Author: Scott Adamson

Ardelle Grove’s apartment at the Hoovestawood Independent Living Community was more than adequate for her needs. It had a spacious living room with a cushy recliner; a cozy bedroom with a bathroom attached; and a full kitchen with all the bells and whistles. Best of all, it featured a small balcony that overlooked the woods behind the apartment.

Whenever she was home – and she usually was – she’d make sure to be on the balcony to watch the sun set. Witnessing a sky streaked with pink, orange and yellow start to fade as the fireball extinguished itself for the day was always a joy, like watching an artist slowly cover a giant canvass.

Yet, it was the trees inside her abode that meant the most to Ardelle. There was Nellie, Sam, Sarah, Arturo, Melody and Clarence – names she had given the dwarf jades that she cared for. And her meticulous “care” for the  trees was the main reason that the first Wednesday of each month, she got a visit from a social worker.

This time when she heard the knock, she was doing some careful pruning of Nellie.

“Ah, you’re here again … just like clockwork,” Ardelle said as she opened the door to Rachel, the case worker assigned to her. “Come on in.”

Rachel smiled and gave the living room a quick onceover.

“It’s always immaculate in here, Ardelle,” she said. “A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“I’ve always been tidy,” said Ardelle, returning to her pruning duties. “Even as a child, I kept my room clean and organized. Fortunately, Nellie, Sam, Sarah, Arturo, Melody and Clarence like it this way. They do better in a tidy environment.”

Rachel walked to over to one of the bonsai trees.

“Which one is this?” she asked.

“That’s Melody. I moved here seven years ago and brought her over from the old house. I guess you could say she’s my oldest friend. Never could find the right combination of sunlight there, but she’s flourishing here. She’ll be around long after I’m gone. Hopefully, all of them will.”

Rachel forced a pained smile.

Ardelle had named her trees after friends who had passed away. Some of  them had been cremated, allowing her to add their remains to the soil. It was her way of watching them live on.

While Rachel was pleased Ardelle had a hobby – the trees were, in fact, all thriving – she believed anthropomorphizing them was unhealthy.

“I know you miss your friends and want to honor them, but is talking to these trees a good idea? You treat them as though they’re human.”

Ardelle shook her head.

“No, I treat them as living things, because they are living things. You plant them, water them, feed them, nurture them, and they grow. They depend on me. Just because they don’t talk to me doesn’t mean I can’t talk to them, or they can’t understand me. Would you be saying this to me if I had a cat or dog and talked to them? I bet you wouldn’t.”

“I’m just afraid you’re missing out on life, Ardelle,” Rachel said. “There are all kinds of activities here at Hoovestawood. There’s movie night, game night, trivia night, even a happy hour every Thursday … you could mix, mingle and make new friends.”

Ardelle put down her pruning shears and gave Nellie a spritz of water.

“I like people fine, I suppose,” he said. “Used to, anyway. But I like trees better. Did you know my friends here absorb carbon dioxide at night? They also filter indoor air pollutants … pretty sure no one at happy hour can do that. Plus, they don’t need much water, which is good since that dang AI plant down the road has used up almost all of it. I appreciate your concern, Rachel, but I only have a few years left. If I want to spend them with trees, is that so bad?”

Before she could answer, a rhythmic beep started echoing through the room.

“I think your smoke alarm is going off, Ardelle.”

“Nope,” she said, “that’s you … it’s your battery warning.”

Rachel grabbed the device strapped onto her left wrist, opened the battery compartment, and saw a red light flashing “23 percent.”

“I better get to a charging station before I power down,” she said, sheepishly. “But think about what I said … there’s more to life than trees. We’ll talk about this again next month.”

Rachel quickly left the apartment and closed the door behind her.

Ardelle chuckled.

“You hear that, friends – there’s more to life than trees. How would she even know?”

The “Welcome to Beauchamp” sign leading visitors into a small south Alabama town wasn’t all that welcoming. Time, weather and neglect had turned the metal marker into little more than a rickety, rusty relic. In fact, one had to look closely to even make out the words.

But it didn’t really matter. People who came to the swamp- adjacent burg weren’t there for its eye appeal, food or lodging. Instead, an old, dingy, single-wide trailer that had been converted into a museum was the main draw.

Monster hunters and curiosity seekers knew the town as home of the Beauchamp Terror, a Sasquatch-like creature that first appeared – coincidentally – shortly after the infamous Petterson-Gimlin Bigfoot film was made in 1967.

While the tales shared similarities, the difference was the more malevolent nature of the creature from the Southland. There had been countless tales of Bigfoot sightings and unnerving howls over the years, but the monster in Beauchamp was a killer; since the late 1960s, more than 50 people went missing in the area without a trace. While their bodies were never found, all were assumed to be the Terror’s victims.

A carload of travelers – two men and three women – had pulled to the side of the road after spotting the cheesy Beauchamp Terror inflatable next to the museum, bringing smiles and chuckles to the front door of the repurposed mobile home. It was manned by Barney Beauchamp, proprietor of the museum and a blood relative of the town’s namesake.

“How you folks doing?” Barney asked. “Just a dollar to come inside … and all the information you need to know about the Beauchamp Terror, well, that’s free.”

One of the men pulled out a five from his wallet and handed it to Barney.

“So … is this like a redneck Bigfoot?” the man asked.

Barney thought  for a moment.

“I guess you could say ol’ Beau – that’s what we call him around here – I guess you could say he’s somethin’ like Bigfoot. They’re both big, hairy and smelly. And maybe callin’ him redneck is mostly accurate, considerin’ where we are on the map. Thing is, though, Beau ain’t interested in scarin’ you, he’s interested in killin’ and eatin’ you. Course I reckon that’s scary enough on its own.”

The man laughed and led his group inside, where the displays were placed haphazardly on several old card tables.

On the walls of the trailer were framed newspaper clippings featuring headlines such as A Bigfoot In Beauchamp?, Beauchamp Terror Terrorizes Locals and Beau Strikes Again.

On the tables were knickknacks – everything from small, handmade statues of the beast to piggy banks bearing the sinister face of the ape-like predator.

For the bargain basement price of $10, you could leave the museum with a plastic replica of a plaster cast of Beau’s seven-toed foot. Twenty dollars scored a small box filled with what was billed as “Actual Cremated Fur of the Beauchamp Terror.”

“Hold on a minute,” said one of the visitors, who made sure to flash a quick wink at his companions. “Does this mean Beau has been captured and killed?”

“Oh, Lord no,” Barney said. “Nobody’s ever captured Beau … never even come close. See, this ‘ol critter sheds his skin every six months or so, and when he does we find it, bag it up, and put it in the crematorium for disposal. My cousin, Marty, he runs the funeral home just up the road. That fur smells so bad, if you don’t incinerate it, it’ll stink up the whole dang swamp. But we figured nice folks like you might want a keepsake of your visit, so we decided to put it in the crematorium and make it available here at the museum. It’s a real popular item … real popular.”

The group pawed over the collectibles and before leaving each had picked up a plastic reproduction of Beau’s footprint. All told, the visit had netted Barney – and the museum – $55.

“Now are y’all sure you don’t want some cremated fur?”

The visitors waved Barney off, got back in their car and started driving down the road. He knew there were only a handful of people who truly believed in the Beauchamp Terror, and many more who didn’t. And that was just fine – as long as they decided to buy a souvenir.

Barney’s brother, Sheriff Jimbo Beauchamp, would be ready to pull them over if Barney gave him the go-ahead.

He picked up his phone.

“Hey, bro … just let ‘em keep on drivin’. Got more than $50 out of ‘em, so that’s worth a free pass out of town. We’ll just wait on the ones that decide not to buy anything. That bunch that just left will never know how lucky they are, will they? Yep … yep … I’ll see you at supper.”

Barney reached for a cigarette, lit it, took a long drag, and exhaled. For nearly 60 years, the Beauchamp family had made it their business to kill and cremate tourists while blaming it on a mythical monster. And business was still good.

Another car pulled over and Barney snuffed out his lung dart.

“How you folks doing?” Barney asked. “Just a dollar to come inside … and all the information you need to know about the Beauchamp Terror, well, that’s free …”

Briscoe Cicci distinctly remembered hearing the slow, rhythmic beeps of the electrocardiogram machine, followed by a sustained hum. And he recalled seeing the doctor and nurses hovering over him, although they were out of focus.

Then again, most everything was out of focus; his eyeglasses were on a tray next to a plate of unappetizing – and uneaten – hospital food.

What he couldn’t remember, however, was how he wound up in an emerald green room adorned in only an open-backed, loosely tied white gown, tan saddle oxfords, and his black, horn-rimmed specs. And why was his banjo on the floor next to him?

“Hello,” he said, looking around at what appeared to be an endless sea of green. “Is anybody there?”

Indeed, someone was.

“Mr. Cicci, welcome,” said a slight, olive-skinned man dressed in a blue, polyester running suit. “I’m your attendant. If you could turn in your pass, we can go ahead and get started.”

Before Briscoe could ask, “What pass?” he found himself holding a laminated card. As he looked at both the front and back, he noticed there were several passport-style stamps on it.

“That’s it,” said the attendant. “If you’ll just hand it to me …

Briscoe pulled the pass to his chest.

“Look, I didn’t know until a second ago I even had a pass, and have no idea what it even is. So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you explaining that to me and why I’m supposed to give it to you.”

The attendant smiled.

“Perfectly understandable, Mr. Cicci. What you’re holding is your life pass. Every human gets one, and they use it all throughout their time on earth. Think of it as something of a train ticket. It can take you everywhere you need to go and sometimes where you want to go. It’s up to each person how they choose to use it. Sometimes they just let it sit there; other times it seems like they’re on a different train every day. You made the most of your ride, sir. You were a teacher and musician, so you had a positive impact on more people than you realize. You made everyone you met feel important. Apart from that, you made great friends, you made great music … there were no wasted minutes.

“But that adventure has ended and now a new one begins.”

Briscoe was starting to understand.

“Right, right,” he said. “I’m dead, this was my ticket to ride, and now that the ride’s over, I have to turn it in. I don’t have a problem with that, but I still have a few more questions.”

“Ask anything you like,” said the attendant.

“Why am I dressed this way? I understand the gown – I was in the hospital – but saddle oxfords? I have a nice suit to go with these. And I don’t recall ever having played my banjo while wearing a gown. Seems if you have to cross over, you should be dressed for the occasion. Not a criticism, but I guess I thought the transition would be more stylish.”

The attendant winced.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “We have some new people in wardrobe, and they’re still trying to figure things out. We have a lot of turnover this time of year.”

Briscoe eyed the attendant’s outfit.

“Do you get hot in that?” he asked. “I never could wear polyester. Never wanted to wear polyester, to be honest. It just seems uncomfortable. Looks good on you, though. You really pull it off, and I mean that sincerely.”

The attendant grinned.

“Thank you, sir. Well, if there’s nothing more …”

“Actually,” Briscoe interjected, “I had a lot more things I wanted to do on earth … a lot more things I wanted to say and a lot more music I wanted to play. Why did things have to end so soon?”

“That I don’t know, Mr. Cicci. I’m just an attendant. Someone higher up the chain will be able to tell you. I’m sure you’ll get an answer to that once you start your new phase.”

“Sounds good. And hey – never say your ‘just’ an attendant,” Briscoe added. “You have a big job and I imagine it can be tough. You’ve been nothing but helpful since I got here. You have every reason to take pride in your job.”

Briscoe handed over his pass and sighed.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then. I’m gonna miss talking to people. And I’d love to play the banjo one more time. To be honest, I’m kinda bummed that my story has to end.”

The attendant stamped the pass.

“Oh, your story doesn’t end, Mr. Cicci,” he said. “You’re just starting a new chapter. Now, grab your banjo and follow me because there’s someone who wants to meet you. Are you familiar with Johnny St. Cyr, by any chance?”