BREAD IN THE OVEN--BEEF IN THE WELL

 “An Indian 'Sam' and a negress, slaves of William Hallett jr., of Newtown, [convicted] for the murder of their master, his wife and five children, were burnt at the stake at Jamaica [Queens], and put to all torments possible for a terror to others. Water in a horn fastened to a pole was reached to their mouths to allay their thirst and so prolong their sufferings. Two more negroes were executed as accessories to the crime”- Civil History of Queens County, New York

                                              

     I’ve never been one for the “carnival of death” spectacle. Yet, lynchings and execution as spectator sport has an obvious soft spot in the dark hearts of many. Go on youtube and type in execution and you’ll be inundated with state-sanctioned gore. Between fifteen and forty thousand people showing up for a hanging in an Orange County apple orchard seem like outlandish figures, but if a fraction of that number materialized, the crowd was undoubtedly immense. What drives people to want to witness another’s death? Morbid curiosity? Societal revenge? Boredom?

    There are many photographs of executions (official and otherwise) well into the twenty-first century. The most recent are in Texas and Saudi Arabia. In the old photos the crowds are gleeful; children running around, mugging for the stationary camera, as a dead man dangles in the background, like a lyric from a Abel Meeropol song. In Saudi Arabia, what looks like glum immigrant workers encircle kneeling, hooded Saudi citizens, about to get their heads lopped off. Maybe some of these executed criminals deserved their fates (like the white supremacist in Texas). Nobody deserves the accompanying jubilee.

   The Jennings and Osterhouts were drowned, run over by horses, crushed by falling tree limbs, dropping dead in church, or spilling out half-drunk from an acquaintance’s golf cart (an actual Osterhout death in Florida), left the alien survivors to endure the sheriff’s persistent questioning. A “natural death” was such a rarity in the family, the sheriff’s official inquest was an expected inconvenience. Sometimes an execution of a cousin would follow.

     I don’t like executions, but I do like circuses. I was involved in putting on a circus just outside of Havana in 2003. My old friend, artist Tony Labat, was the instigator and I was just along for the ride. My contribution was a table set up with Holy Water, cigars, and honey (miel) for sale. Like dealing drugs, my business ventures are always dodgy, fraught with absurdity, and not much profit. Alongside the holy commodities, I offered swag— trucker hats and tee-shirts also for sale. This was my product launch for Holy LGM, Inc., in the bastion of capitalism— Habana, Cuba.

     It didn’t take long before I drew the attention of the authorities. The plainclothes Havana Police detective asked in Spanish: “Do you know where you are?” I said I did. “You know a gringo can’t sell in Cuba?” I asked if I could give it away? This took him by surprise. He had no problem with that approach. I gave him a Cohiba and a hat. Over the night of trapeze acts and performance art, I made nothing but goodwill, giving away everything I’d brought with me. Priceless. Social Sculpture at work.   

      

    In Goshen, the “Christian” tone now came fully to the forefront in the polemics of those who sat in judgment on earth, and in dutiful preparation for the souls journey to the beyond. This would be Jack’s way out— through prayer, clerical manipulation and maybe a little “profane swearing.” If not in this life, Jack’s immortal soul would be saved for the other….. Goddamnit!

      Dunning would have none of it. Of all the conspirators, only David Dunning stuck by his complete innocence. He remained uncooperative, unrepentant, and unwillingly to begin his “journey towards salvation,” with a phony confession. In his opinion, he’d done nothing wrong but get caught, and it was the “nigger Jack” who killed the old man, broke the gun over his head, and was now trying to frame him. Hodges, Conklin and Teed, compliantly took to their knees, while Dunning squatted defiantly on his haunches in the corner.

     Hidden within Judge Van Ness’ funeral parlor oratory were the clinical details of state-sanctioned death. The Judge methodically repeated what the convicts had done, reminding them of their guilt, and explained what lay ahead. The sterile reality of phrases like “taken from whence you came…”  was finally sinking in. For the condemned, there was little to do but wait, and dwell upon their sealed fates. It was only March 11^th. The Irish rope maker wasn’t due to arrive in Goshen until the second week of April. 

    For the moment, the rural farm community took a breather. There were overlooked fences to be mended, wood to be gotten in, frozen streams opened up for thirsty cows, leaky roofs patched, wagons fixed and greased. Spring would be upon them before they knew it. Everybody went about their normal tasks, knowing full well they’d be back in town for the April hanging. An elephant in the circus couldn’t have been more gleefully anticipated.