MEMOIR: Berkshires UFO

 The Fix

Great Barrington's racetrack was  actually named the Crown Jewel of New England’s Fair Circuit. It was  within walking distance from the center of town, and like most kids in the area, I would sneak into  the fairgrounds after school. The far side of the track was lined with  brush and weeping willow trees, which hung down so close to the track that the lance-shaped leaves whisked in the wake of the horses. The fair  and track, although fun, brought millions of dollars into the community. However, high-stakes gambling can breed  corruption, and at the time the Public Broadcasting System ran a special on fixed horse racing about our track. The more informed bettors could  spot the jockeys who artfully held back their  horses while beating them viciously with a riding crop, giving the  appearance of them making a genuine effort to win. Occasionally, a  frustrated or an overly drugged pony revealed the darker side of the  sport. For instance, much of the track's dealings were  under protection by the police department, which had a satellite  station at the track. With that said, it was abundantly clear that no  one was to disturb the cash flow or openly tarnish the track's  reputation, the occasional tip on a predetermined daily double  signaled we take care of our own. 

A well-known secret among the locals was  a nearby park which had a path to the far side of the racetrack used by  some residents to sneak into the fair. The difficult part of sneaking  in was timing our  dash to the rides, so most would run when all eyes were on the horses, on the opposite side of the track. The falling leaves in burnt gold  covered the ground, crushing under our feet as we made our way closer to  the midway and roller coaster. The wooden  ferris wheel would let out an eerie squeal as it came to a halt. We  could hear the carnies, in their ripped jeans and t-shirts, making  comments under their breath as we ran by them, leaving us with an  uncomfortable feeling. Once on the midway it was a party,  rides, music, girls, food, gambling, drinks, shops, and entertainment.  Aerosmith's Seasons of Wither and Walk this Way often welcomed us, blasting from the tilt-a-whirl. Girls would sport their halter tops , miniskirts, go-go boots, and bell bottoms. This  coupled with the scent of carnival food, patchouli oil, and cotton candy, filled the air and made for an intoxicating atmosphere. It was stimulating, and why even at the age of 15 I worked there after school.

It was now 1975, and I was stationed at the bumper cars. Some claimed the job was too hazardous  for a minor, but then the job was fun. On this particular September  evening, Linda dressed in her  typical torn cut-off jean shorts, stack boots, and revealing halter top  walked up to me while I was working at the ride. After being relieved  for the day, we strolled away hand in hand to the midway. We often  talked about how my youthfulness and flexibility allowed me to free up the jammed bumper cars. I was able to quickly jump from car to car while they were still moving, holding on to the poles that connected the cars to the electric awning above. I would almost glide across the backs of the bumper cars much like  crossing a flowing river on a string of rocks. It was a fun job but not one suited for heavy and less limber adult. I thought to myself, I made a few dollars and had a free daily pass for the fairgrounds. 

We were now walking along the racetrack wall and bleachers, heading to a food stand serving sausage and pepper  hoagies. As we approached the racetrack fence line, I could hear the screams from the fans.  The only thing louder than the crowd was the thundering hooves rumbling  under the power and fervor of the thoroughbreds. We were about 15 feet from the tracks wooden fence and barricade when the wall exploded, and a  half-ton racehorse tumbled at 30 miles an hour onto the concrete in front of us. The Jockey was launched into the crowd, and shattered planks were hurled throughout the fairway. Police  tried to control the area while screams for help were heard in the background. The many injuries from debris had found their way into visiting families. Parents were seen using the height of the bleachers to look for their children and then seen jumping from the  stands to scoop them up. Others grouped under the safety of the  bleachers as the pony continued to try to stand, dragging itself awkwardly, with all its limbs intact but unable to coordinate its movements. Like us, most had seen enough of the cruelty that came with fixed racing. 

Many locals gathered next to us and feared for the poor ill-fated pony that had tumbled into men, women, and children. 

The panicked horse, hurt and scared, continued to crawl clumsily forward but never stood again. Its head came to a rest on the fairway below our feet. The Police shouted to the crowd to stay back while paramedics attended to the blood soaked Jockey, who also remained still on the asphalt. Police asked the crowd, “What happened, did anyone see what  happened?" People in the crowd pointed to Linda and I. Holding her tight in my arms, she wept in disbelief. I said something to the effect that it crashed through the fence because it was drugged.  “This is F---ed and needs to stop” I shouted. Linda also yelled, “When are you going to do something about it!" Husbands and wives expressed concern over the injuries brought on by the drugged horse, which was now lying lifeless  on the ground. Linda, filled with empathy for the injured animal yelled  repeatedly, “It's not the fault of the horses, it’s the fault of those drugging them.” I yelled to the crowd, “We all know what goes on here,  right? It's cruel! Look at the stalls, you  will find the hypodermic needles. It was drugged!”

Officer Holcomb, a ruthless man, did not  have the disposition to be a peace officer. He was a bully and wielded his weight around. He was a large foul mouth neanderthal and he could only gain confidence by openly harassing the younger citizens of Great Barrington. He began  to mock me, right there in front of hundreds of people. "That's Reed,  the UFO Kid. He’ll tell you there’s UFOs flying around here too. Don't  listen to him!” He then shouted, "So, shut the fuck up kid, get out of the way or I'll throw your ass in jail." Holcomb stopped in front of me, not a foot away, and glared at me. The crowd gathered around as they paid close attention to what I was saying. They began asking questions. "Hey kid, how do you know  this?" I replied to them, "I live here. We raise ponies and it's common knowledge, what goes on at the track." 

Holcomb's glare became increasingly tense. I could feel by his look and change in demeanor that he wanted to hit me. Because of the large crowd still surrounding me, he held back.  The locals openly voiced  their concerns and feared for their loved ones. They talked among  themselves and shared their disgust about the incident and their opinions about fixed racing. They collectively agreed that there was a  lot of corruption. Some of the parents stated that the kids were right, it could have very well been drugged!

I knew many in town were profiting from  the track, but the extent of the cruelty was uncalled for, sad, and  people were getting hurt. Officer Holcomb powered through me as if I  wasn’t even there when he could have easily gone around. He called Linda a fucking crybaby. He bellowed out, "If you don't have the stomach for the races, then get the fuck out of here, go home! You too, Asshole! Leave!" I said what I did next because of what he said to Linda. “So,  Officer Holcomb, how many half comes does it take to make a Holcomb,” I  quickly replied. Some laughed at the retort, some didn't, and Officer  Holcomb was fuming. 

The paramedics had left, the Police reassembled in their satellite station and the onlookers had gone on their way. I still needed to get paid for working the bumper cars from the previous day. So I grabbed Linda's hand and proceeded to the main office, where I would get my manila envelope containing the 20 or so dollars that I had earned. To clear our hears we amused ourselves with the usual carnival pastimes that reward winners with  a stuffed dog and rode the roller coaster one final time. I treated.  

Town Officials Reneged with Spite

After months of disregarded phone messages and facsimiles, I finally received an email from Rhonda,  Sheffield’s Administrator. She had a date and time secured for my sit-down with Nadine, to discuss the future of the UFO Monument. With the meeting only days ahead, I called my driver as I opted to travel by car. I hit the grocery store for refreshments, filled the red travel cooler, and packed late into the evening. After a mere six hours of sleep, and coffee in hand, the Limo headed for Sheffield. Following the 13-hour road trip through Tennessee, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York, we finally came upon the green neon lights of the Holiday Inn. It was a lovely sight, and right near WSBS Radio. 

Now refreshed and fueled via a complimentary breakfast, courtesy of the Holiday Inn, I awaited my friend’s arrival. Sporting my favorite black dress shirt and a disarming  camel jacket, I sat in the lobby adjacent to the concierge’s desk and revised my notes in modest comfort. Morgan and Teri Davis, who oversee the UFO Park, entered the lobby with vigor as if a grand jury were about to be in session. John  Coster, a Harvard graduate and published author, followed shortly thereafter. While twirling his Mont Blanc Pen he emphasized the importance of documenting the day’s efforts, as well as affirming any agreement with the town should be in writing.

With the Town meeting in less than an  hour, it was time to head in that direction. We piled into the limo and spread out in the back like a bunch of former rock stars, dressed in jeans and designer jackets. The Park staff and I were in good  spirits, as it was time for all involved to shake hands and start over.  Sure, we anticipated some give and take, but we were prepared as long as the Town agreed to return the Monument. It’s worth noting that our scenic drive to Sheffield consisted of Marijuana Dispensaries, a UFO Park, and eighties hair bands. Soon thereafter, our chauffeur announced our arrival, and we rolled to a stop behind the Gas Station seen on Unsolved  Mysteries.

We entered the town hall and walked past the tax collector’s office, and then a meeting room packed with locals  engaged in a heated debate. We went up the rear stairs to the administrative offices to meet with Rhonda, the town’s Administrator. I was optimistic and had fresh ideas to discuss with the town, ideas that could also help expedite the Monument's return. I was willing to bend a little too, as  it could save both of us some time, trouble and money.  With smiles, we entered the administrator’s office. But, before we  could even introduce ourselves, a rattled assistant jumped from her seat and made a call from the back side of the office. She returned to her desk, seemingly put off, and avoided eye contact.  She knew who we were as she then belted out, “Rhonda is busy today.” We all looked at each other as to ask ourselves, how did she know who we  were? Something felt off.

I politely reminded Jill, the assistant, of our confirmed 11:30 appointment. With a sour expression and tone,  that suggested Rhonda would be unavailable for a while, she said, “You can leave your message  with me.” Unbeknown to me, Jill is not one for follow-up questions, and  let a dramatic exhale in the wake of my request for ballpoint. An  unassuming Bic pen was then slammed on the counter, and while all heads  were turned, I wrote my cell number and the time we’d  be returning, 1:00 p.m.

As we turned and left, a woman standing outside the front door asked, “Are you looking for the UFO Monument?” She  discreetly said, “It’s in the back of the Department of Public Works Building covered in a brown blanket” I said, “How do you know?” She replies, “Everyone  knows.” With an hour to burn and fresh information, we headed straight to Sheffield’s DPW. As soon as we pulled in, it was clear that we were  expected. All eyes were on us, the overheads were  down, and not a single person was working. The building was closed up with guys standing out front with guarded postures. I called to a guy in a white tee shirt who was leaning against a truck. He was slow to reply and took his time walking over. He verbally  dismissed any knowledge of the Monument's whereabouts. In private discussion, however, it was his subtle gesture and tilt of the head that  signaled the building to our right. He then paused, looked down, as if completely alone, his mind seemed elsewhere, as if cycling through time, with harvest guilt.

He nodded, looked down again, lit a cigarette, and walked back to his truck.

It was close to 1:00 so back to town we went. Morgan and John waited in the hallway, while Teri and I walked  back into the administrator’s office. We had been there for hours, so at  the risk of making  a light conversation, I asked Jill if Nadine or Rhonda had any  intentions of meeting with us today. We waited for a response, but nothing. So, I thought well, try a follow-up question. We all saw how well that went over last time. So, I then asked Jill, could you please get Nadine on the line? Jill slams her hand on the desk and shouts, “They’re on the phone!” Teri felt best to leave Jill with an encouraging message, with the hope she’d forward it to Rhonda. We knew they’d been speaking privately. Teri turned to the now unresponsive Jill and said, “Thom is here with hopes of resolve; he is simply trying to save everybody a lot of trouble”. I  wrote, we will be back at 3 p.m. on a yellow sticky note and left it on the counter. As soon as the front door shut, Teri yelled,  “What is wrong with these people”!

We went around the corner to a sandwich shop, and over a thick Ruben, I proposed the question. How many think Rhonda’s meeting was a sham? Look, you give a man a date that in all probability he will fail to make, and when he does, he loses by default.

The Selectmen knew we were all in the building, yet not a single call or a relayed message. If this meeting with Nadine was in good faith, then somebody would have conveyed something to us by now. They  were well aware we had taken time off from work and traveled long distances. It’s obvious they never expected us to show. I then mentioned that due to my sincere attempt at a fresh start, I held off serving the town with a letter of an impending suit, by one of our sponsors for theft of property. It was unanimous; if Rhonda and Nadine do not meet with us today, it’s intentional, so, yes, leave the letter of the pending suit.

We returned to Town Hall. It was clear that Jill was not overjoyed to see us. She pointed to a stalwart-looking fellow seated at a table in the middle of the room. He was hunched over a stack of folders.  It was Martin C. Mitsoff, who sits on the Board of Selectmen. He looked  up as I approached with my hand extended, though Martin scowled and refused to shake it. I made my argument for the return of the Monument, and in closing shared the Town's only other option: a lawsuit. However, the poker-faced selectmen chose to call my bluff. I sighed, reached into my jacket pocket, and presented the selectman with the letter of the pending suit. Teri then asked a testy Jill if she knew where the monument was being stored.  Jill replied, “No I do not!” Teri shouted, "you just lied to me" and we went on our way.

The day had opened with hope and opportunity but would close with disgust and lawsuits.

As we headed back to the Holiday Inn, we reflected on how obvious it was that even small towns could be so driven by power, money, and politics. And how we were powerless against the biased media and the easily swayed municipalities that govern our own backyard. The limo slowed and coasted into the now-abandoned fairgrounds. Feeling numb and near haunted, I took in the dilapidated landscape that had once  breathed life into the community but now laid at rest. The track known for the roar of the stands was now known for the roar of the tornado, that leveled it. I found myself catching my breath when walking through the weather-beaten grounds, now reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic landscape. Where a plague  had taken the lives of men, women, and children, leaving just the old structures to slowly decay in the grasp of needled vines. The vines that had now crept up and over the paint-peeled structures, had too suffered from a lack of oxygen. The days of pari-mutuel betting and carnival culture would never rear their cannibalistic head again, and perhaps it was just as well.