Trombones Can Laugh

by Lorraine Ray

  That old town of Tough Cuss when we reached it had a main street called Tough It, a dirty street, rutted, unpaved and lined with bars and ice cream stores. The town had produced tons of silver and gold eighty years ago. Now it was played out. There was a large concrete ice cream cone on the sidewalk halfway down the street. Tough It Street was most of the parade route.

  The driver that day was searching for the Shriner float which was supposed to be waiting for us on a side street near the town square.

  “Mountain Men. Look!” cried Moses when we circled the square a second time. “Goddamn it, James, it finally happened. It happened.” Moses pointed across the grass and the joy he felt showed all over the old guy. Shit, he became ridiculously gleeful. I followed his finger to a spot on a lawn under a small Arizona oak. “It’s the goddamned Mountain Men.”

  “It sure is,” piped up Ed from the seat behind us. “You’re so lucky, James! This is gonna be great!”

  “Sheesh, I finally get to see them,” I replied, squinting to make out anything.

  The Shriners, who were always loud, went ballistic as word travelled among them about the sighting of the Mountain Men. They were anticipating a battle between these Mountain Men and the Bastards, who’d paid the fee to be in the parade and probably would show up. Ed quivered with excitement and shouted to the two Miltons about it. Milton I complained that Ed was going to give him another heart attack.

  I only caught glimpses of the Mountain Men from the window of the bus. From what I could see, the mass of men appeared to be some stupid Davy Crockett Convention or something. At first, there was this messy smear of yellowy brown interrupted by some fur poking out here and there. I realized, after I stared at it awhile, that it wasn’t just a pile of old ripped-up suede and fur, but there were actual real dip-shits wearing complete dumb-o outfits of smoky yellow buckskin, rough side out. Every single one of them wore these goofy shirts and pants with long strands of fringe. It was the fringe that gave them the ripped-up appearance because every movement they made caused the slices to wiggle and jiggle. Fringe hung off their arms, on their cuffs, around the bibs of some pull-over shirt things, and even at their knees on one man. Some of them wore Indian-styled leggings, red and blue beaded, strapped to the back of their fat calves in a funny fashion. A lot of them had fur hats and fake rifles cradled in their arms like a baby or over their shoulders, casual style. Then I saw the jerkiest man ever, wearing a buzz cut, the suede suit, and a red, yellow and green striped blanket on his shoulders. With a blanket over him, he looked like he’d escaped from one of those kidnap breakfasts that girl in Algebra was so crazy about.

  “There’ll be a battle,” said Moses cheerfully, “if the I.O.O.B. are here. And they’re supposed to be. The Mountain Men are sworn enemies of the Bastards. I tell you, James, the Mountain Men are just about as pompous a group of old men as the Bastards are wild. The Mountain Men take themselves and their mission in life very seriously. They’re concerned with how authentic they can make their costumes down to the smallest aspect like the buttons being made of real horn. It’s total madness, of course. They detest the sloppy Bastards and have actually gone so far as to try to have them removed from parades. This has not been lost on the I.O.O. B. and true to their reputation, the Bastards vow to do dirt to the Mountain Men. There’s bound to be big trouble.”

  In wanting to see a fight, Moses wasn’t alone. All the Shriners were gleeful about the upcoming clash for the sheer entertainment value. Both groups were full of Divas and most of the members were mad out of their gourds, as Moses liked to say. The mere sight of the Mountain Men, knowing that they would be in a parade, made all the other Shriners take to drink stronger than ever. And loud? They were shrieking with excitement. They wanted to enjoy themselves and get set to relish the upcoming battle between the Bastards and the Mountain Men. Every man knew there was going to be a battle, as sure as Custer’s men knew they were in trouble, and Moses said he wanted to be good and prepared for “the showdown,” as he called it. I was not convinced that anything would happen.

  Our bus pulled up next to the float and near the Mountain Men.

  “There’s Mr. Thompson,” cried Moses, who was craning backwards to see.

  “Who?” I asked.

  He pointed toward a crabby-looking man. “The skinny guy with the red face and the blue beads on his purse. He’s a sour man, as nasty as any of the Bastards, except they don’t know it yet. Mr. Thompson doesn't like anyone making fun of them or the old west. I know there’ll be a fight if the I.O.O.B. and Mr. Thompson are together in the same parade. They’ll tear each other to bits!”

  “Shoot, Moses, who are you going to root for? The Mountain Men or the Bastards?” I asked.

  “Ah, very good question, James. I’ll have to think about it for a while. But I don’t care for either of them, so,” Moses considered, “given that they’re both blithering idiots, let’s root for general chaos, shall we?”

  I knew what chaos meant and it sounded fun to me. “Groovy!”

  “Groovy.”

  “Listen, little lost one,” Moses asked, “fetch me another drink. If we have the Bastards together with the Mountain Men I need to be thoroughly drunk. I’ve been wanting this to happen for five years!”

  I got him a drink, watered-down, of course. I suppose Moses noticed, but he didn’t complain.

  “Is it wrong to root for them to go after each other?” he asked when I handed him a vodka and tonic.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Yes, it probably is wrong. I can’t stop myself,” said Moses with a shrug. He downed about half the drink in one gulp. This was his usual procedure.

  “Human nature,” I agreed.

  “That’s right. I could pretend I wanted to stop it.”

  “Honesty is better.”

  “Sure. It is always best to be honest about your failings. Especially with yourself.”

  When we got off the bus, collected our instruments, and mounted the float, I got a better look at the Mountain Men. They were meticulously costumed, except for their odd haircuts. These gentlemen were so opposed to being taken for hippies that almost all of them had shaved their hair into crew cuts.

  They stood calmly and chatted. Some had red target-like circles, Indian rosettes, which were beaded on their shirts. Their flies buttoned with a triangular flap. Eagle or turkey feathers poked from their hats, proudly perking into the turquoise sky. They had a lot of stone pipes, tobacco pouches, and purses strung around their necks. They all wore moccasins.

  “I’ve heard the Bastards say terribly things about the crowds at parades and the dignitaries,” said Moses, “and even their own mothers. Imagine, most people say bad things about other peoples’ mothers.”

  Cue the Bastards. Moses had no more than said this, when they arrived.

  Whacking their drums in no particular rhythm, they took the town square. Of course the group of Bastards were a complete contrast to the Mountain Men. They stomped through the town square, hollering and whooping, screaming and cursing. The Bastards rolled their eyes around and blew their foul breath into bugles. According to Moses, they had no respect for the towns they were in and liked to litter and pee at the back of shops. They made sport of the names and famous places in the little towns they marched in, and they shuffled and staggered around, imitating the brave men of Valley Forge with their own dirty drum brigade.

  One Bastard led a sad looking donkey into their ranks.

  “There will be bad blood between the Mountain Men and the Bastards, mark my words,” Moses predicted. “And that donkey bites.”

  I sorta spaced out before the parade that morning, but when the announcer's melodious baritone boomed from the speakers hidden in the rafters of Tough Cuss’ covered sidewalks, I woke up.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the 56th annual Tough Cuss Parade,” said the loudspeakers. Everywhere people froze and looked around. “And to begin our parade,” the voice continued, “we welcome our Kiwanis from Tough Cuss.
Let’s hear it for the Kiwanis! Today they will be riding matched palomino ponies from Los Guapos Ranch...”

  Horror of horrors. There in front of me the Kiwanis, dressed in tight spangled blue coats on palomino ponies with a banner held between them, spurred their ponies onto the parade route. The little horses whinnied and tossed their manes.

  “Those poor ponies,” said Moses, grinning at the bouncing bottoms of a couple of large Kiwanis as the ponies trotting away. With the strain on the ponies obvious, the crowd smiled and a few laughed. Moses and I chuckled.

  A gang of girls, best friends I guess, strolled toward the town post office, which was across the corner from our staging center. For a while I could only catch quick glimpses of them through a hedge of cactus, and I’m kinda blind, but even in blurry glimpses I could tell they were awfully pretty girls and all of them were decked out in white dresses, those short, Mexican-style peasant dresses with embroidery near the neck. Only one of them actually looked like she might have been Mexican, and she was the prettiest. I couldn’t stop watching them when they gathered around a gift shop window next to the post office. I think they were looking at a display of turquoise earrings that I had noticed earlier.

  Suddenly, one of the bastards spied them, too.

  “Here I am, girls! Girlies! Oh Girls! Kissy, kissy! Come and get me!” called this Bastard, and he was the ugliest member of the I.O.O.B.—if one could be said to be uglier in that gross group. He turned around and he had a raw section of bare pink skin above his slouchy bellbottom jeans. He shook his disgusting rear end in a provocative fashion at the girls and then spun around quickly and charged toward them, running in an idiotic fashion, which caused them to scream and scatter around the corner of the post office in the direction of the police station. “Where are you going, girls!?” he bellowed.

  This creep strolled happily back to his gang after frightening the girls. The Bastards were laughing heartily, slapping the harasser on the back.

  “Sir, I saw what you did. That was incredibly rude. Have you no shame?” asked a Mountain Man loudly as he stepped up to the teasing Bastard. As the Mountain Man spoke, his wolf pelt cap bobbed furiously. Righteous fury, that’s what he was dealing out to the Bastard. In a voice that quavered with anger and insult.

  “Here we go,” whispered Moses to me as he watched this latest development and he winked at several Shriners on the float with us who had also heard the whole thing. “The fiasco begins. The opening chapter of their battle. It’s like the Trojans and the Greeks. Without ships.”

  “Yeah, Moses, this is it!” said Ed blinking happily with his tuba on his lap behind me. “A pimple on any butt will eventually come to a head.”

  “Is that supposed to be profound?” asked the baritone.

  “Works for me,” said the other tuba.

  “What an assortment of losers,” called Mr. Thompson loudly in the direction of the Bastards. He had real scorn in his thin, reedy voice. “How could there be a group of people more apt to run down the whole concept of what it means to be human.” Mr. Thompson was joined by one huge man with a barrel chest and a red face. Fringe hung from his shoulders, sleeves, and outlined his pockets.

  “Ooohhh, ooohhh, did we make the itil bitl raggedy rawhidey boys angwy,” said the Bastard right back, smiling with a mouth full of hideous teeth at Mr. Thompson. To harass and taunt young women and the Mountain Men, especially Mr. Thompson, seemed to make the I.O.O.B. happiest, according to what Moses whispered to me. The other Bastards were positively beaming.

  “You are a shame to our nation and this parade,” chimed in the man wearing the wolf pelt.

  “Waaaaaa, de waaa waa,” said one of the bastards in response.

  “Oh, this is going well,” Moses said.

  “Why, you could be a group of tramps on the street corner,” said Mr. Thompson scornfully, “A band? Pooh! What are you playing? Can anyone tell? Can you even carry a tune?”

  Several of the Bastards noticed us, the Shriner band, intently watching the confrontation. All the old band members were leaning toward the argument with smiles on their faces. Of course, they were all crocked as well as happy.

  “Hey, coneheads, what are you laughing at,” a Bastard shouted at us.

  “Moses!” I said.

  “What’s in your little hats?” asked the I.O.O.B. man.

  This Bastard worried me. “Moses!”

  “Don’t worry, James. Don’t fret so much. The trouble will be between them, not between us and them.”

  “Oooohhh, I’m a Mountain Man and I’m upset by all the baddie guys. Ooooohhh...boo fucking hoo...” The original jackass who was saying this pretended to cry, rubbing his eyes with his fists and wiggling his bottom again.

  Just then the parade announcer spoke: “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “today we welcome Southern Arizona's most unique organization: The International Order of (Dare I Say It Aloud) Old Bastards!”

  The Bastard who had just insulted the Mountain Men gave the one finger salute. He spun around in a zany fashion, and all the wild geezers assembled themselves, if you could call what they did assembling, and poured down the street like a foul flood. The awful expanse of their group looked like the contents of a pack rat nest.

  “Some people think it’s funny to make fun of the past,” said one of the Mountain Men loudly, “I wouldn’t venture an opinion about the lack of humanity, though. They certainly don’t appear to be human. I can’t understand how they are allowed in any parades.” He was watching the International Order of Old Bastards wambling away.

  “Hey, man, uptight anyone?” This was directed at the Mountain Men by another Bastard who stumbled after his group.

  “Got some problems, buddies? Problems with the way we look?” A remaining Bastard who said this walked close to Mr. Thompson’s crabby face.

  “I could look better than you men in my pajamas after a tornado. I think some of you are wearing pajamas!” proclaimed Mr. Thompson.

  “Well, toodly-poodly to you!” said the Bastard.

  “Wow!” said Moses watching with real interest. “It’s brewing up nicely! This is going to be very interesting in a few minutes, I predict.”

  “Next, Ladies and Gentlemen, the town of Tough Cuss is proud to welcome one of the best dressed groups in Southern Arizona: The Mountain Men!’

  “Oh no,” I cried, “They’re going to be marching beside each other! They’re in the parade one after the other!”

  “Goddamn!” exclaimed Ed happily, slapping his knee. “What luck!”

  “Oh yes! It has never happened before. This is a disaster!” exclaimed Moses joyfully. Moses rose so he could see everything, “I have waited so long for this day!”

  “Moses! We’re about to go! Sit down!” I said, yanking on his Shriner outfit. I didn’t want to think of him falling off the float. Moses reluctantly sat down after complaining that I was nothing but an annoying old mother hen.

  One by one the marching Mountain Men hiked their flintlock rifles on their shoulders and with everything copasetic in their step, joined together as a huge suede-skinned beast to display themselves in the parade.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, our next parade entry is the Shriners band from the Habbar Temple!”

  “We get to go right behind them. We’ll be able to see everything,” Moses said. I think he rubbed his hands together. He was like a kid who finds out he’s getting a puppy for Christmas. Within a few seconds, our float jerked forward and we were following the parade route!

  Our driver hung a left at Peanuckle Street, which led to Tough It. We continued playing as usual, but every Shriner looked ahead for what we would see on the parade route. Now we felt certain there was going to be a battle, and we were just waiting to come upon it.

  And we weren’t disappointed.

  “Oh god!” yelled a woman, running around the corner on a sidewalk.

  “Oh Zeus, please let this battle begin,” shouted Ed, being ridiculous.

  The scene that greeted us up
on turning on Tough It Street was truly spectacular and horrifying. People battled everywhere. It was pandemonium. Utter and complete pandemonium, man. The two groups had only managed to march a few blocks before the hatred they felt had boiled over and they began attacking each other. Blows were flying in every direction I looked. It was as though the whole street was a boxing ring.

  The driver of the truck that was towing us came to an immediate halt rather than run over anyone, which caused the old Shriner guys around me to spill forward. Instruments flew out of our mouths, eyes popped, unsecured sheet music abruptly soared in different directions. I tried to catch a few sheets. Only the ancient percussionists carried on. The band director turned to see what had caused the sudden stop and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  It was quite a tableau, a feast for the eyes. In every direction Bastards had hold of Mountain Men and vice versa. There were punches flying and men being kicked, hair pulled, hats thrown away, fringe ripped (the Mountain Men, obviously, were suffering the worst in this respect) and beards being yanked. (The I.O.O.B had filthy beards and nothing would have convinced me to put my hands near their foul hair.) It was a vast melee, a huge battle of men versus men on sidewalks, in the street, and up alleys.

  The first thing that I saw that I could describe was a Bastard dragging a Mountain Man beside him, screwing his knobby hand into the Mountain Man’s hair and clouting him on the head with a banged-up bugle several times as they wrestled in front of a dentist’s office. Up steps, pounding, running from a Mountain Man, another Bastard on the sidewalk yelped. The crowd of parade watchers fell away in horror.