It Came Out Of The Sky

I have decided, after much thought and debate, to relate to you the story of the Flying Goat.

This is not an ordinary story. No, this is a story of blatant sarcasm and possible insanity. So, I can do what I want. As this story progressives you will see what I mean. It has taken me years and intensive therapy to bring you this story. Somewhere in here there is a moral, I just know it.

Years ago, I lived north of Gulfport, Mississippi, in the small suburban community of Orange Grove. There are two things inherently wrong with this from the git go. First, it’s hard to think of Mississippi as having suburbs, and secondly, there sure as hell weren’t any orange trees around.

But living in Orange Grove was fun. I can remember that even though we were suburban, we were still rural enough to be able to run up and down the street buck naked if we chose and never see a cop. With this type of carte blanche we had some powerfully wild times.

I, myself, never participated in any of these incidents of running naked in the streets. I could care less who says they have what evidence, she is lying. Nor was I party to any celebrations involving the ingestion of chemicals, again, regardless of what photos she says she has.

For the most part, I led a pretty sedate life on River Road (its name coming from the fact of the river running behind the house). River Road was a mile to a mile and a half cul-de-sac that required entrance from Dallas Street. Dallas Street was a bit over a mile and a half long, with no houses along its short distance. However, you turned east onto Dallas off of O’Neal Road and right on the corner of the two was a house that sat on about an acre of that corner. There was nothing else on the property but the house and a pumpshed that sat about fifty or sixty away. A lot of suburbanites have to dig their own water wells.

This pumphouse was around seven to eight feet tall, made of sheet metal and two by fours with a roof that slanted at close to a forty-five degree angle. There was nothing surrounding this pumpshed. No bushes, no stumps, old equipment, carcasses of dead farm animals. Nothing that could be used to get a boost onto the pumphouse roof. Though why one would want to get on top of the pumpshed is beyond me, but to each, his own.

As I said, most of this acre of land was just grass. No structures, big trees, cars on blocks, empty trailers or any of the other sites and sounds of rural, redneck America. Just grass. I figure the ole’ boy that lived there (never saw him much, but he was a fat fella in tight-fitting knit polo shirts that showed way too much of his gut) was pretty lazy because if you have a parcel of land that size of nothing but grass, sooner or later it is going to require mowing and this cat had neither push mower, riding mower or bush hog to cut this acre of land when the grass got too high.

What he did have was a goat. A ugly, sloe-eyed, mangy lookin’ goat. I suppose a person shouldn’t hate any of God’s living creatures, but I hated this goat. I never had any problems with this particular goat, nor him with me, but I hated this goat just the same. I have come to begrudgingly believe I hated that goat for the way he looked at me. Or the way he DIDN’T look at me. That walking, flea-ridden garbage disposal had a way of looking right through me. As if I wasn’t there. I didn’t see him looking at anyone else that way, so I did the only logical thing I could do. I took it personally.

I would drive in and out of the cul-de-sac every day, and every day I would see the goat out in the field of grass, serenely, almost stoically eating his way through the yard. I would stop sometimes and watch him bite, chew for an eternity and swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. That’s when I would get the “look” or should I say the “look but not see” look. I know it is childish and juvenile to carry such a grudge against the goat, but Lord help me, I did.

It was because of my hatred for the goat that my stops became more and more frequent. Eventually, I began stopping when leaving my house and again on returning. My resentment festering and seething because this fuckin’ goat wouldn’t acknowlege me by looking me in the eye. And every time I stopped, the miserable wretch of an animal was always doing the same exact thing…...eating his way through the yard. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. Slowly.

I have also came to believe that God throws us some weird curve balls in life strictly for His amusement. I can say this because I have been up to bat many times and have first hand experience. Even being aware of this fact, it never occurred to me the goat would become a curve ball that I’ve never figured out nor forgotten.

One morning on my way to work around 7:00-7:15, I slowly and sleepily made my way out of the cul-de-sac with my first Dr. Pepper of the many I would drink that day. Now, I swear as I live and breathe, that there wasn’t any booze to be found in this drink. Niether had I consumed any other chemicals or potions that would contribute to what happened next. I have thought many times since that I should have.

On rounding the corner of Dallas and O’Neal Roads, I looked for the goat as I did every time I passed and I couldn’t see him anywhere. I thought this odd since he was always visible. Biting, chewing, swallowing. Biting, chewing, swallowing.

I was scanning the property more carefully, when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. It looked like something had fallen off the pumphouse. When I looked, I recieved the biggest shock of my life.

There, on top of the pumphouse stood the goat. Chewing and swallowing. Chewing and swallowing. He wasn’t biting anything because there wasnt a thing on the roof but tin. I’m still not sure if he was dining on that. He’s a goat. He could’ve been.

I have related to you the description of the pumpshed and its surroundings and to repeat, there was nothing around the shed that the goat could have used to get himself up there. So, I did the only thing I could do, I thought about it. Presently, I decided that what I had on my hands was none other than the world’s first undocumented ( or demented, depending on your point of view) case of a Flying Goat.

I turned my car around and raced back to my house for a camera, hurried back down the street to take the snapshot, all the while dreaming of fame, prestige, honor, and of course, riches. When I returned to my spot and looked, there was the fuckin’ sorry goat sitting at the fence enjoying his grass. With a loud groan I jammed the car into park and waited. Surely this goat would get back up there and when he flew up onto the pumpshed roof, yours truly was going to capture the moment for millions of people (dollars).

I waited. And waited. And waited. Then waited some more. I ended up being about an hour and a half late for work. At the time I felt it would be ok to be late because I would have photographic proof of what detained me and how could my boss be mad at me with proof of such a phenomenon?

As you can guess, the lousy, good-for-nothin’ goat did not fly back onto the roof of he shed. I waited for awhile and all he did for the rest of my watch was bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow.

When I got to work, my boss was a little perturbed to say the least. As I began to relate the story to him, a look of utter astonishment came over his face. “You been drinkin’ again this mornin’, Greg?” I knew the question was coming because he had begun to get closer to me in an attempt to smell my breath. I don’t think he was ever really satisfied or convinced I was sober. He wrote me up and chastised me for two things. One, being that late for work and two, for coming up with such a blatantly ridiculous excuse. No amount of talk could persuade him I was telling the truth. After a long time of trying, it occurred to me that he thought I was crazy. Or under the influence, or had been kidnapped by aliens or some such nonsense. Our relationship never recovered from the incident of the Flying Goat.

As I stated, til this day, I never saw the goat fly onto the pumpshed roof. Never. Oh, I saw him up there from time to time. I was never able to catch him in the act of flying up there, but I KNOW he had to fly. There was no possible way for him to get up there any other way. I carried my camera with me for a long time after that just to get a picture of it to show my boss. Even though I quit not long after that incident. I could not get over that damn goat.

I have related this story to a few people, to the same result. They look at me as if I were an idiot. I may be. But I swear to the God of Double Coupon Days at the Piggly Wiggly, that it happend just like I said it did.

You may not believe me. That is your option. Sometimes, I don’t beleive myself. I even tried numerous times to get loaded enough to possibly recreate the scenario. But alas, to no avail.

As stated, I think there is a moral here somewhere. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out what it is. We had a major flood in the area months later and I never saw the goat again. I think he may have drowned in the high water. But how could that possibly be?

He was a Flying Goat.

Peace.