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The Perception Pig Incident

I wasn't at Gauley Fest this year but heard from a friend about the Perception greased pig chase that took place. It involved a number of young boys in a virtual rugby scrum against a small, terrified piglet. "Must be a guy thing," she said. I reckon so, but the incident did remind me of something similar that took place in my life many years ago: the time I wrestled a carnival bear.

It was autumn and the annual Lion's Club sponsored county fair was just getting underway. The traveling midway had rolled into town with the news that a "rasslin' bear" was taking on all-comers. Yes, Victor the Wrestling Bear was coming to my home town and word had it that he was undefeated after a thousand bouts, including one with the renown professional wrestler Gorgeous George. Stay with Victor for three minutes, if you dare and if you can, was the challenge. So the opening night found me full of piss and vinegar attending the fair for the sole purpose of taking on this Victor. As I strolled around, a bouncy organ rendition of Under the Double Eagle blared from the speakers overhead. The old Ferris wheel of my childhood, a converted waterwheel, sat idle as a newer one, the property of the traveling show, spun like a psychedelic sombrero in the nightsky. It must have been 8 PM before anyone began to stir around Victor's duck-tented lair, no doubt timed for a peak crowd. A rotund man in a bedrabbled suit stepped from behind the curtained facade and began thumping his microphone.

"Test...test...test....

"Step this way, folks! See Victor the Wrestling Bear! He stands seven feet tall and weighs five hundred and fifty pounds!" announced the stage-pacing spieler. A crowd began to gather as he repeated the promulgation; a gaggle of young boys pushed to near the front of the stage. As if on cue, the velvet curtains began to rustle then opened and out walked a goateed keeper leading a chained and lumbering black bear across the stage. The crowd exhaled a collective suspiration of amazement and took a step back.

"Stand!" said the keeper, slowly waving a wooden staff Moses-like in the air.

The huge bear rocked back several times on his haunches then reared up, towering above everyone.

"Ohhhhhhhh!" went the crowd as it took another step back.

More people walked up to view this curiosity, swelling the crowd.

"Step this way, folks! See Victor the Wrestling Bear! He eats one hundred and fifty pounds of steak a week and drinks fifty Coca Colas. He's never been defeated or tied in a wrestling match! He's been on the TV, acted in Hollywood movies, and--step back there boys...I can't be responsible if this thing grabs you up--we need a few of you brave men to wrestle Victor!"

The spieler began to survey the crowd, looking for volunteers. A drunk stepped forward. "I'ul ras-Sel...tHatt beAr...I hAin't skeRt..." he slurred.

"Come on up here my friend. We need three more challengers, folks!"

A stout young man wearing a high school football letterman's jacket jumped up on the stage. Number 63 of the Red Raiders the jacket revealed. A gray uniformed rider sitting astraddle a reared horse was embossed over the heart, commemorating the area's Confederate forebears.

"Two more, please!"

Burly farmers averted their eyes when he looked their way.

"I'll go," I said, quickly stepping up on the stage.

>From the elevated stage I spotted an old high school acquaintance in the crowd--Sonny Beech--who had married my high school sweetheart while I was away in the service. He was standing there with his wife. Somehow the spieler spied him too--probably because Sonny had a pretty woman hanging on his arm--and chided him a bit, even called into question his manhood...

And then we had four.

We marched gratis backstage and sat on a small wooden bench outside a coal-black iron cage and awaited our fate. I sat next to the drunk. Victor trudged slowly by, following his keeper inside the cage. Victor had been declawed and wore a leather muzzle but still cast an imposing figure. The door closed behind them with a sturdy, metallic "Clank!" and outside I could hear the hooey-hawking continuing:

"Step right this way folks! Only three dollars--one dollar for children--to watch each of those brave young men enter the cage and take on Victor the Wrestling Bear! Four bouts for only three dollars! Whatta deal! ...thank you sir...thank you ma'am...one dollar for you there little girl...here's you change, sir...much obliged...appreciate it, young man...hey! you can't take that bottle inside...."

It wasn't long before we had a standing room only crowd backassed inside--more people than I had seen at the Broad River Tent Revival the previous Saturday night. The smell of sawdust, wet canvas, and various body and food odors filled the enclosure. Amalgamation Proclamation, spaketh the corn dog.

"Who's gonna be first?" shouted the spieler.

"I'ul go fiRsH," mumbled the drunk. He was led to the cage door where the keeper let him in.

"Okay," shouted the keeper. "No hitting or punching or kicking--wrestling only--and you have three minutes...but remember, Victor won't need three minutes!" Laughter filled the tent.

The keeper unhooked the chain and stepped back out of the way. Suddenly Victor became an agile creature--quick as lightning--belying the image of the ponderous bruin I had fixed in my mind. The drunk never had a prayer. Victor lunged and with a quick sweep of his paw swatted him off his feet then sat down on top of him. Ten seconds, tops.

"Het hiM oF-FiN mE," grunted the drunk.

"Stand!" said Victor's handler, slowly waving the wooden staff. Victor stood, releasing his vanquished challenger. The drunk staggered out of the cage and pushed his way through the crowd, parting it like the Red Sea when he spewed forth some foul bile into the sawdust. Who hath woe and babbling? They who tarry long at the wine, sayeth the corn dog.

The-Stout-Young-Man-Wearing-The-Football-Jacket went next. He took off his jacket and pitched it back into his seat then entered the cage. The handler explained the rules again and stepped back. Victor flash-lunged at The-Stout-Young-Man-Wearing-The-Football-Jacket, but was met with a shoulder block. Victor then quickly spun right and slapped at the young man's feet. The young man began to jump each time Victor's paw swiped past until he shucked when he should have jived. At that instant Victor nabbed one of his feet and yanked it from under him. Again Victor sat in conquest on the chest of a vanquishee. Thirty seconds by my count. As the young man left the cage, he seemed to be sporting a bit more of a gut than I had first noticed.

Victor then double-pawed a bottle of Coca Cola proffered by his handler, rearing back on his haunches and chugging it; a refreshing paws, so to speak.

Sonny then moved forward, mumbling something about "getting this over with" as he walked past me to the cage. The handler spelled out the rules once again then retreated. Victor charged Sonny, grappling at his feet and generally making things warm for my old high school...chum. Sonny bucked and hopped much like a monkey with a case of the Saint Vitas Dance, then actually went shoulder to shoulder with the bear and shoved it back. Heckfire, I thought as I slid forward in my seat. Would you look at this! Sonny is holding his own! But this brief pause in an otherwise downward spiral soon passed. Victor caught Sonny behind both knees and sent him to the canvas. Forty-five seconds, I'd guess. Victor Victorious.

And then there was one.

The three previous bouts had revealed one thing for certain: Victor always went for the feet or legs, quickly sweeping or pulling them from underneath the opponent before immersing him in five hundred and fifty pounds of bearmeat. I knew I had to keep my legs out of his reach and armed with this knowledge I entered the iron den. The keeper again stated the rules then stepped away. I quickly tied-up jaw to jaw with Victor, hoping to thwart that overwhelming rush that had proved to be too much for the others. Jaw to jaw with a huge bear--there is something primordial in that. It awakens an ineffable sensation that takes one back to a time when bear and man were perhaps equals, and I knew full well what dire straits I'd have been in had he not been declawed and muzzled. His hair--fur--was coarse and some musty pheromone wafted up, telling me that I was not at the zoo or looking out nose-pressed-against-the-window from a car driving through the Smokies. We must have looked like some strange, revolving A-frame to the crowd as we grappled and pushed in the center ring. Quickly and unexpectedly Victor shot a paw under my armpit and around my torso then flipped me ass over teacup into the canvas--so much for my leg tactic theory. He sat down on top of me--all five hundred and fifty pounds--and stared into my face. Suddenly his long tongue snaked out of the muzzle and he began lapping me in the face. Uncle, Victor. At least a minute had elapsed by my count; bite me, Sonny.

"Stand," the keeper said. And I did--after Victor, of course. I brushed myself off and left the cage. Victor was killing another Coca Cola the last time I saw him.

I meandered around the fair grounds for awhile longer, trading wit and insults with several swarthy carneys wheedling their various games-of-chance from the colorful tents that lined the midway. I then went home.

* * *

Now what does this have to do with the Perception piglet? I'm not sure. A lot of time has passed since the night I met Victor; that was another age and things like that were perhaps more acceptable then. If I encountered such a thing now, I'd think it tacky at best and cruel and unnecessary at worst (I do know that Victor's keeper loved his bear and the stick he held was meant more for some wine-fuzzed yahoo who wanted to kick or punch rather than simply wrestle). But if such a contest were to take place today, then let it be with a five hundred and fifty pound bear, or an agitated red-assed baboon, or a teeth-clopping boar-hog. Level the playing field, so to speak. Then: "Step this way, folks."

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