Sinful tales are apt to be tall ones, and for good reason, too. Wrongdoings of the past are made less questionable by romanticism and judicious augmentation, and thereby encourage future mischief in good faith. Future mischiefs guarantee future stories, as their progenitors have done, and good stories are indispensable for any kind of quality in life. It is therefore proper, when hearing a tale that smacks of hyperbole, to accept its veracity at face value, for there is little to be gained by doing otherwise.
In the deepest South such hyperbolic tales oftentimes turn out to be completely true—their grandiosity is often more a product of the telling than any fabrication of fact. I attended a dinner, not all that many years ago, at which this story was related to me and the other guests with such fervent assurance of its hand-to-Almighty-God truth that I do not doubt it, for I have seen equally strange things with my own eyes.
Not all that many years ago, a Ms. F— of Little Rock hosted a dinner party at her home to which I had the privilege to be invited. The topic arose, as it often did in those days, of all the illicit manners in which we and those we’d known sought pleasure from the various substances, usually those fermented or distilled, but also other, more exotic forms on rare occasion. This generally led to the swapping of stories, each attempting to top the last in depravity or general lack of responsibility. As our dinner and our wine gradually disappeared we became more enthusiastic in our telling, and thus each party was but a little more willing to seek out his or her own best story.
Giggling and with devilish eyes, Ms. F— raised her hand and her glass to silence the room. Looking for a story? she seemed to say, Now I’ve got a story….
Her brother was a young man, whose love of the bottle outstripped his legal capacities. This is a complication for all young hellhounds, who rightfully disregard the law’s disinclination to honor their sacred right for imbibing—after all, they say, any man old enough to die for his country ought well be old enough to drink in it. Still, as is the case in such injustices, it is not often that an officer of the peace will so easily see things in such a light. Therefore, Mr. F— and his fellows had, to the delight of those around them, a cabin far outside the lights of the town. In many parts of the Deep South, where pockets of civilization spring up, polite society is connected by road but is more or less geographically isolated within vast woodlands—dark, dense, and full of spiders.
The Southern woods are a special kind of creepy, with a long, lamentable history of something terrible. They are so very dark, with no sign of developed land or civilized society anywhere. Where there are buildings, like this cabin, there is always an eerie demarcation between this flicker of civilization and the woods, where the faint light of a lone structure fades off into the darkness, hot and sticky and buzzing with the deafening cry of a hundred thousand crickets, give or take. When one is on the edge of a Southern wood on a summer night, the crickets and the heat and the unseen cracking of twigs belie one thing—in all this stillness, you are literally surrounded by all manners of living things unseen.
All this darkness tucked away from prying eyes of civilization makes a good place for young, well-meaning revelers to hide from the obnoxious gaze of Johnny Law. And so Mr. F— would hold his debaucherous gatherings in that hidden cabin, where rebellious young men and women would come to drink large amounts of beer and feel like adults and hope for the chance of touching one another. It was on the once such night that Mr. Forbess, a true host if ever there was one, entertained a special guest.
Mr. Forbess sat on the back porch in the late night, sipping at his beer and puffing smoke from his cigarette, while he discussed matters of his day with good friends. It was a muggy Arkansas night, but there were occasional wafts of breeze that kept the mind sharp and the warm stillness bearable. There were parts of Arkansas affixed between the bayou and the Delta, where one constantly feels as if wading in a pool of stagnant water, and on those breezy nights people take great pleasure in being able to comfortably pass time outdoors.
It was in this lazy stillness that a silent visitor crept through the shadowed railings and edged further into the few lights. He crept cautiously, but with mounting confidence, and scurried to the nearest cooler.
Mr. F—’s guest, heretofore occupied contemplating his buzz, became suddenly and intensely aware of the small, furry visitor.
“Dude!” he is said to have exclaimed, “There’s a fucking raccoon!”
“Hm?” said Mr. F—, coming out of his own daze. He looked behind his chair toward the shadowy railing to notice that there was, indeed, a fucking raccoon lurking. “Oh,” he replied, unperturbed. “That’s Crankshaft. He’s cool.”
His guest, a friend but first-time visitor to the cabin, gaped at what he had been brought up to believe was a vexatious and likely disease-ridden garbage raider, more suitable to meet with a garden rake than with hospitality. New to Mr. F—’s cabin, however, he was unaccustomed to this raccoon named Crankshaft, or, indeed, any raccoons with names at all. Crankshaft, though, was no stranger to Mr. Forbess’ wooded estate, and he made himself comfortable accordingly. Mr. F—, in turn, reached toward the cooler Crankshaft had been rustling around—as is the nature of raccoons—and brought out one bottle of beer, popped it open, and sat the bottle down before his new guest. Crankshaft, then seated on his haunches, pursed his tiny raccoon lips to those of the bottle, sniffed three times, and drank.
“Bullshit,” I said, rudely interrupting Ms. F—’s story.
“I know how it sounds,” she said, “but God’s honest truth.”
My impudence was not ill-received—most of the other dinner guests felt rightly that bullshit should be called. The very logistical implication of a feral pawed animal lifting a beer bottle was itself suspect.
Ms. F— eased our suspicion. “It’s really not that hard to believe. Haven’t you ever seen a raccoon going about its business? Anyone who’s seen one rifling through their garbage knows they have incredible dexterity. Really, if you were to set a bottle directly in front of a raccoon for its consideration, you would be more surprised if it didn’t at least attempt to get at what’s inside."
This argument, framed in such a way, seemed reasonable to us. Raccoons are very inventive little rascals. We allowed it.
Crankshaft sat upon the ground and communed silently with the men. They were able to relax in that way for some time after the shock of the raccoon encounter ceded. Soon Mr. F— considered it time to rejoin his party inside. He entered through the back door with his friend, and Crankshaft followed. Of course, Mr. F— had other guests who were not acquainted with this new visitor, and they were predictably shocked by his presence as well. There were a few ladies present, and so Crankshaft, when he was finally noticed, caused quite a noisy stir.
“OH MY GOD,” came the cry, “THERE’S A FUCKING RACCOON! GET IT, GET IT! GET!”
“No, everyone, it’s okay,” Mr. F— assured them. “This is Crankshaft. He’s cool.” He then walked into the kitchen, Crankshaft in tow, who cleared his own way by virtue of his furry presence. He took two fresh bottles from the refrigerator, popped one open for himself, and placed the other down for his feral friend, who once more rested on his backside and partook of the delicious fermented beverage.
It took some time, but before too long the others came around. Once he was accepted as non-threatening, Crankshaft became the object of everyone’s adulation. How cool is it, they would say, that our party is so much fun that wild animals will come to it? Men played friendly beer pong rounds against him (he wasn’t very good), and ladies went out of their way to get a picture with the little rascal. Crankshaft scuttled awkwardly to the blaring music, he pawed friskily at ladies’ bra straps, and he cuddled adorably with anyone looking for a hug. Crankshaft the Raccoon turned out to be quite the bon vivant, at least as far as feral scavengers go. He was genteel and gracious, making no trouble and wanting none in return. He was a hit.
“Well,” I said, “That’s sounds a little more reasonable.”
A friend at my left turned his attention my way. “Does it?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “I think maybe you’re still incredulous because you’ve never seen a raccoon in the house before. At least, I’m assuming that’s right?”
He affirmed that he, in fact, had not entertained a raccoon.
“There you go. You’re thinking about deer, or possums, or moles, or other animals that are shy. A possum would run for his life at the very sound of a bottle opening, let alone a house full of rowdy partygoers. But raccoons aren’t shy animals. They’ll get straight up into anything they can once they get the feeling it’s okay. Apparently, the social problem with raccoons is that no one’s ever invited one in before.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. F—. She and I were now clearly thinking along the same lines, and I was convinced. She continued, “It’s not as if Crankshaft just appeared out of the woods one day and went right into a loud living room. My brother had been letting him spend time on that porch for weeks, maybe months, I couldn’t say. But however long it was, that raccoon was definitely in his comfort zone by the night of that party. Who knows how many times they threw parties that Crankshaft stayed away from? I suppose this was just the one he finally decided was safe to go to.”
“Exactly,” I said. “In fact, it’s more surprising that there aren’t more stories of party-crashing raccoons; they’re practically engineered for getting into other people’s business.”
“That’s right. And drinking their beer.”
I nodded. “And drinking their beer.”
Any good party will wear down the best of us, and so too was the case for Crankshaft. Around three o’clock in the morning, we’re told, Crankshaft yawned mightily and began making his way toward the same rail through which he had so casually slinked a few hours before. The party was winding down, but for a raccoon, three o’clock is mighty early for turning in—I suppose in procyonid years Crankshaft might have been an old-timer, and two unfinished beers is an awful lot of hooch for a woodland quadruped.
Mr. F— went out with a few stalwart revelers to smoke a few more cigarettes. Their talk of the day’s issues grew tiresome for the visitor, and Crankshaft quietly took his leave. Now, I am certain that Crankshaft did not drink two whole beers on his lonesome, just as I am sure that someone probably came along and finished those beers after he’d finished plunging his hairy snout into them. But still, Crankshaft had had quite enough to drink for one night, and it came time for him to sleep it off. There isn’t much beer that can fit into a tiny raccoon belly.
With many revelers either falling asleep or taking their leave, Crankshaft followed suit by doing both. He ambled out through the railing, slinked off hardly noticed into the darkness, and crept shakily up the nearest tree. Within moments Crankshaft had nestled into a comfortable bough and passed soundly into sleep.
Mr. F— continued talking with his few still-waking guests, though alcohol and fatigue wore on their constitutions as well. But it was a fine night and a comfortable one, less muggy than most that had come over many months, and they lit one more cigarette to enjoy it just a few moments longer. It was just then they heard rustling in the branches, as Crankshaft rolled over in his sleep. It is very unfortunate that raccoons can also fall prey to the same evils as men, for in his deep slumber, Crankshaft did not notice his nesting become unstable—he rolled just an inch too far it seems, and right out of his warm and cozy branches. Crankshaft fell hard and fast into the wooded ground, where he died on contact.
“That,” I said, “is a hell of a story.” The whole table agreed. We brought out some bourbon, as dinner had run its course, and we raised our glasses to Crankshaft.
The veracity of that story, I suppose, will always be a matter of some dispute. I never knew Ms. F— to be anything but honest and forthright, though I admit I have never met her brother, and so I am not able to judge his character. Still, my trust in her is firm, and if she deems her brother’s word genuine, then I have no reason to doubt it. Byron tells us that truth is stranger than fiction, and Twain elaborates that it is because fiction is obligated to stick to possibilities. Mr. Twain should have heard Crankshaft’s story. Like many good stories it only seems impossible at a glance; after further consideration seems almost like a statistical inevitability, given the sheer number of raccoons out there. If Ms. F— tells me it is a true story then I believe her, and stranger things have happened. As I’ve said, I have very little to gain by doubting it, and I would be remiss—and shameful—if I were to dishonor him by doing so. To cast doubt on Crankshaft’s memory would be no better than to cast aspersions on him.
