Before I was born my mother wanted to name me after an Olympic swimmer named Maxwell. Camille Lockman became an almost obsessive fan of his, after seeing him perform in the 1968 Mexico City Olympics where he won two team gold medals, a Silver in the 100-meter butterfly and Bronze in the 100-meter freestyle. No one knows whether it was his over confidence, the moustache or skimpy swim underwear, but she wanted to bear a son and name him Maxwell.
I secretly think my mother wishes she had met Maxwell or another man surely like him. She carried a scrapbook full of memorabilia and remnants about him and his rise to fame. Mostly newspaper articles she would clip from newsstands when no one was watching, leaving entire newspapers with missing sections. As a kleptomaniac, she not only collected news articles, but also compulsively stole men’s swimsuits from “five-and-dime” stores. She collected these pieces of clothing and piled them inside an extra suitcase that always traveled with her. She was never caught stealing and her obsessive behavior was never professionally diagnosed.
Before meeting my father, Camille worked as a Starlet or hostess for the California Star train company. She followed in the footsteps of her mother who had also been a Starlet hostess. They both worked for the same company that had killed Camille’s great grandmother in a train wreck on September 4, 1902 in Brownwood, Texas.
When Camille’s great grandfather received the news of his wife’s death, he was at work as a laborer for an oil company in Texas. It was midday when Mr. Lockman suddenly felt as if his heart had broken inside. He stopped working and sat down. When he looked up he saw a brown mass of dirt rising and encapsulating two police cars as they approached. He knew his wife had died.
The Police Officers carefully approached Mr. Lockman who suddenly began yelling in a threatening tone of voice, “Don’t you dare come near me!”
If you had been standing close enough to see Mr. Lockman’s pores draining sweat, you would have also noticed a vein protruding from his forehead. At this point his head slightly twitched as if a fly had entered his right ear. There wasn’t a fly or anything surrounding Mr. Lockman to cause such a body tremor. It appeared that his brain had snapped into that of a mad man. His body clenched tight and his eyes glared animalistic.
Covered in black oil and enraged, Mr. Lockman lost all control of his emotions. He had loved his wife ever since the first time he met her. With tears falling down his cheeks, he attacked a young Officer McMillan, who delivered the news of his wife’s death. Within moments and without knowing why, Mr. Lockman found himself atop the Officer crushing his neck with his left hand while beating his face into a bloody pulp with the right. No one could stop Mr. Lockman, not even himself. His size was too massive and his anger too great.
While Mr. Lockman had an outer body experience, he watched himself as a different person. He found it shocking to believe that he was capable of feeling such a murderous rage. At this point Officer McMillan’s partner made a split second decision to shoot Mr. Lockman in the back. He fired the gun that killed him, not instantly but minutes after the bullet entered his flesh.
The police report stated that Mr. Lockman committed first-degree murder by bludgeoning the face of Officer Trainee McMillan until he died. The attack was so brutal that Mr. McMillan expired without any recognizable facial features. He ended up passing away before any help could have been called. The report left out the fact that Mr. Lockman could have survived the bullet wound if an ambulance had arrived. The brain surgery would have made him a miracle case and the surgeon a hero. Only causing him to live the rest of his days in a bed or wheelchair, sipping drinks through straws and finding it difficult to express his emotions through words. No matter what, his life was changed forever because of one bad decision.