On Beauty & the Wasteland - v.2/ issue 2 - Parade
On Beauty & the Wasteland
V.2 / issue 2
Earlier, I had been at a cafe close to the beginning of the parade route. Close enough to see the groups assembling. As I approached the door, an older woman walking along-side me turned to me saying, “Can you believe it? I forgot it was veteran’s day. Isn’t that awful of me?” “When did you remember?,” I asked her. “Just now,” she replied, her voice mired with guilt and confusion as her mind tried to catch up with what her eyes were seeing all around us. I opened the door for her, where she found a person whom she greeted. “Did you know? It is veteran’s day? I forgot.”
Sitting at a corner table with my back to the wall writing and enjoying my breakfast, I observed many men in line wearing service uniforms along with bikers with military patches sewn into their leather vests. While waiting, they shared with each other their division numbers and battalion numbers and where they were ‘out of.’ “I don’t think we exist anymore,” one said. “The clatter of kitchen noises, “thank you for your service” and “may I take your order” droned in the background.
The oldest man in the room, accompanied by his son, sat at the table nearest to me, receiving a lot of attention. This man was a world war 2 vet. “Not many of them left,” I overheard. When people asked him questions, he paused for a long time. “Did I enlist or was I drafted?,” he repeated, asking himself, his son. “You enlisted — at 17, dad,” said his son patiently. “Oh yeah, oh yeah. I enlisted at 17. That was a long, long time ago.” “What did I do as a civilian?” He appeared lost again looking to his son, repeating the question someone had asked him, blankness etched in every line of his face.
As I sit in my rocking chair along the parade route clutching my coffee in both my hands keeping them warm on this brisk November morning, I watch the external world around me with one eye and the inside world of me with the other. There weren’t many people at this parade on this Friday late morning. The crowd isn’t multiple people thick. It’s easy to find a spot. I am quite young in this crowd. Few children are in attendance to collect candy.
I tear up as I hear the high school bands warming up on a side street. A man in a red coat walks down main street close to me, smiling in my direction. I can sense him trying to get my attention, and I can feel that I don’t want to give it to him. I let my eyes soften so he passes through my field of vision without me having to take in much of him. He stops just beyond me. I feel dread and tightness with the anticipation that he is going to do something to demand my attention. I can feel him even as I am looking expectantly up the street in the other direction.
The fighter jets fly over. We hear them, look up, and then stand up. They seem to miss Main Street by enough that we can only hear them. I sit back down in my chair, rocking myself as is my habit, my hanky clutched in my gloved hands. The man in the red coat, still standing in the street nearby, begins talking. I am still looking in the direction of the parade. A cop car has pulled up in the center of the street. Just behind in formation stands a group of soldiers in various uniforms carrying rifles and flags. They will be starting soon.
The man is still talking. He is talking to me even though I am not looking at him. His voice is insistent, getting louder. He is telling me about my chair. I turn and look at him as if he is a spectacle. He is older than my father, a small dark weather-faced man in a large red coat, His loud grating voice asks, “How much did you pay for that thing?,” pausing for my answer. I take my time responding, and in a measured tone I reply, “I have no idea,” swiveling my head and my gaze away, but I can’t detach my attention.
My reply seems to receive some nervous titters from those nearby. The small man in the large coat… is he a small man or does he appear smaller than he is because his coat is too big? He grumbled, “you don’t know?,” laughs, and keeps talking to me. Even though I am staring intently at the parade. I feel scared. I can’t hear what he is saying, only the tone of his voice sounding annoyed, as though he is daring me to ignore him.
He stops talking. He walks onto the sidewalk, passing close behind me. I can hear him muttering under his breath. “Bitch.” Did he really say this? Or did I only imagine it? No one else seems to take notice. Once he is gone, I begin breathing again. Tears shine in my eyes as the gun salute opens the parade.
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