The statue of Mick Righteous was intended to be a general interest to visitors to the Middle Valley area, perhaps not a great draw in and of itself, but one of several reasons that might influence people to stop and visit. It was financed by donations, primarily the well-heeled (I remember since I drove Mayor Charlotte and Bernie around) and those who were fans of Mick’s music. The arm-twisting she had to do to get that money … well, let’s just say I overheard a lot in the car that day.
Which is why I was a bit surprised when I got the call that it was being removed.
I mean, it’s only been there for, well, less than a year. That doesn’t seem like much time to me, but I’m no expert on tourism.
All I know is that its presence became a stain on Middle Valley and someone important decided it should be removed.
Which brings us to this moment, and the clean-up.
The statue, of course, is long gone to its new home in Cleveland at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, so at least we don’t have to deal with that. (Apparently, as many donations were required to build the statue, they were also needed to remove and ship it. As Mama always says, bad money chasing bad money …)
So I formulate a rag-tag crew, all guys I know that need money, even if they don’t know how to do anything. For me, the chauffeuring business has been a little slow this winter, so when parks and rec called, well, I jumped. Car detailing doesn’t pay for itself, and, besides, I’m still hoping to get out of Mama’s house one of these days.
I figure I’ve done landscaping so this won’t be a big deal.
I pull up next to the park where I can see a huge, blue tarp covering the area where the statue once stood. I am surprised to see Jake, a backhoe driver, standing beside it. He’s here early and gives me a wave.
“Dude, I don’t know what’s going on here … maybe they missed a piece when they took Ole Mick off the pedestal,” he says, loudly. “C’mere.”
The air is still pre-spring – chilly and damp but bordering on warm. Almost. I shove my hands in my pockets and step toward him, wondering if, perhaps, I should have stayed home.
Inside the backhoe’s scoop, (amidst the dirt that is more like clay in these parts) sits a metal box, its lid slightly askew.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Jake looks at me with incredulous eyes. “How the hell would I know? I just got here.”
I waive my hands in surrender. “Right, right … sorry.”
“You called me, pinhead. What is this all about?”
I shake my head and step closer. There is an engraving on the outside of the box:
“Buried June 5, 1975. To Whomever Finds This: DO NOT OPEN until June 5, 2000”.
“Well,” I say. “Someone missed a deadline.”
Jake places his hands on his hips. “So what are we going to do with this? I have another job to get to. Can you at least take it out of my truck?”
I nod. “Sure, go. I’ll take care of all of this.”
I reach for the box and lift it, the old dirt clinging to its sides, some falling off behind me, leaving a trail.
“Fine,” Jake says as he’s mounting the rig. “I’ll be on my way then.”
Now what do I do?
I carry the box to the Bentley and place it in the trunk, careful not to disturb the contents (or my interior for that matter).
Where to take this? I wonder. And how did no one find this when the statue was installed?
I decide the best course of action is to take it to the courthouse. I pull up outside and sprint toward the door where I enlist the help of two gossipy office managers and a bailiff, who help me move the box into the lobby.
“Now what?” I ask the bailiff.
He points to the right, where Judge Paul is standing 10 feet away. Since no one who actually works in the building is moving, I decide to take the initiative.
“Uh … Sir?” I tap Judge Paul on the shoulder. “My name is Bentley and I was hired by parks and rec to work on the lawn where the Mick memorial used to be. Well, while we were doing our work, my backhoe buddy found this.”
I point to the box.
Judge Paul strolls over, his eyeglasses perched on his nose. For some reason, he is wearing his robe, which triggered my memory of Fred Gwynn in My Cousin Vinny. (Best movie of all time, hands down.)
“Fascinating,” he whispers, then turns to the office managers. “Tina, call Thornton McHughe right away.”
“Um, sir, who is that?” I ask, sounding as dumb as I feel.
“Our historian,” the judge says. “This is something he will NOT want to miss!”
Jenny Page