The Great Pumpkin was the one to look up to: the big macher. He (or was it a she?) mysteriously appeared in the patch one night, once-a-year, departing just as quick as he arrived. It was like a Greta Garbo sighting in the streets of NYC. He was revered, idolized, canonized, emulated, appearing untouchable and God-like as if he was the second coming of Christ. But most importantly, for being immortalized in a 30-minutes animated TV-special. He was the man (or woman)! We were painted upon, carved up to look grotesque, given teeth that make British persons envious, cooked and added to lattes with spice. Sometimes we were fondled. OK, no one complained about that. Then, when we were no longer wanted, were smashed in the street by gleeful drunken teens who expressed immense delight watching our heads explode like John F. Kennedy. Zapruder wouldn't know where to aim the camera. Never repercussions. We were treated worse than broccoli on a kid's dinner plate.
One day there was talk amongst the patch of changes: a new big macher! No one knew, why or who, but the elder pumpkins were talking. Something was in the air and it just wasn't the stench of old man Ebenezer Ginzberg. He died earlier in the month rotting in the hot late autumn sun. Though the squash bugs are still in the midst of disposing of the body, one small bite at a time. But that something in the air was revolution! The influence of a banana plantation adjacent to the patch was evident. The plantation already set up a republic. Militant and brutality was an understatement. Traitors were stripped and pureed. The peels thrown onto sidewalks causing many pratfalls. Loud guffaws could be heard. Chilling. We on the other hand were docile beings. We laid around, got rotund and whether it was in out DNA or not, flashed our stems to the ladies once puberty set in. It wasn't until the ladies were of age, given a carved mouth that we could get any action. This was usually one of our last moments of joy until humans force us into servitude, working the front porches and window sills.
Closing in on Halloween, the rumor spread like wildfire thru the corn maze that the Great Pumpkin would not appear on that special night. Shock, horror to some. Joy to others. It appeared he would be replaced. Most of us were small to medium in build. There was no one we knew who had big ideas, big in stature or just big. Well, there was Big Bubba, also known as Squash Man due to the fact he'd roll over on anyone who stood in his way. Sure he was big, but he lacked intelligence. He has the reported IQ of a gourd, which is one step above Indian corn. In essence, lox without cream cheese and a bagel.
The elders held a meeting that night under a full moon. From the distance we stood, straining to hear anything over the cacophony of those obnoxious crickets and cicadas. Getting them the shut up was a near impossibility, unless a human was taking pot shots until we bled seeds in a sadistic moment of joy, usually inspired by a bottle of Jack Daniels or being thrown out of the house by his wife after she caught him reading Highlights For Children magazine. Never was medical attention given to those suffering life threatening injuries. We were left to seed to death while field mice ate us alive. A lovely way to die. Finally, the meeting broke up. We scattered. Well, we quietly rolled away. It was near; it was about to occur. Something big! Excitement and anticipation was palatable. Except for Murray was was preoccupied with his wife Goldie as they were expecting the Solomon's for dinner, arguing whether cabernet sauvignon or a white zinfandel pairs well with topsoil. Unfortunately, the debate didn't linger after Goldie's stem snapped off. She was rushed to the farmstand for immediately surgery; carved, then displayed, negating his decision he'd lose as he did each and every time with her. Murray barely had time to sit shiva. The patch's talk of revolution reached a fever pitch. Instantly, Murray came up through the ranks, to assume leadership. He was angry. Angry at losing his wife, yet he learned to focus his anger constructively gaining a new found purpose in life.
The next day was a perfect autumn day; bright blue skies, cool, crisp breeze, slowly warming sun. Along with weather like this came fresh bird droppings on the pumpkin heads. Which they called sprinkles. The patch was open for business. As the day wore on, throngs of loud, boisterous human children were swarming the patch, picking their favorite pumpkins, while insulting others which they deemed not worthy, all the while getting kicked around and bruised. No one considered our feelings. The patch lost many friends that day. None were given an opportunity to say goodbye. Babies pulled from their mother's arms. Ce la vie!
As it does every day, the sun sets upon the patch. This night though, would be different. A day to be remembered. Revolution! Then, the morning came and all was quiet; copacetic. We were scratching our stems, confused. Nothing? No revolution? No new big macher? What went wrong? So many questions and emotions. What was left of the elders were searching for Murray. He was gone. So was his wife's body as well as the farmstand.
The next day, the sky was dark and foreboding. Suddenly, the ground shook and rumbled. This was not normal. Something gigantic, unfamiliar, yellow, spewing blackish-grey smoke into the air. It was a caterpillar. Not just any caterpillar, but a bulbous diesel engine bulldozer built by Caterpillar, Inc., sent on a mission to destroy our patch and operated by the construction company Big Macher.
So yes, the big macher arrived.
THE END
You keep on rocking Howard. Great stuff every time .
Lol…I can’t wait for the sequel. Where did Murray and his wife escape too?