by Dan Richards
Tyler walked over with a grin that was all too familiar. I’d seen it on Ben, and in the mirror. He was wearing the smitten look that he’d carry until either she dumped him or he woke up.
“Hey, guys,” Tyler said.
“What’s up?” Ben asked.
“Not much. Just hangin’ at the carnival.”
Ben looked at Annie. “Yes, I see that.”
“I thought you didn’t like girls,” I added.
“Shut up.”
Poor chap. He had no idea the world he’d walked into.
He leaned in. “Hey, have you ever kissed a girl?”
That brought the zombie warlord to life. I’d almost forgotten my earlier conversation with my father. Ben and I both shook our heads.
“Well, I have. Tonight,” he finished.
Ben and I gaped.
“Son of a ditch digger,” Ben answered for both of us. “Where?”
“Behind the palm reader’s booth. It just kinda happened.”
My hands were sweating. So were my armpits. In fact, my whole body had begun to sweat. Off to the side, I saw Annie, Kirsten, and Becca giggling. That didn’t look good. Were they having the same conversation? Becca caught my eye. She smiled, then looked away. The zombie warlord banged on my chest for all he was worth. “What time is it?”
Tyler checked his watch. “Nine forty.”
Ben grunted. “Seriously? Dang it, my mom’s probably waiting for us.”
“That’s too bad,” I chimed in. “Guess we gotta go.”
“Next year I’m driving myself,” Ben muttered.
“In what? A go-cart?”
“Anything would be better than coming with my mom.”
He had a point. We gave Tyler a high five, then stopped by the girls.
“See ya, we gotta go,” Ben said.
“Really?” Kirsten asked with pouty lips. “It’s early.”
“I know. My mom is a pain.”
“I gotta go, too,” Becca said.
She joined us as we headed out front.
“This was really fun,” she said.
“Super fun,” Ben agreed.
“Awesome,” I half-heartedly threw in.
We found Becca’s mom waiting at the entrance. Becca gave a final wave as they drove off.
When I got home, my father was waiting for me. “So, did anyone get lucky with a kiss tonight?” he asked with a sly grin.
Yes, as a matter of fact, someone had gotten lucky. But not me. “Nope.”
He frowned. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.”
I headed up to bed. Yeah, right.
I woke Saturday to blue skies and a knot the size of a half rack of ribs in my stomach. The reality hit me that Becca would be riding on a float with Jackson. The two of them would spend the day being chummy while I’d be riding on a float with my little brother and a bunch of guys dressed up like sides of beef. To make matters worse, my other friends would see me. Any one of them could give me away Monday to Becca. How had I not thought of that before? I needed a way out. And quick.
Before I even got the covers off, my father charged in, a wild look in his eye.
“Get up!” he shouted like a crazy man about to do something crazy with the help of other crazies. “I told you to be ready.” He jammed a piece of dry toast into my mouth and threw back the covers. “Let’s go. Don’t break your promise to me now.”
For starters, I had made no promises. Nor had I been given any sort of morning timeline. The parade didn’t start until noon. “What are you talking about?” I grumbled, sitting up.
The wild look on my father’s face only got wilder. “The parade is today! Have you forgotten? We have to be in line by ten thirty! What are you doing?”
The clock showed 8:30 a.m. But, more important, I had lost my chance to prepare a convincing sickness that would get me out of going. With toast jammed in my mouth and my clothes being thrown at me from all angles, it was too late to improvise. I pulled on a shirt and pants as my father dragged me out the door.
We rushed out to his truck, which refused to start. “What the—” he shouted at the key, as if it were taking part in a conspiracy. He twisted the key in the ignition, but still nothing happened. He pounded the dashboard in frustration then let loose with a string of expletives that would have melted the ignition of a lesser vehicle.
“Where’s Tommy?” I asked to pass the time. When my father went on a rant, it could last awhile.
My father finally inserted the key all the way, which did a lot to explain why the truck hadn’t started sooner. The engine roared to life, and we shot out of the driveway. “He’s . . . with your mother.”
“Oh. Where’s Mom?”
My father careened out of our cul-de-sac and barreled through a four-way stop. “I took her to Harley’s barn last night and surprised her with the float,” he said grimly.
I tried to imagine her face. A shudder ran through me. “Why did you do that?”
We slid around a sharp corner. “She wouldn’t allow Tommy to be in the parade unless I showed her what we were doing.”
“Is he going to be in the parade?”
“No. They’re out running . . . errands.”
“What about me?”
He sped through a red light with a casual shrug. “She said you were old enough to decide for yourself if you wanted to take part in such foolishness.”
From past experience, my mother had a pretty good understanding of foolishness. “I’m not sure I do want to take part.”
My father slid sideways into Harley’s driveway. “Sure you do. It’s going to be fun,” he said as we skidded to a stop in front of Harley’s barn. The barn doors were already open. The float sat in the semidarkness like a mythical beast waiting to pounce on unwary travelers. Harley ran from the back door of his house dressed in his full ham hock outfit, complete with bone-in cap that jutted off his head like a giant infected pimple.
“It’s about time you got here. The other boys are in the house having a little breakfast.”
As if on cue, the rest of the crew streamed out to greet us. Before me stood everything from a whole roasted chicken to a three-hundred-pound lamb chop. Incidentally, Joe, the guy wearing the lamb chop outfit, really did weigh three hundred pounds. Today he looked closer to four hundred. I wondered if that had been taken into account when purchasing the trailer.
“Men,” my father said, stepping up onto the running board of his truck like a platform, “for far too long we’ve stood by while others”—he said others with added contempt—“have touted the virtues of eating less meat.” He paused for effect.
Harley encouraged him to continue. “Hurry up, we’re already late.”
My father raised his hands to placate the crowd. “Today, we take a stand. Today, we go where no meat lover has gone before.” He clenched his fists and raised them to the heavens. “Today, we go down in infamy!”
I was pretty sure my father was using the word infamy incorrectly. Last I checked, it worked for describing a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor but not so much when describing a parade float.
A round of laughter came from all around. “Hear, hear!” his comrades shouted. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I followed the group into the barn for a last loving look at their creation before we headed out. A sign had been added to the front bumper that read Truly Meats, Since 1964. Signs had also been hung on either side of the trailer with big, bold letters that, unfortunately, were clear enough to be read. One said Stop by for a Meat & Greet. The other said Be Truly to Yourself—Eat Meat. Along the top of the float, papier-mâché animals had been attached with cuts of meat outlined on their torsos. I took a deep breath. It was going to be a long afternoon.
My father eased his truck into the barn. Any hope of a mishap went unfulfilled as the trailer clunked onto the hitch. The gang loaded into the back of the truck, leaving me to ride shotgun.
“Better get your costume on,” my father said to me. “We’ll be to town in no ti
me.”
I stared at the pile of stockings next to me. With a small sigh, I pulled off my clothes and pulled on the suit.
“Lookin’ good,” my father said.
What I looked like was a stocking leg with a compound fracture. “Yeah, thanks.”
The meat float got more than a few stares as we drove into town. At last, we pulled onto a side street near the beginning of the parade route and took our place behind a line of other waiting floats. When I say floats, I mean beautifully crafted creations full of fresh flowers, bright colors, and cheery goodwill, including the one in front of us carrying the Irrigation Festival royalty. Riding atop sat the queen and her court, a lovely group of young ladies in long, flowing dresses with elbow-length white gloves already smiling, despite the ungodly early hour.
I quickly checked the other floats in line ahead of us. None contained Jackson’s church group. I let out a sigh of relief.
The guys piled out of the back of the truck. The queen turned. Her mouth dropped. She opened it as if to scream. But nothing came out. Her fellow princesses saw the shocked look on her face and followed her stare. “What is that?” I heard one whisper. “I don’t know, but I’m not riding in front of that,” another replied.
My father pulled on his bratwurst costume. This probably didn’t help matters. “Hello, ladies,” he said in greeting.
That didn’t seem to get the response he was expecting. One of the princesses hopped down and went over to a man dressed in a chauffer suit. She pointed in our direction while giving him an earful of instruction. The driver nodded, climbed into his compartment, started the engine, and drove the float up over the sidewalk and down an alley out of sight.
“That was rude,” Harley said, standing next to my father.
My father shook his head. “I’m sure it wasn’t us.”
I’m sure it was. I began to wonder if we’d be the first float ever to be banned from the parade before the parade even started. The idea sounded pretty reasonable. A man with an official badge walked over to my father. He gave us a puzzled once-over, then handed my father an entry number.
“You’ll be in about the middle, just behind the Can-Can Youth Drill Team and just before the Port Townsend High School marching band.” He gave us a last quizzical look and hurried away.
My father turned to his crew, holding up our float number. “Well, boys, it’s official. We’re in the parade.”
This brought on a lot more cheering than seemed appropriate, given that our town’s royalty had just snuck down an alley to get away from us. After that, not much happened for a really long time, pretty much forever. Being in a parade was not nearly as exciting as I expected. Mostly, you sat around waiting your turn and grumbling about how long could it take for a bunch of motorized flowerpots to get moving.
In the distance came the sounds of drums banging, gospel choirs singing, and the crack of muskets being fired. A parade is not a parade without men dressed up like Davy Crockett randomly firing muskets. Which would be handy if a zombie apocalypse were to break out. But otherwise gets pretty annoying.
From the comments being made, the guys on our float were getting hungry, and I began to wonder if they understood our costumes weren’t real food.
“Is that BBQ sauce you’re cooked in?” Joe asked, staring at my ribs.
“Uh, I don’t know. I think it’s just a brown marker.”
He let out a sigh. “Too bad. I prefer BBQ sauce.”
Yikes. It was time to get this party started.
Just before an act of cannibalism occurred, we finally got the nod from the parade official to move forward. My father hopped in the truck, which wasn’t easy dressed as a giant bratwurst. The rest of us took up positions on the float, not coordinated positions, mind you. We milled about like meat-entrée pirates drifting out to sea on a derelict ship. The float crawled forward at a speed slightly slower than the bumper car I had driven the night before.
Just before we turned onto Main Street, my mother appeared with my little brother. He was dressed in his chicken leg costume, complete with bone sticking out his backside and everything. They approached my father.
“This really is the dumbest thing ever,” my mom said to my dad.
My father gave her a kiss out the window. “I know. I’m beginning to think you might be right.”
“Beginning to think?” my mother asked. She looked the float over from beginning to end. A smile creased her lips. “I hate to say it, but there is an odd sort of small-town charm to the thing. And a real sense of history.”
“Really?” my father asked.
“Truly,” she replied with a genuine grin.
My father let out a whoop. “The party’s on,” he called back to us. “Let’s have some fun with this thing, shall we?”
My mother walked back to the trailer and helped Tommy up.
“That’s the best-looking drumstick ever,” Joe said, giving Tommy a high five.
“Yes, let’s keep him that way,” my mother replied.
“Don’t you worry,” Harley said, lifting Tommy up onto his shoulders. “We’ll take good care of this little guy.”
My mother turned to me. “Need anything?”
Yes, a way out. “I’m okay.”
“Okay?” Joe exclaimed. “Look at him. He’s a star.”
A star that comes served with a side of corn and mashed potatoes. “Yeah. A star.”
My mother smiled. “Have fun. By the way, I’m making ribs for dinner,” she said with a wink as she turned to go. “It seemed fitting.”
With that, we turned onto Main Street. Both sides of the street were lined with people, more people than I had seen in one place before. They were clapping and waving at the drill team in front of us, which had stopped to twirl about, stomping their boots in unison like a herd of tap-dancing buffalo. Harley dropped Tommy down beside me.
“It’s showtime,” Joe said, puffing up.
The last thing Joe needed was to puff up anymore. If he got any larger, we’d need a second float for the rest of us.
My father inched his way forward until we reached the first onlookers. All eyes turned to us. My heart started to hammer. We were now hemmed in by people on both sides. Their faces held a mixture of shock, confusion, and laughter.
“Pick yourself up one of these lamb chops,” Joe called out, thumping his chest.
That brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.
Joe lumbered across the float. “Me—it’s what’s for dinner,” he called out to the onlookers on the other side of the street.
Another roar of laughter.
Joe did his best strongman pose. We all joined in. Tommy got the biggest response when he flexed his little arms for the crowd.
“Look at the mighty drumstick,” someone in the crowd shouted.
Harley lifted Tommy up for all to see.
“I’m a mighty drumstick,” Tommy shouted back.
The crowd went wild. Camera phones appeared from all angles. People ran into the street to be photographed next to our float.
“Time for the piñatas,” Joe shouted to us. He pulled a baseball bat from its hiding place. “Stand back,” he warned us.
He climbed up some steps to where the papier-mâché animals hung, then reared back with the bat like a home-run hitter. I pulled Tommy close as Joe swung with full force. A bunny rabbit exploded into a cloudburst of red licorice that sprayed over the crowd. Some shrieked. Others ran. No one dared touch the candy that lay splattered around them.
Action was needed. Quickly. “Harley, how about you let me and Tommy give out the candy?” I pleaded with my best non-pleading tone.
Harley looked out at the stunned faces of the children, some with bits of red licorice stuck in their hair. He took the bat from Joe. “Yeah, maybe that would be a good idea.”
I pulled the remaining piñatas down and went to work prying them open. Tommy helped by getting his sobs under control. “Why did he kill the bunny?” he kept asking.
T
here really was no answer to that question, so I ignored it by giving him a chocolate bar from the intestinal tract of the piglet I’d just opened. I hopped down and approached the nearest group of kids. Holding out the surgically opened piglet, I let them reach inside for a treat. “That’s gross,” one of them said. “Can I have another?”
Before long, the piglet’s insides were empty. Tommy brought over a brightly colored rooster. Together, we passed out the candy corn inside. Everyone wanted photos with us. Pretty soon all the guys had hopped off the float to mingle with the crowd. We slowly made our way along the parade float basking in the glory of being a surprise sensation. My mouth actually got tired from smiling. Even old-timers wanted a photo with me and Tommy. “Your grampa used to come in on Sunday morning just so I could have the pick of the lamb for dinner after church,” one elderly woman said, clasping my hand. “He was a fine man.”
My father waved to the crowd. He honked every time he saw someone he knew. The honking was continuous. Until that moment, I never realized how many people knew my father. Apparently, if you want to be popular, own a butcher shop.
By the time we reached the hardware store where Ben’s father worked, I was having the time of my life.
“HEY, STU!” Ben yelled.
I looked up to see him and a mob of others sitting on the roof of the hardware store. Clearly, they had the best seats in the house. I waved, trying my best to look studly.
“GET A LOOK AT THESE RIBS,” I shouted.
“COME TO MY HOUSE FOR DINNER,” Ben shouted. “YOU’RE MAKING ME HUNGRY.”
I flexed. “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THESE RIBS.”
I tossed the last of the candy up to them. This brought a round of hollering from the group, except one girl I noticed standing apart. One girl staring down at me with a look of shock and terror. One girl who glanced away the moment our eyes met. Becca. It couldn’t be. The zombie warlord in my chest hammered to be let out. What was she doing up there? She was supposed to be riding on a float with Jackson. That’s when I noticed Jackson standing next to her.