Category: Fiction Factor

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?”

The 100^th birthday party of Marty Marcel was a small affair, but the friends who threw it made certain it was a festive one. There was a big birthday cake, of course, as well as colorful decorations and lively music. And Marty’s pals made sure he had plenty of his favorite drink, Kentucky Straight Bourbon.

Thirty minutes into the event, Marty and his eight buddies – led by Gray – had already polished off a fifth, thanks to a series of toasts.

“Here’s to your health, Marty!”

“Happy hundredth, and here’s to a hundred more!”

“To a great man and a true friend!”

Marty was still quite mobile and in decent health; he had been fortunate in that he never needed a wheelchair to get around. But the gears were surely starting to wear out, and he always had a cane with him – just in case.

“I don’t really need it, but it makes me look distinguished,” he’d say, “and I can fight off all girls who keep chasing me … especially Ethel.”

Earlier in the evening the staff at Pecos Retirement Village had held a celebration for him in the activity room, one that included the other residents. Most were quite fond of Marty and Ethel was his “date,” as she was most anytime there was a reason to get together. She was 92, and Marty joked that it was a “Late December/later December romance.”

However, that low-key shindig was over in less than an hour. By 8 p.m., Ethel had exited with a yawn and the facility was mostly quiet as the inhabitants retired to their apartments.

But at 10 p.m., Marty’s oldest friends scooped him up in a very special “party bus” and started the real bash.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Gray,” he said. “I mean, I do appreciate it, but you didn’t have to come all this way. After all, it’s just another day.”

“It’s not just another day,” said the chief party planner, pouring two fingers of whiskey into Marty’s glass. “It’s your day. And 100 is a pretty big number. You look a little different than you did back when we met you, but otherwise you haven’t changed much.”

Marty smiled and took a sip.

“Lordy, that was so long ago. I was 21 and had missed out on the war, but still felt like I needed to do my part, so I joined up. I have to admit, I was awfully full of myself and thought I was king of the world when I put on that uniform … then I ran into you rascals and realized how small my world was.”

Gray opened another bottle of whiskey.

“We were glad you did … me, especially. I was in rough shape from the crash and none of us had any idea what to expect when you came along. We were afraid after you saw us, you’d start screaming. Or worse, shooting.”

Marty shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t have done that. You were all funny looking to me with your big heads and little bodies, but I reckon I was funny looking to you, too. Maybe I should’ve been scared, but I wasn’t. Even when I was a little boy, I figured with all those stars up there, there had to be somebody else besides us.”

Gray – the leader of the group of extraterrestrials – downed another glass and quickly refilled it.

“If you hadn’t told everybody it was just the remains of a weather balloon, who knows what would’ve happened?” Gray said. “Being so close to the Roswell Army Air Field wasn’t exactly an ideal place for us to have an accident. But you helped us, gave us time to make repairs, and we’ll always be grateful. Which reminds me … you’re always welcome to go back with us. As you can see, we have plenty of room here on our craft. And once we get home, we can make your bones stronger and even add on a few more years if you like.”

Marty appreciated the gesture, but decided to pass. For better or worse, Earth was his home.

“Thanks, Gray, but I think I’ll stay put,” he said. “The International Balloon Fiesta is coming up soon in Albuquerque, and the village here is planning a bus trip there. I’ve already promised Ethel I’ll be her arm candy.

“Anyway, let’s have one more drink … and then you better beam me back down.”