The Great Hurwitz Pie Incident
or,
In Defense of Apple Pie
By Al Decker
1255 words
Twas round about midnight when I got my marching orders from the Biotic
Baking Brigade (BBB), sent from the General HQ and secret ovens located
deep in the heart of Headwaters Forest. Maxxam C.E.O. Charles Hurwitz was
having a hush-hush, high-level emergency damage control meeting the next
day. My assignment was to penetrate the security surrounding the event,
locate Hurwitz. . . and pie him.
I made every effort to get out of it, telling myself I was too busy, that
I'd never get near him, that the meeting had been relocated as rumor
bespoke. Yet I knew that I had to do it. For how often does Humboldt
County's Public Enemy #1 actually come out to the place he's destroying?
According to the book The Last Stand, June '91 was the last time he graced
our presence.
Hurwitz' crimes are legendary, and have been well-detailed in this
publication; they provide many compelling reasons for pieing Hurwitz.
Actually living in a place where many people spend thousands of hours of
time, get arrested, and risk their lives to stop his destruction only
intensifies one's feeling of outrage. And last but not least, it's a
scandal that after a few decades of dodging criminal prosecution and
federal investigations of his dodgy business practices, and currently
facing more lawsuits, he can still organize HumCo's top business,
government, media, and law enforcement officials in a secret meeting with
no public access or input.
So the next morning I headed up to Scotia, Pacific Lumber's (PL) company
town, with the idea of first engaging Mr. Hurwitz in a debate over various
and sundry subjects such as biz ethics, clear cutting, herbicide spraying,
etc. As I drove past Stafford, where eight houses had been destroyed by a
mudslide from a PL clearcut during last winter's rains, I prayed to the
spirits for strength and guidance, for the ability to find the man most
responsible for this and other devastation he's wrought.
When I strolled up to the front doors of the Scotia Inn, I reflected
momentarily at my appearance: beat-up running shoes, mismatched socks,
cut-off jean shorts, Friends of the Wolf t-shirt, denim jacket, Irishman's
wool cap, long-hair and beard. Though I wasn't looking my Sunday best, and
would stand out from the suits, tourists, and loggers who patronize the
Inn, there had been no time to go home and change; and it was too late to
turn back now.
As everyone involved in direct action knows, the life force works in
mysterious and wondrous ways, and helps people pull off things that defy
rational logic. So when two security men blocked my entrance, I realized
that the only thing to do was just relax and go for it. I flashed back on
trying to get into bars when I was 15, and the bouncer would have no good
reason to let in a tall skinny kid with braces and pimples; but if you
looked him straight in the eyes, smiled outrageously, and said the right
thing, it sometimes worked. PL security chief Carl Anderson asked me what I
was doing, so I smiled and said I was meeting someone, which after all was
true.
After some negotiation, I was escorted in, and miraculously made my way to
the dining room, where I was eyed nervously by the patrons. I took a seat
and spent the next hour drinking coffee on an empty stomach and pondering
my predicament. What with Anderson watching me from the door, one of his
men cleverly concealed behind a pillar three tables away, and another guard
eyeing me from his truck outside the window, things did not look
particularly auspicious. The situation was so surreal that I alternated
between chuckling to myself nervously, and having hot flashes of paranoia,
as I thought I was all alone in PL's domain. Furthermore, it was so weird
to think about sharing the same Euclidean space with Hurwitz, this man that
few of us have seen and even fewer spoken with.
I decided to go outside, and to my surprise a small EF! contingent was in
front with banners and guitars. Shortly thereafter, a group of well-heeled
individuals carrying green notebooks began exiting the Inn and driving away
in expensive cars. Nobody would talk about the meeting or the contents of
the green notebooks, which one could only assume was the game plane (at
this point, the endgame) for spin control and dealing with the upcoming
season of protests.
Then, lo and behold, none other than the Dark Prince himself appeared at
the door, surrounded by an entourage of cronies, handlers, cops, and
security. I politely asked Messier Hurwitz if I could speak with him, but
he dismissed me abruptly, explaining that he had a plane to catch. At that
point, I knew that the pie which I just so happened to have in my backpack
was destined to end up upon said villain's head.
Fearing that I would get tackled or shot if I reached too quickly into my
backpack, I then asked him for an interview on tape as I slowly reached for
the nefarious weapon, and maneuvered between a gap in the entourage over to
Hurwitz's side. I had a brief moment to repeat the BBB's battle cry, "it's
a good day to pie!," and then I was in motion, a few fast steps and rapid
predator-prey imaging bringing me right up behind him. The balding top of
his head reminded me of a PL clearcut, where the decadent old-growth, once
gone, has failed to regenerate with vigourous and productive young
vegetation. In the last second I realized that he was wearing glasses, and
so instead of a wrap-around pie in the face which I feared might break
them, I flopped that pie upon his head: "contact!" "splat!" "joy!"
Regrettably, I never got to see Ole Chuck's face, for immediately upon
contact I glanced to the side and perceived through peripheral vision that
large angry men with outstretched hands were right behind me. All I could
do then was laugh heartily and let them tackle me. I was arrested by none
other than Humboldt County Sheriff Dennis Lewis, and spent eight pleasant
days at the lovely Eureka pokey.
The media, in its quest for fickleness, focused a lot of attention on the
flavor of the pie. Sheriff Lewis proclaimed it apple, BBB spokesperson
Blackberry confirmed that opinion, yet Hurwitz in his own inimical way
jokingly stated, "Too bad it's peach. I like Blackberry." What does one say
about a man who can't tell an apple pie even when he and his stained suit
are on the receiving end of one? The symbolic effect of our American ideals
(represented by the not coincidental All-American apple pie) splattered
upon this rascal who flaunts them so grievously was not lost on a few.
Even Newton himself, that great advocate of taking the world apart as if it
were a spiritless machine, needed an apple upside the head to understand
the force of gravity. May the apple mush upon Hurwitz' serve as a reminder
to some and a discovery to others that Maxxam is subject to gravity as
well.
This action is dedicated to the Bison Action Group, to a certain person up
in B.C. who pied the President of Macmillan-Bloedel, and to Robert Hoyt for
his inspiring song about apple pie.
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Peace! Rob, Sector Air Raid Warden at
Rob's Place
A SITE DEDICATED TO
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