Side Trail
Boredom, Love Birds, and , Whatever happened to the Aztecs?
By Mike Massey
Some occupations carry with them the likelihood of given bouts of boredom. That
being said, I spent a couple years driving big trucks for a living, and as I have been known to experience boredom, on occasion, perhaps as a general condition; one such episode stands out in my mind.
I was transporting a load of super-sonic-crotch-rockets, a.k.a., Thoroughbred race horses, out of New Orleans’ Fairgrounds Park, destined for Chicago’s Arlington Park for the start of their racing season. The carrier I drove for was known for their very shiny, chromed-up rigs, as well as us, nothing-but-the-best, highly-knowledgeable-horseman drivers. It was a real classy outfit, and as such prompted other truck jockeys to request information via the C.B. radio as to the purpose of our mission, and “What the hell are you haulin’ there driver?”, type questions.
Now, after about the eleventh, or ninth time such inquiries were leveled at me, I tended to, as I alluded to earlier, become somewhat less inclined to repeat the same response over and over again every couple of miles, and would normally turn off the radio. Problem solved. It wasn’t that I resented the questions, I just became bored with the same answers. There’s that word again. I really hate that word. And with good reason.
When I was a youngster, if you used that, B, word, you’d best be talking about a slab of wood, on account of if you weren’t, and if you even whispered it within earshot of an adult in charge, you just sentenced yourself to a day of some serious hard labor; the kind that leaves you with a pronounced stutter, should you ever be tempted again to express your f-f-f-f-feelings regarding that condition of being. The same verdict would be imposed immediately upon completion of the phrase, Oohh!, I wish there was something to dooo! Don’t even think about it!
Not that I was lazy or anything, but mucking stalls and stretching barbed wire just wasn’t my cup of tea at the ripe old age of three or four. Not that I felt entitled, but a manure laden toddler in barbed-wire swaddling doesn’t paint a very pretty picture.
I remember the first time that fine was levied against me; but then again, maybe I just remember others reminiscing about it; can’t imagine making the same error twice; I asked my Pa to give me just a minute to grab a few extra diapers and a bottle of milk, and I’d be right along. “ Never too young to learn.” That was his motto, not to be confused with,
“ Never too dumb to learn”, which was mine. I know that I questioned-- to myself--- quietly---in the dark---under the covers---with a pillow over my mouth--- when they weren’t at home, the validity of such, “learning” techniques as were imposed for using that, w-w-w-ord , when letting loose with a good ‘ole string of real cussin’ words, would only get you a mouth soapin’, which didn’t take longer than a couple minutes to serve out, and didn’t raise no calluses. I had a tough time wrapping my mind around that quandary. Looking back now, I suppose I should have been thankful the Army wasn’t accepting midgets at the time, or I could have found myself on the front line in Korea.
While Most people’s homes have a plaque somewhere near the front entrance printed in some form of joyously flowing font, a greeting phrase like, Home Sweet Home, or, Welcome To Or Home, lovingly decorated with hand painted vines and dainty flowers, ours was a chipped, weather beaten slab of barn b-b-b-board with the words, No Whiners!!! clawed in blood, painstakingly applied and secured with a rail road spike to the front door. The Jehovah Witness folks refused to even drive by our place.
Anyway, as I was saying, I was headed north on the interstate with that load of horses when another trucker rolled up on my backend and stayed there awhile. It wasn’t long before he came along side, got on his radio, and made the usual comment about the fancy rig, and asked what I was hauling. Having answered the same question about thirty times already that morning, and feeling sort of playful, I said, “Love Birds!”, figuring he’d just laugh or say something vulgar, and I’d be done with it. Not this driver. He said,
“love birds, are you serious?” I decided to carry it as far as he was willing, and said, “Yea, real pretty ones.” Well, he must have been suffering from the dreaded, “B” condition himself, and as we had all day, I spun him a yarn I was sure nobody would believe, and I could soon go back to being “B’d” myself.
That driver asked questions that only fueled my story, such as, “Are they in cages, or what?” I said, “Nope, just flying around loose. Heck anybody who knows anything about Love Birds, knows you can’t pen ‘em up for more than an hour or so. And as they’re going to New York City, the only way to transport them safely, is to give ’em their little heads.”
He assured me that he didn’t know too much about Love Birds and asked how was I gonna get ‘em out of the trailer once I got there. I convinced him that as I myself possessed a doctorate degree in ornithology, and had done my Master’s Thesis on exotic, South American birds of love, I pretty much had a handle on the how-to’s concerning the safe handling and distribution of rare feathered species such as the delicate little, “Ornithis Amorus”. To my astonishment, that road warrior bought it, hook, line, and sinker, and before I knew it, I had a convoy following me up the super-slab, hanging on my every word. There were drivers wanting to know how much they cost, what was I going to do with them, what do they eat, what color are they, what kind of sound do they make, could they have one, etc. I suddenly realized I had created a forked-tongued big windy, and may be lucky to get outa this one alive. I expected anytime to come up on a road block comprised of crazed PITA hijackers, waiting to do a Rodney King on me, steal my rig, and haul ass with it down to the Bolivian rain forest, from where I had so convincingly informed my loyal following this trip had originated. Or at the very least get pulled into the next chicken house and be subjected to the dreaded going over which the D.O.T. boys are so famous for performing on truckers suspected of transporting illegal anything, and would like nothing better than to break-up this modern day Hallelujah Trail Drive looking affair before things got out of hand.
However, I was having way too much fun at that point, and made the only decision available to me at the time, seeing as how I probably couldn’t outrun that pack of “B” weary love bird junkies’, and felt it my duty to continue. Not to mention that I had discovered the fact that fancy looking rigs, and scholarly types, hauling “Love Birds” is definitely a point of interest from a women’s perspective.
Knowing the question would eventually be asked, a sweet sounding voice with a West Texas drawl came on inquiring what lay in store for my feathered booty once they reached their destination. As always happens when failing to set limits for myself, I nearly goofed, as I answered, “They’re going to the Smithsonian for a special exhibit showcasing the rare indigenous arboreal inhabitants of the Aztec Ruins.”
No sooner had that fabrication passed my lips, when she shot back, “You just said you were going to New York with them…. the Smithsonian is in D.C.” Fearing that the jig could be up, and I would soon be exposed for the lying snake which I had become if I didn’t divert the focus from my obvious conflagration of the facts, I quickly replied, “You are absolutely correct! I was just checking to see if you all were still with me, or if I had unintentionally “B’d” you into the dreaded white line slumber, which so often afflicts our kind.” Then, wiping the beads of perspiration that had suddenly formed on my upper lip, I said, “Bravo!, you delicate little Blue Belle of the Prairie!…“These feathered representatives will be part of the grand opening celebration at the new Smithsonian satellite museum in the Big Apple.” “Trivial!”… replied another faithful follower.
Realizing I had just been given a much undeserved reprieve from what had become a rather impressionable sized hoard of potentially angry, duped, vengeful fellow highwaymen and women, I knew I owed it to them to continue on with the farce, thereby restoring their confidence in me and my saga on the Trail of Love Birds. Unfortunately, some old hank took to the airwaves and spouted, “Hey! If your so educated up, and holding more degrees than a thermometer like you claim, then why are you driving a danged ‘ole truck, Mr. smarty pants?” Sensing there existed at least one remaining Doubting Thomas in the group, I realized more dialog would be needed to reclaim my position at the helm of this shipwreck I’d created. Hoping to quickly bring him back into the fold, I replied, “While any run-of-the-mill tenured professor can stand at a podium all day, pontificating to a group of sponge minded, glassy-eyed college students his rehearsed speeches involving whatever his chosen field of academics qualifies him to expound upon, and never even so much as wrinkle his ascot,…I have chosen to take my educational offerings out amongst my people, whilst, piloting this eighty-thousand pound mechanical behemoth, safely and judiciously across this great land of ours.” “Now get off my radio!”
Hoping that would shut him up, a rather loud guttural belching sound emanated from my radio speaker, proceeded by a lovely, whiskey voiced maiden, asking, “Ain’t he just adorable?” Thanking her, (I think it was a her) for the kind sentiments, I was about to end this oratory catastrophe when the dreadful sound of someone’s microphone key being engaged signaled the approach of yet another yearning question. “But what’s all this got to do with the Aztec Ruins,…. and whatever really happened to those heathen pagans, anyhow?” the voice inquired. Drowning in remorse, I waited, hoping some other…..er, some actual, real life scholar might be monitoring this fiasco, and jump in and save me……..perhaps.
When that curious follower didn’t get a response from ‘ole know it all, he went into his test mode. “Break, one-nine, does anybody copy?” and began to pound on his mouth piece. Another of the faithful reminded the driver we’d changed channels fifty miles back, and were now, as was he, on channel seven. Having that short time to myself and a moment to plan, I decided to give my fans the rest of the story.
I can remember thinking to myself, ‘No wonder Hemmingway was a lush”. Accepting the fact that no one was likely to take over the discussion, I apologized for not answering his question immediately, explaining that I was temporarily engaged in extracting my tongue from my windpipe, as it seemed I had inadvertently come very near swallowing it. “Oh,…. do continue.” came the plea from another information starved listener.
So, I went on as by this time I was curious myself about the mysterious disappearance of the Aztecs, and could hardly wait to hear. As a matter of fact, I suddenly became aware that I had been clinging so near the edge of my seat for so long, that my knees had made permanent indentations in the firewall of my truck.
“Okay! Listen my children and you shall hear,…I started to start, but not being particularly fond of the sound of that, I changed it to: “Evidence points to the long held belief that the Aztec people existed under a ruling monarchy backed up by a rather extensive military force, which in itself was capable of controlling not only the bodies, but the minds of the people as well, thus pretty well insuring the hierarchy’s freedom to impose whatever rules they deemed fitting. As they were an agrarian society who’s wealth, as well as their food supplies, depended greatly on the weather; and being of a culture that worshiped the pagan gods; the monarchy, influenced by the urging of the high priests, at some point began to offer the virgin maidens of the lower classes up as sacrifices to the afore mentioned pagan gods, to insure favorable climatic conditions, and continued bountiful harvests.”
“As you might imagine,” I continued, dying to see where this might lead, “ after many generations of this ceremonial bloodletting, the Aztec brain trust began to notice a marked decline in the population, which meant that the available labor force needed to plant and harvest their massive volume of crops, was in jeopardy.” “Then”, I went on, “They most surely implemented new strict mandates to the peasants, to go forth and multiply. However, they were suddenly aware that there lacked several thousand necessary ingredients required to achieve that goal, as a result of their previous hasty decision to sacrifice generations of virgins to the gods. After much finger pointing and blame tossing for the predicament they found themselves in, some brilliant mind came up with a plan to pray en-mass to the gods to send them a symbol of love and fertility that could be spread among the people to encourage pro-creation. Legend has it that as a result of these prayers, the goddess of love created the dainty Love Birds, and sent them to the Aztec people as requested.”
I then told them how my distinguished colleague and I had come upon a massive Aztec Ruin deep in the Bolivian rain forest, where we discovered not only carved rock symbols resembling the Love Birds, sitting side by side in pairs, each holding the other in what can only be described as mutual wing- locks, (as in head-locks) preening one another’s little heads with their peckers….er, beaks, but also, hundreds of the beautiful little Love Birds as well. It seemed, as we conducted our on-site research, that the Aztecs’ only success regarding their pro-creation efforts applied to the birds themselves, and the little jewels which I was carrying in my well-equipped, all-set-up-to-do-the-job rolling aviary, were the long lost descendants of those ancient times.
Eager for a much needed coffee drain after all that, I wished them all well, and a safe journey, when again, that same persistent heckler from before bellowed, “But you haven’t told us what happened to the disappearing Aztecs, damn you”!
“Oh yea,…that,” I slurred, “Well, as best we could glean from our extensive research, that puzzle may never be solved definitively.” I said, “However, my esteemed long-time research colleague and I, figure that as there were only a few hundred of the Aztecs remaining after their failure to re-populate, due to the fact there were very few if any women, virgin or not, left in the kingdom; and as the remaining Aztec men had for several generations, been forced by the monarchy to attempt to bring about children to replenish the population; those left, faced with starvation, eventually wandered off in a north-westerly direction, following the streams and tributaries leading to the gulf of Mexico, whereby they continued on this path until they came upon the great Pacific Ocean, headed north along the coast and founded a small settlement located on a beautiful inlet bay, and dubbed their new community, “The Kingdom of Man”. Later, when the missionaries discovered their little paradise, and converted all to Catholicism, they established a seminary where many a priest received their early training, and re-named their city what is today known the world over as, San Francisco, California…..CLICK!!
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