Mind Fields: Arkansas Pig Squeezin’ Contest

Addendum: Zoot’s Greatest Story

1968: On the road somewhere near Cairo, Illinois

The Mississippi river appears frequently to the left side of the road, as the Continental digests miles under its Goodyears. The river is like a giant python at the bottom of the bluff, twisting its silty way towards New Orleans. At Cairo it meets the Ohio River in a megalithic “Y”. The different colors of the different rivers make discreet etchings in the basic silver brown in the serpentine body of The Mississippi.

Zoot is snoring lightly, slumped in the front passenger seat with his elbow on the armrest, his head bumping gently against the rolled-up window. The car’s air conditioning is roaring like a distant storm, its wind coming from black plastic vents in the dashboard.

Aaron is in the back seat, trying to read a science fiction novel. The car’s motion is making him sick, so he puts the book down and watches the River as it appears and disappears amongst rows of trees.

Zoot jerks awake suddenly, yawns, rubs his eyes. He inspects Tyrone’s driving, looks at the speedometer. “You’re going a hundred miles an hour, man, and you in the slow lane. There’s a cop that cruises this road by name of Furley Robinson and he will love to jail my ass, so ease it on up.”

Tyrone looks innocent. “I don ‘t know how that happened, Zoot, sorry.” The speedometer drifts in fits and starts back down to seventy.

Zoot cranes his neck to see Aaron, slumped boredly in the back seat.

“I ever tell you the story of my true musical roots, of my Arkansas heritage?”

Aaron perks up and leans forward over the soft leather upholstery.

“Which one? The one about Preacher Scarby and the girls in the choir?”

“No, no, this one even earlier and more rooty than that one.”

“Let’s hear it, Zoot, we all ears,” Tyrone says, lighting up a cigarette.

“This is back when I was five, six years old,” says Zoot. “All the black farmers in Arkansas get together once a year for a musical festival, a Pig Squeezin’. They’d come from evahwhere, they’d come from Dawes County and Little Creek and Big Creek, from Meaty Bottom and Cradle Cave. They’d bring their best musical pigs and their women and children would barbecue up some ribs and haunches and they would contend for the position of Master Pig Squeezer. “

Aaron smiles. Tyrone wrinkles his brow, hoping to concentrate on the road but sneaking glances at Zoot, trying to discern just how far in his cheek is his mentor’s tongue.

“The greatest Pig Squeezer of all is a big fat gentleman by the name of Eufustus Rathbone. Y’ll understand, Pig Squeezin is a subtle art, it combines animal genetics, musical training, weight lifting and other forms of athletics and requires a fine hand at dealing with the hogs. You gotta take em when they’re tiny piglets and get em used to the feel of your armpit, your knees, you get piglets that like bein’ squeezed and handled evah which way. Takes a calm and pliable pig to squeal and bellow on cue. Why, Eufustus Rathbone can get a note out of both ends of a pig just by flexing his bicep, he is that good. He has a pig named Joby that can fart an E flat and squeal a perfect third above it.”

Aaron pats both his thighs hard, then pats them again, more softly.

Zoot pauses to light his three o’clock cheroot.

“You’re putting us on, right?” Tyrone swings his head sideways, then back to the road, then sideways,then back to the road.

“Lord’s Truth,” Zoot swears, solemnly. He winks at Aaron.

“This must have been nineteen ten, nineteen eleven,” Zoot continues. “It was my first Pig Squeezin and I thinks I is in heaven, they is so many people, so much food on big long tables, all kinds of little girls runnin’ round in checkered dresses with pretty hats.”

He exhales his stream of smoke languidly, cracks the window a bit to clear the air inside the car. Tyrone lights yet another in a constant string of Camels.

“You’re smoking too much,” he admonishes Tyrone. “You know that stuff wilts your dick, don’t you?”

Tyrone hastily stuffs out the butt in the ash tray. “Damn,” he says, “one fun thing fucks up another fun thing. Doesn’t seem fair.”

Aaron puts his chin into the crevice between the front seats, as if to prompt Zoot to continue his story.

“Okay, after two solid days of Squeezin’, there’s only three Squeezers left who can get up and withstand the sheer virtuosity of Eufustus Rathbone. This man has been Squeezin’ Master for six years runnin’. He has raised himself a breed of musical hogs that are light of weight but solid in volume and tone. He gets up on the stage that is built right there in the middle of Hanky Parkins’ fresh-mowed soybean field. He’s got Joby in one hand, he’s got two piglets named Squeak and Tweak on rope leashes, and he’s got an old sow named Hester draggin’ her udders on the floor boards. Hester is like his old standby, a reliable bass pig. He can just give her a jiggle and she will go ‘honk’ on the downbeat and the upbeat.”

Zoot’s left hand waves in the air and pictures seem to flow from his fingers, apparitions in the drifting smoke that lazily spiral up from the cheroot held loosely in his right hand.

“Eufustus starts out with The Star Spangled Banner, just to keep things simple, not to raise expectations or nothin’. The pigs squeeze in perfect counterpoint. Eufustus is sitting on the low three-legged Squeezin’ Stool, and he’s got Joby between his legs where he can control the pitch by bringing his thighs together, he’s got Hester under one foot and he’s got Squeak and Tweak in each armpit. After the national anthem he looks around as if to say, ‘can anybody top that? The crowd goes wild, everybody claps, looks like it’s all over. But when the noise dies down, a youngster by the name of Chester Wankus comes up the steps leading just two little piglets. There’s a gasp from the crowd, people saying ‘he can’t do shit with no two piglets, who he think he is?’ But Chester just scoots that Squeezin’ Stool over, sits down and starts squeezin’ these piglets and he gets them fartin’ and squealing and he plays “Battle Hymn of the Republic” real fast and he’s tapping with his feet too. It is amazing. Old Eufustus puffs up his chest like nothin’ happened, takes the stool back and plays the “Overture from The Marriage of Figaro”. The crowd falls silent, they figure that’s it, all over, nothin’ can top that. Chester leaves his piglets on the stage, jumps off the back, picks up a two hundred pound sow like it’s a twig and puts her on the stage, then jumps back up and gets her inside his legs. He takes a deep breath, everybody’s waitin’ for whatever’s gonna come next.”

Zoot leans forward and flicks the ash from his cheroot into the ashtray. He looks out the window. The sun is midway down the afternoon sky and its rays flash back from the river.

“Chester takes a minute to get himself braced, then he starts squeezin and out comes a perfect contrapuntal version of the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The sow is a trifle flat out her behind but Chester compensates skillfully by increasing the pressure from his feet and the rhythm is powerful enough that Eufustus starts turning a darker shade of brown than he already is. Joby just lays down on her side and Chester’s two piglets run over and start nursin’ from her. You’d think that is the end of the story but just then up comes a teenage boy from Smith County, and he’s got four piglets on leather leashes, he’s got a three hundred pound sow and he’s got a hairy wild boar in some kind of crazy harness. The judges take some time debating whether that is legal or not, but they allowed it, I mean a wild boar is a wild boar and they just have to give the kid points for difficulty.”

“What’s your name, kid?” the head judge asks.

“The kid replies, ‘My name is Felix Twitty and I’m from Smith County near the town of Goose’s Crack.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little ostentatious, all them pigs?”

The crowd grumbles its agreement, I mean, if the kid can ‘t come through with something tremendous he’d be seen as a total poseur, a Nouveau Squeezer with a big ego. He just takes the stool nice and calm, positions that boar under his left arm, arranges them other pigs in various ways with one of ‘em under his chin and he starts to play. At first nobody recognizes the music. It sounds good, it sounds mighty good, and finally the crowd realizes that the kid is playing Wagner’s “Finale from Das Rheingold” and he is making the boar sing the part of Thor and making the piglets do the parts of the Rhinemaidens. It is spectacular! Everybody almost passes out from amazement and Felix Twitty sure as hell won the Master Pig Squeazer prize for that year and for the next five years. He’s remembered as one of the greatest squeezers in history, and might have broken Tolly Scoobus’ eight year run, ‘cept he went off to France in World War One and got shot by a farmer who thought he was stealin’ pigs. He was just playin’ scales in the barn! All he wanted was a little practice. Mighty shame, that was. Mighty shame.”

The occupants of the car drive in silence for a while.

“You’re not pullin’ my leg, are you?” Tyrone asks sincerely.

“Lord’s Truth,” Zoot swears.

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About the Author

Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.

Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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