Frank & the Bird

Pearl River, N.Y. is only 22 miles from Times Square, but it is fully as quiet--or was until last week--as Moccasin, Mont., Husband, Pa., or Clam, Va. Last week, as everyone in Pearl River will remember ("You can say that again, Mac")--as everyone in Pearl River will remember, Frank Perkins, a peaceful, pippin-faced youth of 21, went crow-hunting along the brackish banks of the Hackensack River.

Hardly had he gotten out of his car, .22 rifle in hand, when he spotted a crow. The crow flew. Frank followed, patiently afoot, past fallow fields, thin thickets, ragged coverts and other unfortunate evidences of that dilapidated state into which nature habitually falls in winter. The crow stopped occasionally, but it covered about half a mile, as an erratic crow flies, before it roosted invitingly in a tree just beyond a ramshackle, wooden building. Frank crossed a mossy log over a creek and got within 100 feet of his quarry. Balancing there, he drew a bead and fired.

Balls of Fire. At once the building blew up in his face. Five other buildings blew up too; one horrible, ear-splitting crash followed another. The sky was lost in smoke, balls of fire whanged in all directions, and the surrounding woodland was magically garnished by endless streamers of colored paper. Frank didn't know what to think. Not until hours later did he learn that the wandering crow had lured him to the plant of the Barnabas Fireworks Co. He fell backwards off the log into the mud, fled across the creek, dropped his rifle, yanked off his shoes, dived into the Hackensack River and swam it like a beaver heading for a woodyard. As he emerged dripping, on the other side, he thought, dazedly, that he ought to call the fire department. This was unnecessary. Windows had been broken and the populace jolted for miles around; the fire departments of Pearl River, Sparkill, Orangeburg, Park Ridge, Northvale and Montvale were already on their way. So were assorted ambulances and police cars.

The Question. Few of them reached the scene. Thousands of householders-all of whom concluded that an atomic bomb had gone off, and all of whom seemed possessed with the idea of getting radioactive as soon as possible--leaped into their cars and soon clogged the roads into impassibility. Then they jumped out and hustled across fields toward the smoke.

As it turned out, there was little to see. The buildings had simply vanished. All the fireworks employees had left 20 minutes before the explosion, and there were no casualties. The big sensation of the whole affair was Frank, who dutifully dragged himself to the police and told all. But Frank didn't enjoy it. Because of the confusion, it took him hours to get home (where he found the windows broken and had two quick belts of whisky). As a result of his confusion, he was fined $250 for shooting in a forbidden zone. But worst of all was The Question, which he expected to hear until he died. "Frank," everyone asked, "Frank--what happened to the crow, Frank?"

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