got up to the Sourland Mountains. After all, he was leaving town. I’d won. Poor guy.

(Trooper Lamonica did not win. He was found shot to death, in uniform, on the New Jersey Turnpike a few years later. They wrote him up in Reader’s Digest. Pez won. Of all us middle-class kids, only the plumber's son was able to afford a house where we grew up... and his overlooks the golf course.)