(And Nearly Succeeded)
A Piedmont Lantern Story
Folks in Piedmont will tell you there’s only two kinds of trouble. The kind Jimmy Matthew Cartwright goes lookin’ for, and the kind that comes lookin’ for him.
On April Fool’s Day, these two troubles clasped hands like long-lost cousins and skipped straight down Ladiga Street together.
Now, Jimmy Matthew woke up that morning with an idea already buzzin’ around in his head. That, all by itself, should have been enough to put the sheriff on standby and warn the Baptists to secure their potluck tables. For reasons no one understood, Jimmy had decided April Fool’s Day was a time for “civic improvement.”
“I’m aimin’ to raise Piedmont up,” he told Jim Leroy as they sat on the curb outside the Jitney Jungle, munchin’ on Moon Pies and watchin’ the world go by. “Folks don’t know how good they got it, so I’m gonna make things better.”
Jim Leroy, who had more sense in his left ear than Jimmy had in his entire skull, said, “Now, Jimmy Hardhead, you know these inspirational ideas of yours usually end up in the emergency room.”
Jimmy thumped his chest proudly.
“Not this time. I got a plan.”
And that was the moment the sun slipped behind a dark cloud without a silver lining, the birds fled, and a tremor of cosmic forewarning rustled through every pine tree on Dugger Mountain.
Jimmy Matthew’s Plan, as later written up in the police notes, the church prayer list, and the Piedmont Historical Society’s file marked “Local Incidents, Unexplained,” consisted of three parts.
Part One: The Improvement of Public Morale
Jimmy painted a sign that read
FREE MONEY OUT BACK
and nailed it to the side wall of the dime store.
He didn’t provide any money.
“Civic enthusiasm,” he explained, “is the first step toward prosperity.”
The crowd that gathered was sizable. The anger was sizable, too. The sheriff, who had been in office long enough to recognize the handwriting, simply sighed and checked “Jimmy Matthew” in the mental box he kept labeled Prime Suspects.
Jimmy insisted it was a “test of faith in municipal generosity.”
The sheriff insisted it was disorderly conduct.
They agreed to disagree, and Jimmy was told to leave municipal structures alone for the remainder of the day.
He didn’t.
Part Two: Beautification
Jimmy decided Piedmont needed a new town mascot. Without askin’ for permission, he borrowed Old Man Spruell’s billy goat, painted it gold with leftover craft glitter, and tied a sash around its middle that read:
PIEDMONT’S PRIZE GOAT OF THE YEAR!
That ungrateful goat didn’t care as much as you might think for its civic responsibilities. He escaped right off the bat.
Within minutes, that glitter-coated projectile thundered up and down Ladiga Street, buttin’ mailboxes, chasin’ the Methodist ladies, and leavin’ a shimmering trail behind it that made the whole town look like it had been visited by a drunk fairy with boundary issues.
Jimmy defended hisself by explainin’ he “hadn’t done nothin’ but unleash Piedmont’s natural resources.”
Old Man Spruell defended hisself by swearin’ vengeance.
The billy goat was eventually caught, but they never could get all the glitter out of his fleece. He sparkled for years.
Part Three: A Public Service Announcement
Jimmy felt like Piedmont needed a wake-up call. A reminder to appreciate life.
So, he borrowed (yet again, without notification) the volunteer fire department’s loudspeaker and announced from atop the water tower:
“ATTENTION PIEDMONT. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. SOMETHIN’ AWFUL IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN.”
Folks ran onto porches.
Some prayed.
Some threw open cellar doors.
Mrs. Estelle Baker reportedly fainted and fell so hard her wig flew right into her prized bougainvillea bushes.
The sheriff radioed Jimmy sharply: “What in the pluperfect hell is goin’ on out there?”
Jimmy cheerfully replied, “April Fool’s! Piedmont oughta lighten up.”
The sheriff’s reply is not suitable for the delicate sensibilities of our gentle readership.
But here is the funny part.
The part no one saw coming.
Just as Jimmy stepped down from the water tower ladder, the metal gave a great groan. A bolt sheared loose. The siren, which had not worked since the late nineties, suddenly sparked to life and let out one last dramatic wail before dyin’ again forever.
Witnesses claimed the sound resembled a banshee havin’ an argument with a chainsaw.
The town froze.
Jimmy just blinked and said,
“See? I told y’all somethin’ was about to happen.”
And for reasons no one has ever understood, the entire town busted out laughin’.
Even the sheriff. Even Estelle Baker, once somebody liberated her wig.
Because it dawned on them right then and there that Piedmont had survived storms and scandals and Silas Caffrey, and the time the water tower painted itself green from algae. And if Piedmont could survive Jimmy Matthew Cartwright on April Fool’s Day, it could survive anything.
By sundown, the town felt lighter.
Brighter.
More alive.
Which, in a crooked, sideways fashion, meant Jimmy had indeed succeeded in “improvin’ Piedmont.”
Not by wisdom.
Not by caution.
Not by careful civic planning.
But by bein’ Jimmy Matthew. The boy who tried to help and nearly destroyed the infrastructure, yet somehow left everyone feelin’ better than before.
And if that ain’t the spirit of April Fool’s Day, then I don’t know what is.
olbigjim 