[continued...]
an excerpt
from
The Donkey Show
- Chapter Thirteen
-
Our Parade
By Michael Patrick Welch
- 3 -
After our fall closer, it began raining ice. We
dashed to our bikes and pumped through it, back to her centrally-heated
Uptown apartment where her mattress is bigger and cleaner than
mine. There we stripped off wet layers, then dropped to our
knees and rummaged through her footlocker full of costume supplies
--- she actually has one of these; she is ready… The sky
out her window wasn’t so dark yet that we’d need
to turn on the lights; it was just dim enough where I could
comfortably stare at her hair hanging wet on her bare shoulders
and jaw: the only thing better than a trunkfull of... “Costumes
are the whole reason I moved here,” she claimed, then
recited the trunk’s inventory: “My dentist’s
X-ray vest, the white plastic mold of my head from that MRI,
my ankle bells --- fake knives --- fake blood --- a bald head,
and… karate jacket --- a toy chainsaw --- a baseball,
probably --- my David Hasslehoff face --- graduation hat ---
I swear there’s more; probably in storage at my parents’
house in DC.”
“Jude would love this,” I told her,
hinting for corroboration of the innocence Jude claims. “This
trunk.”
“He’s seen it,” she confronted.
“Oh,” and a cold pinch in my stomach…
“He’s really into costumes.”
“I know,” I said, imagining so many
bad things, them in costumes… The crawfish said, Don’t
let it bother you, bruh. Be cool. But coolly I asked, “Did
you ever go out with Jude?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She leaned in and quick kissed me to change the
subject, then brought forth a plush elephant mask…
But I continued, “Because he’s ugly?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“Oh whatever! He doesn’t care. You
know the other day I told him I wanted to write a book with
him in it and he told me somebody already was... Yeah. Another
person’s featuring him in a movie. He gets as much positive
attention as…as you. He’ll be famous without ever
even doing anything --- I mean, unless he can actually act;
then he could be our generation’s Marty Feldman. But what
I’m trying to say is: he doesn’t care if I say he’s
ugly.”
“What I’m trying to say is that he’s
not ugly.”
“You don’t ever wonder if he’s
got some terminal illness?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? He seems like he’s OK with
that too…”
“I know,” she said. Man. I dropped
it there. Back to the trunk…
- 4 -
Mizzy’s roommate didn’t laugh when
Mizzy leapt out into their living room in a hospital gown, big
gray football shoulder pads, long black rubber gloves and that
elephant mask. To me this getup served as further proof that
she towers over her peers, over people like her roommate who
couldn’t even laugh when Mizzy proclaimed herself: “Bellefonte
goes to The Hospital,” or something. The roommate is a
pretty but plain girl with very long, healthy hair. When Mizzy
retreated to go change costumes I asked her, “You don’t
think that’s funny huh?”
“Mizzy? Yeah she’s weird,” the
roommate evaded. But you could read her when she complained,
“Sometimes I come home and there’ll be like, a weird
little sculpture in the middle of the floor that just like,
popped up out of nowhere right where people walk. And they’re
just balanced there, not with glue or anything, so you can’t
move them out of the way. If you touch them they fall apart
everywhere.”
My Dream Girl… But her roommate wasn’t
amused. “You don’t find that funny,” I fawned.
“At least interesting?”
“They fall apart everywhere,” she
repeated.
Theirs was a roommating of necessity because the
rent’s $1000. But it’s worth it for the entire third
floor of an Uptown mansion: three long shotgun rooms of vast
hardwood with smaller nooks cut from the walls plus an additional
loft, a separate art studio out back by the washer-n-dryer (she
wouldn’t let me survey it), and most importantly --- my
hands shake with such excitement I can barely type the words
--- she has a fucking pool! The only thing I miss about FLA
is swimming. Before moving here I hadn’t gone a week without
swimming in almost 17-years. My past NO year has been totally
without swimming as well as love. That was the problem. Now
there’s a girl and her pool. I have found my way around?
But exactly 28 years from the day of my birth,
her pool was too cold for swimming. “If we turn the heater
on now though, it will be ready by the time we come home from
the parade…” Until then, the glass in her bedroom
window radiated cold above the trunk, out of which I culled
a costume that kind-of looked like Prince: a frilly purple blouse,
frilly silk scarf, frilly lace gloves, loose black curls covering
one eye. She has all this on hand; she is ready… Then,
gratuitously accessorizing, I wrapped her giant plush boa-constrictor
doll around my neck, down around my waist, tucking its pointy
tail inside my zipper. The Little Prince, maybe…
Pedaling back to The Quarter was easier; the world
had stopped crying and my lopsided wig protected at least one
of my ears from the amazing cold --- though it also made me
think of my only real girlfriend ever: in college, this Polynesian
girl, the girl from my bad trip. She’d harvested ass-length
black hair, which she of course always pinned up during FLA
summers. But in the winter, given the occasion, she’d
unpin it, and when she did she always sang this little tune:
“Let your hair down - if it’s - cold outsi-yide.”
And almost always when it’s cold I remember that, here
and her little tune, and I always feel sad. But fuck no today.
- 5 -
Our happiness had nothing to do with the Ketamine.
Her drug dealer cook guy failed on the X, so we split and drank
my half-bottle of yellow K --- sorry, Michael --- hoping it
would anesthetize us to shaved-ice from the sky. But nothing:
my wig and snake were damp and the cold kept us from getting
drunk. Lee Circle where the Streetcars turn around is supposedly
usually The Place to camp out and riot. But my birthday found
us practically alone in the shit weather. There was the statue
in the center all lit up, surrounded by ropes and cops on horses,
definitely an air of expectancy, but not another civilian on
either side of us for 100-feet.
“Last year here it was just disgusting heat
and naked steam and vomit and ahhhhhhh!” Mizzy shouted
through chattering teeth. Her description warmed me; that’s
the festival I expected. Our real-time lack of crowds and a
good drunk were disappointing and no X But you know what? Fuck
it; it was just as easy to see it as We have Mardi Gras all
to ourselves! The Rich always talk of wanting Exclusivity…
We paid for it in icy rain, but this was truly exclusive: each
float hulking by and all 10-sets of Ku-Klux eyes aimed down
at only us with no choice but to heave onto only our wet heads
all their beads and cups and beads and trinkets and beads and
dolls and beads and panties and spears and mini-slot machines
and inflatable crayons and beads and all the crap tourists usually
kill each other for. With no one else around to catch it, That
Rain of Toys was ours alone, more intoxicating than the six
beers we drank, each. Rolling up and seeing how much shit we
had already, some floats merely waved rather than throw us more;
we decided this must be a first in Carnival history… So
many necklaces tossed out, just to hit the ground, so many pretty,
dirty beads smothering The Circle’s wet pavement in the
parade’s wake, that I wondered how the floats were able
to avoid sliding off into The Circle Bar…
The Circle Bar; another place I’d never
been. It’s warm in there, dark and orange. We used The
Circle Bar for its shelter, and for buying more useless beers,
and I’m sure now I’ll go back; it’s scary
and great, all the new things and places that arrive with each
new person into your life. Like I’ve obsessed over sharks
and aquariums all my life, yet never even considered visiting
The NO Aquarium until today she told me she’s, “really
into fish.” Alone this whole time, I really haven’t
experienced... There was The Animal Hospital but... Now I will
experience more, at least for a while.
The cops were distracted trying to stay warm,
so when we needed more beer Mizzy just went ahead and cut right
through the parade to The Circle Bar --- after removing her
mask and pads, she slipped through the Marching Band in just
her thin, wet hospital gown, open in back showing green panties
--- until halfway in, she decided to drape beads around each
marching kid’s neck. The hot little, unenthusiastic baton
girls in wet hotpants warned Mizzy, “Don’t put your
hands on me, bitch.” But the boys remained stoic in their
lines, unbreakable Gamefaces, no recognition for the rain, nor
for Mizzy. Their eyes beamed forward like that baby Bluejay.
Even when the parade paused for a tractor stalled
ahead, the boys remained dead-eyed, the sky again pissing on
their shiny black faces. Mizzy took this pause to bejewel each
boy, and kiss his cheek; this finally broke them: each boy couldn’t
help reacting: smiling, grimacing, but no still no movement
anywhere but the faces. Strong. No way I could hold so still
in such weather, or keep such quiet; I would’ve whined
to the silent boy beside me who was playing the exact same instrument
as me: ‘This is fucking inhumane, isn’t it? Inhumane…’
But these young men: marble --- until Mizzy had
made it all the way to The Drum Line. There, as she was about
to kiss his cheek, I yelled, “Damn! Cedar! Man!”
happy to see him. Of course he wouldn’t turn around, not
in that moment. So why yell, especially when he’s only
five feet away… Then before Mizzy’s kiss could land
on Cedar, she stopped and asked me, “You know this kid?”
“Yeah this is my school!” I stepped
back, elated, “Magnolia!” taking in their green
and gold, Mardi Gras colors all year round. “De’von!”
I recognized him and a couple others all trying not to look
at me.
“So you’re Cedar?” Mizzy turned
back to him, recognizing him from my whiney descriptions. She
accused, “You’re a prick to Patrick.”
Whoa! “Hey, wait, Mizzy, don’t…”
Cedar stared straight, unsmiling, drumsticks poised.
Over his tall white hat she cried out, “All right; who
else is mean to Patrick!?” De’von smiled, tried
not to laugh, trumpet against his side, frost in his braids.
“All of you who are pricks to Patrick,” she continued.
“Admit it right now so I can kick your black asses!”
“Oh, hey! Mizzy! Whoa! Easy.” Maybe
those beers weren’t wasted on her… Then red-and-blue
lights exploded, bouncing off buildings and the phallic statue
as cop-cars tried pressing through our minus-mild party. Voices
from their CB amplifiers demanded we step aside. Another adult
voice called out bare from behind the thick of the band, “Ah’igh
kids, relax. Po-Lease tryna get through. We gonna be here a
while.” The boys all slouched, letting their curses escape
into-and-for The Cold, as Little De’von screeched at me,
“Now. What did your bitch just fucking say to us? Mr.
White Bitch better get his bitch to shut her bitch-ass up!”
We all laughed, together. “Oh she’s
just kidding,” I assured him. “Chill out De---”
But I stopped before his name, not wanting to set Mizzy off;
Devon’s the one I’ve most often described to her
via complaint. So Mizzy just laughed, still eye-contacting Cedar,
who leaned his arms in the puddles on his drumheads while shyly
surveying Mizzy’s wet hospital gown. They both knew she
was just fucking with him; he’s smart. But then she grabbed
his face…
“Is Patrick a good teacher?” she demanded,
mocking but hopeful.
“Mizzy! Hey. Seriously, you’re gonna
get me in trouble…”
She let go of his jaw only to allow it to admit,
“Mr. Patrick ah’ight. He do the best he can given
his situation.”
He what… Understands? Chains snapped, almost
all of them, the ones pulling on my shoulders. He understands!
And on my BIRTHDAY! The cops’ blinking lights stirred
everything, making it seem more festive, alive. They were almost
out the other side of the parade when Mizzy threatened Cedar,
“Well, then be fucking cool to him!” Her hand on
his sequined chestplate shoved him back. Then leaning over his
drums she kissed his cheek, before running on into The Circle
Bar...
When she was gone Cedar asked me, “Damn
Whoa, thatcha girl?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“I ain’t know you roll like that;
I like her.”
“But if she disrespect us like that again,”
De’von squealed rows down, “I’ma knock her
the fuck out!” Then he asked, “And who the fuck
you think you supposed to be? Prince?”
“Hey! Good guess De’von. Yeah, Prince.”
“Motherfuckuh always tryna to be black,”
he declared to the band. We all laughed again, together. Yes,
we are blessed…
Their adult voice then bellowed again and the
boys snapped back to attention, ready to make their noise. When
the parade started back up Magnolia sounded like drunk robots
falling down stairs. But how does that Band Director get them
to obey like that? I guess it’s The City they’re
obeying, the tradition...
Mizzy returned to me and the cold and the rain,
carrying our last cups of beer, just as Rebirth Brass Band danced
out the tail end of the parade, drenched as usual, though this
time with rain. When the thing was definitely dead, we lugged
our literal buckets of trinkets --- on our bicycles, somehow
--- back to her house, skipping her now-hot swimming pool in
favor of her bigger, cleaner, warmer bed.
And now I am 28.
....
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For three years, Michael Patrick Welch was a Staff Writer at
The St
Petersburg Times in Tampa, FLA. During those years he also began
his first ever creative writings in the form of the self-destructively
honest on-line journal, Commonplace (screwmusicforever.com/commonplace)
which, along with some entries being published at Pual Tough's
Open Letters(.net) and McSweeneys(.net), also eventually became
the author's first self-published book. Since moving to New
Orleans a coupla years back, MPW wrote a second book, a novel,
The Donkey Show, published by Equator Books (equatorbooks.com).
MPW also plays skewwed electronic indy-R&B music, as the
one-man-band White Bitch.
