Everybody knew the Mayor had a big head. But the replica made it a joke. His twelve-inch mug had been cast fourteen feet tall in colored paper and chickenwire. Hanging high above the crowd that day the piñata was like something from a bad clown dream – maybe funny when you first see it, but completely creepy after you took a step back. One guy blurted out “now that’s a big head.” His neighbor said, “well you KNOW how big the Mayor’s head is.” Considering that, the first nodded “well, yeah.” Made sense that a big head would look even bigger when you scale it up.
People talked in small ways about the piñata, but inside they all felt wretched. Except when the waves of anticipation came. They stood there in yesterday’s puddles – not warmed a bit by the April sun quietly arcing by.
A young teacher stood watching. She had felt angry when she first read of the Mayor’s plan to knock down the old station. Critics agreed it was the most beautiful abandoned structure in the world. And now, like the city’s other grandfatherly buildings whose intricate details won’t be replaced, this gem was coming down. And for what- a trashy casino? A vacant lot? She was pissed.
Finishing the story, her instinct was to walk into the mayor’s office and throw chairs and heavy books at him. Tear it down cause it’s an eyesore? A safety concern? She’d give the bastard a safety concern. She imagined giving him Seriously Loud Smacks. Not the kind where you stop when it hurts, but the kind where you keep winding up until the guy cries “alright, fine- I won’t knock that building down. Ever.” Minutes later she wanted to write him a letter. She started writing it and used the word “idiot” twice and “childish” (or “child”) three times. She tore it up halfway and started another. This one had the words “potential” and “opportunity” along with “safety-concern” and “complicated.” "Selfish" was used, but it was nicely couched in reasonable terms. She felt pretty good about this one as she neared the end, like she was going to level with him eye to eye. But after re-reading it the story seemed flat, like it had lost all emotion.
So she did some things to take her mind off it for a while and later considered other ways to save this treasure. Monkey-wrench the demolition vehicles. Tie herself to the station. Have her students make cards and drawings about how much they love this old building and mail them to the mayor. And then go downtown and kick him in the balls.
The cards might work, she thought. Nothing stops grownups like kids who’ve been manipulated by other grownups. So she felt a bit better. But as a few days passed she lost the fervor of her first impulses, and the building grew smaller in her mind. Then one night she caught wind of the citizens’ plans for the eve of the demolition. Which is where we are today, with the piñata head and the mud and the clear sky above.
The paper head dropped from the crane towards its elliptical shadow. Watching it felt like seeing a giant mechanical hand play yo-yo. Slowly. People were giddy. Number two-hundred-eleven was pulled first. Two-eleven was a wiry old man whose first whack barely budged the paper head. But the crowd roared anyway. Thirty-nine hits finally started a depression, and people were electric. A depression. Yes. Sixty-four swings scored a view of the head’s insides: a dark mass wrapped in wire and tattered paper. At eighty-three, a spout of grey-black poured out from the opening like dead locusts dropping fast. Only a few twists of wire held the large load back.
The next strike exploded through the gash, releasing a flood of seeds. People shouted. Mud was everywhere. Seedpiles grew instantly: dunescapes spreading into the crowd. The people were all energy, grabbing fistfuls of seeds and hurling them into the air. Across the crowd, heads moved in erratic cycles: up to see the show of earthen fireworks, to the side for a high-five, down-low for a too-slow and at their wet shoes pulled from seeds and rustbrown mud.
Chants sprung up over the next couple of hours and almost every person stayed on. Surrounding the empty medeusan shell, the crowd photographed itself, its friends, its neighbors with the station behind. Even the first cold air of night did not deter them, their collective energy warm.
The next morning, the teacher awoke with heavy eyes. She rubbed them, slowly recalling the crowd and the piñata and her sopping clothes. She weighed the memories like a dream pressing full against the morning light.
Minutes later she drove off toward the station, worried that she had missed something.
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