A million years before you and I came along, our ancestors ran from all kinds of things. These people were covered in hair and they carried sharp sticks, but they ran screaming like schoolgirls all the time. A saber-toothed this, a snub-nosed that. It didn’t matter. If the beast was bigger than a cave mouse, our primitive kin ran from it like sissies, tossing their spears aside as they fled.
Not that you can blame them. When I stood nose to nose with a rampaging bull in downtown Lewiston a week ago, I felt those primitive urges to run away with arms flailing. And when I say nose to nose, I mean I was standing roughly 12 feet away from the beast while braver souls tried to corral the thing with ropes and sections of fence.
But that’s not important. What’s important is that the bull that thundered into Lewiston sent completely macho men scrambling into the backs of pickup trucks, up trees and over fences. And rightfully so. That was one ton of human-stomping fury, and nobody wanted a piece of that. This is Lewiston, people. If we wanted to be Pamplona, we’d move our city to Spain.
What I find curious is that the bull opted to head down Webster Street and onto Orange when he hauled his massive bulk over a rodeo fence. We’re talking Webster Street, people. We’re talking neatly trimmed grass, freshly painted houses and colorful lawn ornaments. He may have looked like a mean machine of horns, hooves and flaring nostrils, but that bull was no fool. And while I’m not saying the beast was a little fraidy cat, I’m thinking he might have been.
Had the bull hung a left on Bartlett Street instead of steering toward neighborhoods where butterflies flutter and wind chimes chime, things could have turned out differently. On Webster Street, people aren’t accustomed to stomping and grunting. On Bartlett Street, they are.
I can see the bull tromping to Bartlett and Walnut, thinking he’s all big and bad and fearsome. I can see him turning those black eyes toward someone on the corner and expecting appropriate fear. But it wouldn’t have been forthcoming. At Bartlett and Walnut, attitude is as thick as smog and 2,000 pounds of meat is just another meal waiting to be eaten.
Some young hooligan, with ball cap turned backward, would have stepped right up and challenged the bull. They would have stood nose to nose, nostrils flaring. The bull would have been scratching a hoof on the street, preparing for a mauling. The young man would have his arms outstretched in that way that says: “I’m right here. You want some of this? This is my house! My house!”
The bull could have encountered a prostitute had he chosen a different route. In downtown Lewiston, prostitutes are so bold they’ve been known to strut their stuff to off-duty policemen in cars. The prostitutes will pounce on anything that lingers too long at a stop sign. Do you believe they would be intimidated by 2,000 pounds of bovine? A sale is a sale, people. And how does a bull respond to a line like: “Hey, big fella. You looking to party tonight?”
The beast could have stumbled upon a hard drinker reeling from one of the downtown bars. The old-timers in particular remember the bull mascot from the Schlitz Malt Liquor days. Run across one of those guys at last call, and it’s bad news for the bull. The animal would have been chased down, tackled and beaten upon by the beer-breathing reveler insisting on his free case of brew.
The bull could have been mugged for his leather. He could have been sold a few crack rocks and then beaten when he failed to deliver the coin. He could have been exposed to ear-rupturing rap music, subjected to somebody else’s religion, been pressed for ID by police in the park, been given a parking ticket or approached by an annoying editor insisting to know his age and home address.
The bull would have never survived a night in downtown Lewiston. And so he took an alternate route and ended up in a quiet section, where girlie men like me reacted with the panic he is accustomed to. Which leads me to believe that beasts are smarter than men. They just pretend they’re not so we’ll leave them the hell alone.
Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. Ask him about his metaphorical bullfighting at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com
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