The secret club consisted of two brothers who were actually
next door neighbors but had long before decided they were in it together and
would fight whoever said otherwise. They
lived in an old gypsy wagon—one of two planted in the back of Butch’s yard and
up against Sonny’s yard—and in that wagon they kept their secret symbol (a
half-pound chunk of quartz wrapped in one of Butch’s mom’s prized scarves) and
over the wagon flew their official flag.
They called themselves The Bull Brothers and why that was the chosen
name has faded over the years but it seemed appropriate enough for a couple of
poor kids surrounded by beer joints, gas stations, cotton gins and one very
convenient blacksmith shop. The shop had
belonged to Butch’s father but he was killed in a car accident when Sonny was
in the second grade and Butch, if memory serves, was in the fifth grade. Afterwards, other blacksmiths rented the shop
from Butch’s mom but the two brothers still had access to the place carte
blanche. Learning was a process of
observation and by the time Sonny was in the fourth grade the two boys had
learned to forge steel and had used their knowledge of that process to make two
small push carts, several knives, a couple of sabers and some very lethal
rockets that were blasted into the far reaches of the universe from the vacant
lot next to Butch’s house. It was all
part of the Antnik Program which was a spinoff of the Soviet’s Sputnik launched
in the mid-1950s. In those days
firecrackers were real and potent and the two brothers had a good source of
supply. Cherry bombs, TNTs, M-80s and an
assortment of Mexican fireworks with roughly the equivalent power of a small
stick of Dynamite guaranteed a launch system capable of propelling a red ant
into the outer ionosphere. The Antnik
Program brought real meaning to the saying, “an astronaut sits on a bomb.” Butch would light the fuse while Sonny gave
the countdown. Unfortunately, only one
ant survived. Not to be deterred the
brothers set out on other adventures and built a smaller fort under the great
Hunchback of Notre-Dame—a huge salt cedar tree that leaned over the fort like
an old arthritic man and was said to possess spirits and from which creatures
emerged at night. One evening Butch called
Sonny to come over but when Sonny ventured across the fence he saw the Great
Hunchback looming over him.
“Hey,
Butch. Maybe you better come over here
instead.”
They fought
the Apaches as Cavalry and then they fought the Cavalry as Apaches. They dug fox holes across the street near the
railroad tracks and on one daring mission even laid banana peels on the
tracks. Conscience won out however and a
few minutes before the train was due they ran to the tracks and removed the
peels lest they cause a horrific accident.
Who knows how many lives were saved that day. Tom and Huckleberry eat your hearts out for
there was never in the history of rambunctious boys the likes of Butch and Sonny.
Ah, but all
good things must come to an end and on one fateful day Butch discovered
girls. Sonny, of course, was heartbroken
for he was still too young to appreciate that great find. Not long afterwards Butch’s mom remarried and
they moved away leaving a very sad little boy.
The years past and now and then the two Bull Brothers would reunite for
an evening of reminiscing and swapping lies.
Butch moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico where he operated a small
business and Sonny worked in the newspapers and then magazines and even taught
for a while. A few years back Sonny was
informed that Butch had left and so now only one Bull Brother remains. What happened to the knives and sabers of
yesteryear is lost to time, but one artifact remains. A piece of history found in an old box. Constructed over 50 years ago the artifact has
obviously seen better days. A genuine
late 1950s tomahawk used in battle against a rival tribe and made of Chinaberry
and sandstone and wrapped in vulcanized sinew; the tomahawk is held in place by
nothing more than memories. Sonny holds
it in his hand and thinks back. Such are
the laments of an old man.
BULL BROTHERS FOREVER
In memory of Roland Bourgeois
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