“Parade”

Warm and content in your blanket of dust, you are roused from your hideous slumber by a kick to the ribs. You cry out in protest but receive only a lopsided smile and a shrug, the first in a distressing inventory of trespasses. Someone splashes beer on your trousers and a handful of confetti lands on your tuft. Before you know it, a paper hat has been placed atop your head and secured with a snap of elastic under the chin. Wrinkling your nose, you reach for last night’s bottle of Oloroso. It seems a boy in checks and a propeller hat has cast it, depleted, over his shoulder. A door flies open with a crash and a girl’s own mandolin orchestra pours out in single file. The alley is surging with people as if through a lock, all dressed very gaily indeed in bell-hop jackets, crushed felt bowlers, red poppies in straw, princess lines, canes strictly for twirling, “Oxford bags”, decorative trimmings, sprigs of grass woven into lace, improbable feathers, gauze parasols, carnations, tulle, netting, foliage set against shirtwaists, collegiate shawl collars, linen bonnets. This tide of dynamism sweeps you off your feet (only so recently accustomed to gravity), carrying you away as it streams toward the street.

What enthusiasm! The people are all gathered on the sidewalks, already waving flags, handkerchiefs, letting loose streamers, howling with joy. You gnash your teeth at this effusive display while taking shelter under an awning. Then you hear it: the distant sound of a brass band approaching in the distance. Its martial strains seem better suited to urge on a Janissary corps than bright eyed sons of the nation. You step out into the crowd and elbow your way to the front. All eyes are on the right angle at the end of boulevard. Suddenly, all grows silent in rapt attention. A moment hangs before a great red cloud fills the street and out of it march men in cylindrical pleated hats carrying kettledrums, odd clarinets, bugles and sackbuts, cymbals and gongs the likes of which provincial eyes have never glimpsed, coats of arms and ruby crescent staves covered in jingles. The crowd roars its rapturous approval. A man nearby, praise God, wipes a tear from his eye.

And here they come on with twirling, somersaults, pumping batons, mermaids in glass tanks suspended on hulking ogres. A fraternal type marches past, bringing his knees to his breastbone. Someone slaps you in the small of your back. Your eyes catch on a set of twins in baby blue sun dresses, pale yellow bows in their curls the very picture of innocence. Behind them, perched on the shoulder of a lackey, a small leonine visage beams with teeth so predatory he looks to be devouring his cigar. One passing mime turns a coy expression and places a flower in his ear—to the great delight of all. Strongmen with waxed mustache wave munificently from atop elephants, whose painted sides form tableaux depicting scenes from the Decameron against which a dozen or more masked figures cavort. A pinhead puts his finger into his nose and digs around purposefully. It is undecidable whether this sight is intended to invoke beauty, horror, or longing.

At this point the onslaught has become nearly unbearable, and just as you are tempted to stick your fingers into your ears, stick your tongue out, and stamp your feet, a shriek cuts through the crowd. A dowager on a balcony has her finger trained on precisely the forsaken spot of ground on which you now stand. At once the reproachful gaze of the spectators is trained on such a sorry figure as you, who has been behaving so deplorably. You carefully incline your countenance to perfectly catch the light as your hair stands on end.

Now it seems the clowns are really coming on and, sorry to say, they appear to be laughing privately at your expense. Before it is possible to discern which of your unbearable aptitudes has found you indicted, one merrymaker opens his mouth near you and a gila monster bursts out and snaps off the tip of your nose. As blood trickles down your lips, you reach out longingly for the procession but a stern man in tails and a pocket watch slaps down your hand. You stare back dumbly at your Sanson, mouth agape, as he slowly extends his arm and raises an open palm in a gesture eminently, ruinously intelligible. You collapse to your knees and as the crowd parts and turns to face you, you place your hands, one then the other, atop what hairs god has allowed you.

The menagerie marches away into the night, girls in short skirts twirling in its wake, while you afford yourself a light chuckle as if you have some source of private amusement. The crowd dissipates, indistinct mumblings containing untold wellsprings of odium and invective. The infamy that coats you is glowing, burning soft as a lantern. In this alone, buffoon, you have attained a singular degree of perfection. The breath between the pursed lips of a trash-sweeper fells you as you collapse, wrapped up warm and content in your blanket of dust.