Response: Time of the Season
Father give me the Bull of Heaven,
So he can kill Gilgamesh in his dwelling.
If you do not give me the Bull of Heaven,
I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,
I will smash the doorposts, and leave the doors flat down,
And will let the dead go up to eat the living!
And the dead will outnumber the living!
It will be awful! – From the Epic of Gilgamesh
Is it already that time of year again? I’m talking of course, about the time when the dead rise up from the grave to claim the souls of fallible elementary school children worldwide. With promises of official sounding awards, colorful placards, and an endless stream of felicitations, zombie like creatures are taking over the whole of humanity. Who could resist the call of such glorious temptation? I know I couldn’t.
It seems like yesterday, when as a gangly lad of twelve, I marched proudly forth to claim my Outstanding Young Person’s Leadership Award. In an audacious display of breakneck brown-nosing, I had managed to convince my gullible sixth grade teacher that I was not only a man among boys, but also not the person responsible for sticking an eraser in her coffee. In case you were wondering, I haven’t won as much as a Scooby Doo Pez dispenser since. The Outstanding Young Person’s Leadership Award was handed out annually to children in the sixth grade who exhibited promising leadership characteristics by none other than the dreaded Freemasons.
I gave the event little thought beforehand, but when the actual award day came, I found myself more than nervous. My parents looked as proud as ever as we drove to the official ceremony, but we all seemed at least remotely aware that we were headed into some sort of devious trap. My old man chattered on and on about how his dad was a Mason in a pathetic attempt to hide his own anxieties as to what the evening held in store for us.
Upon arrival, my family and I, (dressed to the ni…sixes for the occasion), were ushered through the temple hallway, and led into a large rectangular dining area which reeked of haphazard mid 60s decorating. We were greeted by a multitude of fellow award winners and their parents. A catered meal of roast beef and potatoes was provided and we were all treated to a less than stellar rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner. The boy seated across from me said he was going to be in a commercial for White Water. I didn’t believe him.
The whole affair was so far removed from anything I’d witnessed up to that point that I found myself genuinely breathless. All around us stood an array of men in cheap suits congratulating themselves on the various noble civic deeds they had performed that week. Talk about zombies; these folks looked like something out of the “Thriller” video.
And then the procession began. The incantation pronounced by the Worshipful Master, or lodge president, sounded something like Vincent Price on Dexedrine:
“Humble lodge dwellers, I am filled with thanks that you are in my presence. Standing before you today are both the best and brightest of our local youth, prime examples of the much needed value of leadership in today’s society. Our Masonic Lodge remains, as in the time of our great forebears, a pillar of moralistic stability and a fount of ancient wisdom. Fellow masons, please join me in welcoming these future entered apprentices and their esteemed families.” (muffled applause)
The whole event seemed ridiculous, as if I’d wandered into the staging of a lost Honeymooners’ episode. But instead of being appointed Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Raccoons, I was forced to sit through a barrage of mind-numbing observations by various Masonic brass. First there was the Worshipful Master, then the Junior Warden, then the Tyler (whatever the hell that is), and finally a not-so-brief prayer from a bespectacled clergyman. And I’m not sure, but I think even the caterer chimed in on the importance of leadership. I was trapped. My parents were of no use either. My father’s eyes were half-shut and drool pooled at the corner of his lips, a sure sign that he was far off in Slumberland. And the stare on my mother’s face betrayed a look of obvious malaise.
And suddenly I realized my fate. I was going to spend the rest of my life trapped among people who related their life to architecture. In an act of sheer desperation, I leaned over to the ginger faced girl to my right and asked, “Will this ever end?” She didn’t respond, but she looked beyond frightened, her red curls swaying along to the rhythm of the ceiling fan.
And then at last we were called forth to claim our awards. One by one, my fellow honorees nervously approached the podium. Then it was my turn. The Worshipful Master, or should I say Thee Worshipful Master, stretched out a sweaty palm and remarked, “Well done Bunky. Someday we hope you return to the Masonic fold.”
Not likely brother. Not likely.
posted by A Contemporary Bunkshooter @ 2:16 PM,
