Everything Is Wrong with Me

by Jason Mulgrew

  After splashing some warm water on my face to wake myself up, it’s downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast, usually a Tastykake (Coconut Junior? Koffee Kake?) and a nice tall glass of whole milk. But there is no time for sitting and watching Good Morning America. I have to get ready.

  The layering begins. First I put on my underwear and T-shirt. Then long johns are piled on top of those. Next comes another layer, this one a sweatshirt and sweatpants, the latter guaranteeing that if I have to pee there will be a less than 15 percent chance I will be able to locate my bird and, considering all the effort it would take, I will probably be better off just peeing my pants.

  Then my mom goes and gets the suit, which is unlike any other suit in the world, about as far away as possible from the jacket-and-slacks combination that the word conjures up. Every year the suit is a different set of colors, but it’s always something loud: green, white, and orange; purple, green, and black; red, white, and blue; blue, yellow, and red. When my mom brings it out from the closet, it’s already making its sound. The suit is made of a thick, cheap type of silk called bridal silk, and it makes a whoosh-whoosh when it moves, when fabric rubs against fabric.

  The suit itself is one long garment, a tie around the waist dividing the long-sleeved top with its frilly cuffs from the bottom, a loose skirt with frills at its hem. There are also bloomers—baggy pants with elastic ties that cling around the knee and the waist—to go under the skirt. There is usually a hat involved and possibly a wig. And of course the matching umbrella, which will not be used to defend against rain but as an instrument for dancing.

  My layering nearly complete, I pull on the bloomers. Then I raise my arms and my mom slips the suit over me. I yawn. Now that I’m fully dressed in my suit (or dress or wench or costume, whichever you prefer), the makeup goes on. My face is caked in white or yellow or green or whatever color most matches the suit. Even as a kid, in a twist that pains my father but that my mom attributes to good taste, I prefer green makeup if possible, because my eyes are green and I like the way the green face paint makes them look.*

  After that, the last step: the golden slippers. Really, this is the most crucial element of all, the one that separates the poseurs from the real thing. There are several variations, colors, and styles of the suit, but each person wearing one will have on golden slippers, which are old and comfy sneakers or boots that have been spray-painted gold, a tradition that dates back to the early days of the parade, but one for which I’ve never found a suitable explanation. If last year’s golden slippers cannot be located or no longer fit, newer sneakers or boots will be sacrificed and painted gold while they are on your feet, standing in the street or among parked cars.

  Then my mom and I (and again, possibly Dennis) head out and start walking. We are “walking up the club,” just as hundreds of other neighborhood men, dressed like myself, are doing at this very moment when the sun has just come up on the morning of New Year’s Day. Most of these neighborhood men are already drinking (or perhaps better, are still drinking). We are walking up to the club in order to meet my dad, who has been there partying since about eight o’clock the night before.

  Once we reach the club, more formally known as the James Froggy Carr Comic Club, my dad receives us from my mom, but not before giving her a gin-soaked “Happy New Year” kiss. He’ll take myself and my brother by the hand, comment on how good we look, and ask if we’re ready. We’ll spend the next eight hours walking, or rather marching, a few miles in the cold through the streets of Philadelphia, dancing to the music of bands, amid three hundred or so drunk men all dressed exactly like we are. We will do so under the “watchful” eye of our father, who at points during the day will be so inebriated that he may not be aware that he even has children. How we lived through these circumstances each New Year’s Day of my childhood and were not seriously injured or abducted I attribute to an Act of God.

  It’s really not as weird as it seems. Just as dangerous, but not as weird.

  But then again, miracles happen every year in the Philadelphia Mummers Parade.

  There were no Masons in my neighborhood. No Knights of Columbus. No Elks Lodges, no Lions Clubs, no Rotary Clubs—not even, despite the heavily Irish American population, an Ancient Order of Hibernians. But there were lots of unions—for longshoremen, electricians, roofers, plumbers, and the like. And lots and lots of Mummers clubs.

  Mummers clubs are the basic units of social life on Second Street, the name of my little corner of South Philadelphia. Second Street is an actual street, but the grid of streets surrounding Second Street make up the neighborhood of the same name, which is also called “Two Street.”* To say that you were from Second Street was not only a declaration of your address, but a pronouncement of your attitude, your worth, your essence. In a city like Philly, where you’re from says a lot about who you are. Words used to describe your typical Second Streeter might be those like the following: hardworking, since most worked long hours in unglamorous jobs in order to provide the best possible lives for their families; genuine, since pretension didn’t come around these parts much; and tough, since things like having a full set of teeth or a clean criminal record took a backseat to making sure you were respected. But one word was more important than the rest: loyal. One could count on his fellow Second Streeter to help with any problem that might have arisen, whether it was as simple as borrowing a few bucks to cover the electric bill or helping to dispose of a weapon that may or may not have been used in that thing that was in the paper on Tuesday. There were exceptions, to be sure, bad seeds and broken friendships as in any other community, but there is no replacement for the bonding and loyalty that arises in a neighborhood built on close relationships—one in which you go to school with kids whose fathers work with your father, whose mothers play cards with your mother, where the girl you marry is just as likely to have sat next to you in first grade as to be someone you meet as an adult—and the trust and respect that these relationships engender. This, more than anything else, explains the heart of Second Street; on the day you’re born, you are automatically connected to hundreds of people.

  My father was the fourth of ten kids, my mom the third of six. This was not unusual. Between my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, their families, their coworkers, the people they drank with, and the people they went to school with, the answers to “What’s your last name?” or “Who’s your father and mother?” were supremely important in determining who you were, what you were like, and what you were likely to do, before you could even say or do anything.

  The Mummers clubs represented a deeper layer of categorization in the neighborhood. First, you were from Philly; next, you were a Second Streeter; third, you were a Mulgrew or a Flood or a Kane; and lastly, you were a member of your particular Mummers club (often these last two were closely related). Architecturally, the clubs were nothing more than redesigned row homes, with a bar and a TV or two on the first floor and the rooms upstairs filled with pool tables or club paraphernalia. In this way, they acted as social clubs for their members—places to gather, have a drink, and unwind. These members would be from similar social, educational, and economic backgrounds, but so would everyone in the neighborhood. What set them apart from every other person they passed on the street was that they belonged to their Mummers club. In a world where options were seemingly limited, in an ironic twist, the association with a Mummers club represented the one attainable characteristic that could make a man unique. We graduated from the same high school, both work on the waterfront, and we drink at the same bars, but I belong to Fralinger and you belong to Quaker City.

  Functionally, the clubs existed to take part in the Mummers Parade, a Philadelphia New Year’s Day tradition for more than a century officially. However, the parades actually date back many centuries. * The original Mummers were performers who would parade around medieval England on Christmas Day, putting on folk dramas. ** Eventually, the tradition was put to an end in England by winemaker Carlo Rossi and his Terri
ble Gang of Nine, much to the chagrin of these Mummers, who only wanted to party.***

  Exhibit 163 in the future FBI “Jason Mulgrew: Serial Killer” file.

  The American Mummers parade dates back to colonial times, when immigrants (mostly Swedish) gathered together on New Year’s Day in the southeast part of the city—the area that my family would inhabit thousands of millions of years later, and which Second Street runs right through—to get drunk, dance, and bang on their neighbors’ doors.* You know, typical immigrant behavior.** How these Swedish immigrants picked up Mummery from the Brits is unknown, but as my Grandpop Mugs has told me every single day from my infancy: Swedes steal. Constantly.***

  The first official Mummers Parade in Philadelphia was on January 1, 1900. Every New Year’s Day in Philly since then, the nation’s sixth-largest city has completely shut down, its main streets and roads blocked off, as a quarter of a million rabble-rousers of all ages pack Broad Street to watch the Mummers parade to City Hall—think Philly’s version of Mardi Gras, but instead of frat boys, Hurricanes, and tits, there are Eagles fans, cans of Bud, and hoagies.

  At Philadelphia City Hall, a panel of judges gathers to decide which club is most worthy of first prize.**** How a Mummers club wins the parade is complicated and, for our purposes, almost irrelevant. Long gone are the days when a bunch of Swedes got drunk and played knock-knock runaway on their neighbors’ doors. The modern-day Mummer is divided into four types; each type has a winner, so really there are four winning clubs in the parade.***** Here’s a quick lesson:

  The Comis—The most basic of all Mummers with the least elaborate costumes, they are the first to march in the parade and also the rowdiest. The Comics groups range in size from a dozen people to as many as seven hundred. My family’s club, Froggy Carr, is a Comics club.

  The Fancies—More elaborate than the Comics but less elaborate than the String Bands and Fancies Brigades. They also have more advanced “themed” costumes that are usually topical in nature (imagine a dozen or so different Fancies wearing stained blue dresses after the Clinton/Lewinsky episode).

  The String Bands—The heart and soul of the parade, with live music, choreography, themes, and intricate costumes. Because of this, they are a big crowd favorite.

  The Fancy Brigades—The most extravagant and ornamental part of the parade. The Fancy Brigades do not play their own music but instead have large set pieces, floats, and complex choreography set to recorded music. The makeup is nearly professional, as local blue-collar guys who think a heterosexual is some form of supergay are turned into vampires, jungle animals, or aliens, depending on that year’s theme.

  Which type of Mummer you are and which Mummers club you belong to is largely hereditary. While switching clubs is not uncommon, many choose to stay in the club they were born into, embracing an identity forged by a previous generation. I go out with Froggy Carr, a Comics club, because my father went out with Froggy Carr. When I have a (legitimate) son, he will go out with Froggy Carr.

  The James Froggy Carr Club was established in 1971 in memory of James “Froggy” Carr (so it’s a pretty good name). Froggy was a neighborhood guy who died in a football accident in 1970. His buddies, who were already planning on forming a New Year’s club before he died, decided to name their new club in his honor. What started with a few guys “marching up the street” (slang for participating in the Mummers parade) to honor their buddy has grown into the biggest Comics brigade in the parade, with over seven hundred marchers annually.

  I’ve been going out with Froggy Carr since I’ve been old enough to remember. My dad started going out with Froggy Carr shortly after its inception, after his buddy and future best man Eddie Foley invited him out with the club.* As soon as my father was confident that he could carry me while fucked up and not drop me, I was going out in the parade.* The same went for my brother, Dennis.

  But the importance of the Mummers club to the neighborhood lies not in the technicalities between the types of Mummers or in winning first prize in the parade, which is a bragging right and not a financial reward. Simply put, families, friendships, and lives are built around these clubs. They are much more than just a place to go and drink. The people in the Mummers club become part of one’s family. Mummers music is played at weddings. Babies get fitted for wench dresses. Some Mummers are laid out in their casket in the Mummers suit. South Philadelphians, particularly Second Streeters, bring the same rabidity to the Mummers as they do to Philly sports and cheesesteaks. Though the Mummers Parade only occurs one day a year, being a Mummer is an annual responsibility and a lifetime relationship. It is not just an association but an identity, tying tighter familial and social bonds and establishing family lore.

  True to this, the Mummers play a significant role in my own family history.

  In the early afternoon on New Year’s Day 1977, the woman who would become my mother, Kathleen Teresa Brennan, Irish Rose, eldest of three sisters and third of six children, stood with her girlfriends on Second Street, watching the Mummers go by. While the official parade goes down Broad Street, many clubs take a walk down Second Street, the home of Mummery and location of many Mummer clubhouses, after the Broad Street run, and many spectators gather on Two Street to watch, making Second Street the unofficial after-party/parade spot. A Second Streeter all her life and thus a veteran of many parades, my mom took pictures of these Mummers as she and her friends drank and laughed at their costumes and drunkenness. Her face was covered with Mummers’ makeup, since one of the traditions of the New Year’s Day parade is that you can’t turn down a Mummer when he asks for a small Happy New Year kiss.

  Through the revelry, the explosion of confetti, the bustle of rainbow-colored costumes, and her own undoubtedly glassy eyes, she spotted a single Mummer, a Comic dressed in a wench suit. At first glance, he was just one of the thousands of Mummers on the street, but when she looked at him closer, she saw something. On the shoulder of his yellow wench dress she could make out a stain. At first she guessed that it was a wine stain, but as the Mummer drew nearer, she made out what the stain was: blood. More alarming than the blood on the Mummer’s shoulder was the way he completely disregarded it, continuing to dance and carry on and have a grand old time.

  My mother took out her camera and snapped a quick picture before the bloody drunken Mummer strutted harmlessly by her, and this New Year’s Day continued like the others before it. Days later she’d get the film developed, go over the day’s pictures with her girlfriends, and they’d stop and marvel at the Bloody Drunken Mummer (as he was now officially known), wondering what had happened. How had he been hurt? Had he fallen? Was he cut? How could he be so drunk to completely ignore the blood on his shoulder? After a moment and a confounded shake of her head, my mom flipped to the next picture. Eventually, the picture of the Bloody Drunken Mummer was thrown into a shoe box with other pictures and put away, a harmless memory of another raucous New Year’s Day.

  This shoe box was stored in the basement of her parents’ house, where she was living at the time, with her other pictures and junk. When she moved out, she took the shoe box and others just like it from one place to the next, until all the picture-filled shoe boxes ultimately settled into her closet in the home she shared with her new husband, Dennis.

  It was there that she rediscovered her pictures. Pregnant with her second child, she took it upon herself to clean out her closet to make room for the new baby. Not that the baby would be living in the closet, of course, but because space was at a premium and what could be thrown out, should; such is the cycle of life in a row home.

  When she opened the closet door and began sorting, she noticed the piles of shoe boxes in the corner, neatly stacked upon each other. She smiled, a real nostalgia smile, one of those smiles that fill you with warmth, brought by pleasant ghosts. It was only noon. She had plenty of time to go through the pictures for a little while before getting started. She sat down and started looking.

  She sat on the bed, gazing fondly at the pictures
for hours. There were pictures of her as a young girl, pictures of her with her brothers and her sisters, pictures of her with her mother and her father. And there were pictures of her with her friends from grade school, from the playground, from high school and after. After some time she came upon a picture that made her laugh: the one of the Bloody Drunken Mummer. Just as she remembered him, there he was: green makeup, yellow-gold wench dress, big bloodstain on his shoulder, bigger smile on his face. She put this picture in the pile that she was keeping on her right, which was a collection of particularly funny or interesting pictures to show her husband later when he got home from work.

  Indeed, when my dad came home from work, he was treated to a slide show of the day’s treasures, getting explanations for each and every picture (This is me and Lynn on our first day of class at St. Maria Goretti. This is me and Jackie down the shore…). He sat on the bed next to my mom, listening patiently though not intently, his attention waning with each picture and story behind it (I mean, how many pictures could he marvel at of her and her brothers and sisters by the pool down the shore?). But then he saw it—the picture of the Bloody Drunken Mummer.

  My mom’s comment on the picture, delivered with a laugh, was only “And then look at this moron.” My dad took the picture from her, reviewed it more closely, and said in a slightly offended tone, “Hey—that moron is me.”

  It definitely was him. He remembered little of that New Year’s, but he remembered him and his buddies getting in a fight, a fight that resulted in him getting stabbed (“a little bit”) in the shoulder. It was not a deep wound, but just a small cut, enough to bleed but not enough to hurt. So he kept on marching in the parade, fueled in no small part by blackberry brandy he carried in his pouch.