The Dark Continent

They are called “banshees,” and have been so called for several generations. No exact point of origin of the name is known, though reference of it in local literature becomes occasional about the late-19th century and frequent by the postwar era. Indeed, to investigate the source and nature of the Banshees of the Garden State necessitates a two-layered approach, the top layer being for the makers of the label itself. The traditional banshee wail is female, whereas the wailing heard over great distances of southern New Jersey is consistently described as guttural and male in timbre. It speaks first of the Irish or Irish-adjacent ethnic makeup of the coiners; more importantly it speaks of the overall attitude the general population have of the wailing: ominous fear.

Among common New Jerseyans, few certainties about the Banshees as a community exist. Only that they dwell as all other social substrata dwell in the state: off the beaten path, usually off the Turnpike and the Parkway, amid those densely forested swaths of southern New Jersey that seem not merely forbidden but perpetually undiscovered and mapped with a highly conscious degree of bad faith. It is not enough to say that New Jersey is a dark continent within a continent. The darkness is self-manifested and jealously protected. It is manifested and protected even among the asocial populations, such as the “Pinies,” whose maintenance of the “Jersey Devil” legend has its exclusionary function, though not the most successful one. In this sense, the Banshees, which theoretically unnerve even the Pinie, have a similar function among all New Jerseyans. It has been somewhat more successful in keeping undesired onlookers away, suggesting the state has an uncommon store of secrets no reasonable human—at least to the extent that a Pennsylvanian can be reasonable—would want to uncover.

Nevertheless, the lower layer of investigation, that of the Banshee society itself, could never go unexplored forever. And so it has been my purpose to bring their culture and customs to light in as sensitive and analytical a manner as I, in my imperfect capacities in both, am able. What follows is my preliminary summary of these people.

Sensory Deprivation

I don’t think I exaggerate the obscure, labyrinthine character of the New Jersey wilderness. From a safe distance, its beauty is unmatched at least within the wider topography of the eastern seaboard. But narrow the proximity between man and nature and the beauty becomes disconcertingly sublime. Unlike the shoreline, which lays bare all of its vices on the sand, New Jersey forests only allow faint suggestions of its grotesque essence to escape. The proper responses to these suggestions have traditionally been the aforementioned mix of dread and exploitation. One who wishes to venture further into this portentous flora will not find much help among the civilized people, or indeed uncivilized people. That is why I was lucky to get the guidance of an in-betweener on these worlds, a Pinie, whom I shall call “Webster,” who had forsaken his roots in favor of a vocation in accounts receivable for a bumper car parts distributor in Salem County. Webster retained a more than residual knowledge of his feral background, and made semi-frequent excursions back for festive occasions, or to do laundry. He would not articulate to what extent the Banshees related to the Pinies. They were not enemies in the strict sense; enemies exist with some concreteness. The Banshees, by contrast, were rather hazy. He used the word “untouchable” in many instances. That did not prevent him from helping me, perhaps with no small curiosity on his own part.

Per his instructions, I rendezvoused with Webster at nightfall in the Richard Kuklinski Service Area along the Parkway. There I found him at the Cinnabon, looking inconspicuous in a pink “JER-Z GIRLZ DO IT BETTER” t-shirt. When I asked him how we were to start our expedition he said we’d be using “teenager logic.” “How many times,” he asked, “do kids looking for Seaside or Wildwood after prom take the exact wrong turn into certain oblivion? More than we care to admit.” That, he added, was the easy part. He took my hand in his and appended a warning: “There are more shades of darkness than there are of color. But they exist in two places: the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Why God has deemed this necessary no one can say, but the latter is nature’s sensory deprivation tank and must be respected as such.” I added a “fair enough” sort of response. Webster wolfed down another cinnamon bun and we were off.

Welcome Mats

I will spare you the details of our journey, only to say that there were moments when I thought that Webster, whether by intention or incompetence, was leading me to my death. Though such was our disorientation among the arboreous dominion that he could have easily thought the same of me, as if our souls were playing musical chairs with our fleshly containers. And, quite typically, just as I thought all hope of reaching our destination was lost, we reached our destination. Or something like it.

Gradually, the impenetrable wilderness was subject to all manner of sensory penetration. Strange lights streaked through the copious, gnarled wall of trees. Sounds of a very human conviviality followed. Nothing, indeed, was as I expected once the forest gave way to clearing. Actually I thought Webster had led me back out, for we happened on what by all appearances was a suburban cul-de-sac. Fit with a paved center, ringed by a semicircle of single-family housing with all the trappings: manicured lawns, smoking grills, tended flower beds, welcome mats, and even above-ground pools. I looked at my guide in bemusement, which he returned with a knowing if somewhat tenuous smirk. Lights could be seen in the windows, but no occupant appeared to us. So in the surrounding darkness we set up camp in the center of the clearing with a sense of unease. Would this be all for naught? Not only did I fail to see signs of an unseen society, I heard none of the Banshee wailing. “Give it time,” my guide said, also somewhat disappointed.

I awoke to a commotion outside my tent. When I stumbled out, I was encircled by bipedal creatures in plaid shorts, floral-patterned bowling shirts, argyle socks held up by garters, rounded out by fishing hats and store-bought moccasins. The village elders, no doubt. Still wrapped in my sleeping bag, one of them extended their hand. “Put ‘er there,” they said. I shook groggily. When my vision had come into focus, however, I noticed that the elder, though dressed in a customary “dad” costuming had the proportions and features of a female. I looked back at Webster, his smirk quashed into a line, and we both reasoned we found … something.

Jello Molds

The one who shook my hand led us to the residence in dead-center of the semicircle with signage marking the “Home of the Big Guy,” though the Big Guy went by “Chet.” Actually all the villagers so dressed went by that name, seemingly distinguished by differences in pitch. The paramount Chet sat us at the kitchen table wherein “brewskis” were offered. Though it was just past 10:30 in the morning we felt it was necessary to abide by custom. Chet spoke English but mostly in aged platitudes. “We need the rain, eh?” despite it being clear and sunny. “How ‘bout them Giants?” despite being at the heart of Eagles territory. “Women: can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” despite the obvious. On that note, Chet’s wife came in beholding a fruit-infused jello mold. Chet’s wife, and all the other wives, went by “Renata.” They wore a yellow sundress and flat shoes, their face was made-up despite the visible five o’clock shadow, there hair was done up despite it receding.

More brewskis awaited us in the den. They proved at once easier and harder to drink when we found that they were filled with muddy water. Through our language barrier, Chet discerned our quest and took no offense. In fact he gave us use of his tool shed for the duration. Once settled, I made note of the absence of children, to which one of the Renatas said that they would be back from school shortly. And true enough, a black-painted, almost hearse-like bus pulled into the clearing, and out leapt children ranging from pre-adolescent to teenage stage of life, all in burlap sacks and carrying books held in place by belts.

An impromptu block party was held that night to make our welcome, though the ease with which it was arranged gave an air of frequency without specific occasion. Numberless brewskis and jello molds abounded. Grilled meats and burger patties of disputed origin were passable. The children gathered, still burlap-swathed and formed a choir, singing a garbled hymn that through the uneven cacophony could be gleaned the vocal harmonies of “Carry on My Wayward Son.” The tables and chairs were cleared to give space for them to play torch tag. And do I mean “torch.” The first truly curious custom by which the children chased each other with sticks lighted with a light pink flame. When someone was “tagged” by the flame, it spread all over their person, but causing only to glow most pinkly and not burning. Astonishing, to be sure, but without the legendary Banshee wail, I could still not be sure of what world I happened upon.

Movie Night

The subsequent weeks acclimated us less to any singular custom than to the rhythm of their daily life. It was habitual and almost ritualized, but more “streamlined” than “primitive.” The Chets were connected by an endless chain of appliance-lending. Whether a hacksaw, hedge clippers, or a blender, one Chet would present the object held aloft and on bended knee as if offering a holy relic or surrendering their weapon of choice, which the neighboring Chet would accept smilingly before passing it on their own bended knee to the next yard over.

The Renatas were less visible in this sense. Oftentimes they could be seen at the front of their houses, watering pail or a broom in-hand, though not often in use. They would smile and wave regardless of the presence of a recipient. Many questions remained of the gender presentations, all the more so because two Chets were in different but still visual stages of pregnancy. I felt any questions I could ask were being forestalled by exorbitant displays of hosting. Each morning we’d open the doors to the Big Guy’s tool shed to fresh offerings of brewskis and jello molds, which we consumed in spite of increasing physical revulsion.

About midweek and after sundown was movie night. The Chets and Renatas of the village sat in folding chairs on the pavement while an older burlapped child manned the reel projector. On it played a variety of instructional films as might be seen in our parents’ classrooms: about grooming, making new friends, courting etiquette, and puberty. Each were met with solemn bows and hums of approval, as if to denote a kind of moral instruction if not a religious service. More pink flames at the edge of the village.

The Ice Cream Social

Time progressed uneventfully. It soon dawned on me that, whatever the nature of this civilization, it seemed far duller than the one I’d left. Until, almost out of nowhere, a commotion could be heard near the cul-de-sac center. “Finally some action!” Webster exclaimed as be blew into the tool shed to get me.

Everyone gathered excitedly at the central blacktop where two covered tents were erected and lighted by pink-flamed tiki torches. The Big Guy stood grinning between them with Renata deferentially in back. The Big Guy held their hand up to bid the silence of the crowd, who complied with an automatic promptness. Gesturing at the tent to our left, an extremely pregnant Chet approached. Gesturing to the tent to our right, a burlapped boy and girl somewhere on the cusp of adulthood came forth. “Okay,” the Big Guy said, “get at ‘em.” Each bowed to the crowd as best as they were able and entered into their respective tents. Stillness washed over us for what felt like a fucking eon.

Then at last I heard it, searing into by cerebral membrane and even into my spinal fluid. That wail, emanating from our right tent, and distinctly from the boy. Long and agonizing, bottomless howling interspersed with needle sharp streaking. I couldn’t stay silent for much longer. A leant over to the nearest Chet among me. “Are they passing a goddamned kidney stone?” “It’s more like the next best thing,” they replied with a wink. The Banshee wail died down and everyone applauded. I still failed to grasp what was happening and Webster was near convulsions. Then everyone seemed to focus on the other tent, after some silence a soft laughter could be heard, then it rose into something like a witch’s cackle, crescendoing into a hearty guffaw. Then a newborn baby’s cry. The Chet, nursing their child exited their tent simultaneously with the boy and girl, now dressed respectively in a muumuu and loafers and a “Kiss the Cook” apron. They gave a second bow as if having finished the spring semester play. Everyone applauded as they passed around the vanilla-flavored square-shaped ice cream.

I was still confused by the night’s end. Yet as Webster and I sat by the Big Guy’s backyard fire pit, it became somewhat clearer. The celebration was not over, but rather had adjourned to the bedrooms of the village where choruses of heavy panting where punctuated by still greater Banshee wailing. It was enough to cause Webster and I to look at each other with a collective “Oooooh, that’s what that is.”

The Big Game

I awoke the next morning still at the fire pit and with fresh research prompts in my mind. But when I arrived at the tool shed I found all my luggage and materials neatly arranged outside of it, with the Big Guy standing by it a little more sternly in comportment than he had been. “Caught us at a bad time,” he said. “It’s Game Day. Gotta hustle.” In less than a heartbeat two auxiliary Chets approached like bouncers to escort me, and only me, away. “Where’s my guide?” I asked. The Big Guy pointed back morosely at the fire pit where Webster had also remained, identifiable only by his hiking getup. There ended the conveyance of brewskis and jello molds.

An entirely new scene was under way as they hustled me out of the village. The tents were replaced by a bonfire lit by a large, standard-hued flame. A stage had been set up where a band of Chets and one Renata were playing more recognizable renditions of Kansas songs. And just as I was reaching the edge, I caught glimpse of a pole around which two children were batting an object back and forth that looked distinctly like the remaining piece of Webster. I find it therapeutic to imagine it was making that weird smirk of his.

Once I reached the wilderness, many more people were in line to get into the village. Going by their traditional gender-arranged fashions they were from the outside, and gauging by their cameras, hydration packs, bags of fasnachts, and Phillies hats, they were an invasive species. And someways further back from that, as if waiting for timed entrance, was a horse-drawn iron cage, within which were four figures: teenagers in disheveled prom tuxedos and gowns.

It seemed pretty important that I only get impressions of what was to transpire thereafter. I can only say that the four teens were as disappointed to be entering the village as I was disappointed to be leaving it. I regret that we could not relate to each other. They had no anthropological ambitions so far as I knew, and I never went to prom.