Part 14 (1/2)
By now the second baton had descended. Without so much as an upward glance, Duckworth caught it neatly and spun on. The drum section picked up the cadence and we marched smartly through the intersection, leaving behind a scene that forms the core of several epic poems relating the incident.
Duckworth immediately signaled for ”El Capitan,” and as we attacked the intro the crowd burst into a great fantastic roar of applause and surging emotion. The aroma of burnt rubber, scorched copper, ionized chrome, and frozen ozone trailed us up the street. Santa Claus, in a window, sat mouth agape. Grumpy's hammer was held stiffly at half-mast. The Christmas trees had flickered out, and MERRY XMAS MERRY XMAS neon signs were dark. neon signs were dark.
We knew that the baton that had gone up in smoke had been one of Wilbur's awards-his Presentation set of matched wands, won at the State Champions.h.i.+ps. The other, the survivor, he held lightly in his gloved right hand, his arm shooting high over his head and down diagonally across his body, up and down, up and down. He spun as we finished ”El Capitan.” Three quick blasts, the signal for ”Under the Double Eagle.” His eyes as steely as ever; his jaw grim and square.
From all sides we could hear the sound of sirens approaching the scene we were leaving behind us. ”Under the Double Eagle” with its ma.s.sive crescendos, its unmatched sousaphone obbligato. As we played this great cla.s.sic and Duckworth led us on into the gloom, every sousaphone player, every baritone man, the trombones, the clarinets, the piccolos and flutes, the snare drummers and Janowski, all of us thought one thing: ”Did he plan it!?”
You never can tell about Drum Majors. This was not the sort of mistake Wilbur Duckworth would make. Had he calculated this? Practiced, worked for this moment for four long years? Was this gigantic Capper, this unparalleled Capper his final statement to Hohman, Indiana, and the steel mills, the refineries, and the Sheet & Tube Works, those gray oyster eyes, and the Croatian Ladies' Aid Society?
Up ahead Duckworth's arched back, as taut as spring steel, said nothing. His shako reached for the sky, his great plume waved on. He blew a long, single, hanging blast, holding his remaining baton at a high oblique angle over his head. Two short blasts followed, and he smartly commanded a Column Right. The drums thundered as we moved into a side street and headed back toward school. The parade was over. The wind was rising and it seemed to be getting colder. A touch of snow was in the air. Christmas was on its way.
XXV
I RELATE THE STRANGE TALE OF THE HUMAN HYPODERMIC NEEDLE I RELATE THE STRANGE TALE OF THE HUMAN HYPODERMIC NEEDLE The retired trombonist stood behind the bar with his shoulders thrown back, an old familiar light blazing in his eyes. He wore the look of a man on the mark; tensed, waiting for the sharp downbeat, lips slightly pursed for the opening blast of ”Under the Double Eagle.” Gradually he relaxed, as we returned to the warm, moist, sudsy atmosphere of the friendly corner tavern.
”You know, Ralph, I don't tell many people this, but once in a while I go down in the bas.e.m.e.nt when n.o.body's home, and I play my trombone. The lip is still there.”
He drummed his fingers in a rhythmic, quick cadence tempo on the polished mahogany to the pattern of our well-remembered and much envied, by the other bands, of course, March Cadence. It is not generally known outside of the marching band world that each band has great pride in its distinct March Cadence drum pattern. It can be identified by this sound just as surely as a set of fingerprints gives away an axe murderer.
”Well, Flick, there are times when I can feel an old, dull itch in my left shoulder. Especially when I'm watching football games on TV, and they come on with the half-time shows.”
”Ah, they got all them girls with them cowboy hats. You don't see many good marching marching bands. Just a lot of bazooms, doing the Frug.” bands. Just a lot of bazooms, doing the Frug.”
”Times change, Flick.” Again the beer was sparking deep philosophical concepts. Flick continued, with a touch of bitterness in his voice: ”Fer Chrissake, there's nothing funnier than a short, fat girl clarinet player wearing a band suit, trying to do a double-time quick countermarch.”
”It's s...o...b..z, Flick. That's what it is.” We were getting a bit maudlin.
”It's s...o...b..z, Flick, it's all s...o...b..z. They're always doing this stuff like a salute to TV, or a salute to Richard Rodgers, or My Fair Lady My Fair Lady, for G.o.d's sake. Can you imagine what Duckworth woulda said if they had tried to foist off a Majorette on him, or what the h.e.l.l do they call them-a Pom-Pom girl, or a Color Guard?”
”Plenty a bazooms....”
”It's s...o...b..z, Flick.”
We sat together, Flick now perched on his high stool, me on mine, staring grimly out into the middle distance.
”I'm watching one the other day, Flick. They must have had a band of about 30,000 pieces. They came out with more junk hanging on 'em. Horns, whistles, smoke bombs, sirens; these guys had it all, and I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if they don't start making a formation while this announcer on the TV says; 'We are now going to pay a tribute to Doctor Kildare, that famous TV doctor.' And you know what they made, Flick, in a formation while they were playing that theme song from that TV show?”
”A bedpan?” Flick guessed.
I knocked my beer over into my lap and leaped up, brus.h.i.+ng the suds off the fine English flannel, the pride of my life. Flick grinned the self-contented grin of a man who knows he's made a funny. He drew me another beer, cackling all the while.
”h.e.l.l, no! A bedpan woulda been great. I'd a cheered! What this band did was march around, and they make a big hypodermic needle. 'Covered the whole d.a.m.n field! And then somebody blows a whistle and the plunger goes in, and the whole Ba.s.s section and about thirty-eight trumpets and six guys playing glockenspiels go pouring out through the needle. They're the dope, see, and when they get out of the needle they spell out 'Ouch!,' fer Chrissake. Well, I can see about 500,000 Junkies sitting out there, coming to in the middle of the football game and seeing this giant spike. And thinking all of a sudden they're doing a commercial for Heroin or something. It's a wonder they didn't bust the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n stadium!”
The phone rang. Flick picked up the receiver.
”Yeah? Now, you know I'm going to the game tonight. (Pause) You can have the car. They won't even know I'm not there. Okay, I promise. I will not not miss the next meeting; okay? That's a promise.” miss the next meeting; okay? That's a promise.”
He hung up.
”The wife. Janis.”
I remembered Janis faintly from school as a dark, quiet girl. I hardly knew her. I decided quickly not to pursue the subject any further. You never know.
”What meeting you talking about, Flick?”
”PTA. She drags me to that d.a.m.n thing every month. They sit around and talk about the Penny Supper. And how to raise more money to buy more World Books.”
”You got kids?” I asked.
”You know it!”
A sudden thought hit me. The PTA. Teachers, parents-the old alma mater.
”Do you ever see any of our old teachers? Like Mr. Milton? Or....”
I groped for a few names that were indelibly, forever tattooed on the tough hide of my memory.
”How 'bout ah...yeah, old Fatso Appleton?” He was a notorious Shop teacher who ran his Shop cla.s.ses like an actual Sweatshop Sweatshop. I guess he figured we better learn early.
”He's tougher than ever,” Flick said. ”In fact, a couple years ago some kids even tried to start a union, in his Shop, and he imported a bunch of Scab students after they went out on strike. Locked 'em out.”
”Too bad we never thought of that when we were around. What a jerk! How 'bout Miss Bryfogel?”
He thought for a long moment and said: ”No...I don't see her around any more. She really was something.”
I thoughtfully munched a pretzel.
”She certainly was, Flick. I, for one, will never forget her.”
XXVI
MISS BRYFOGEL AND THE FRIGHTENING CASE OF THE SPECKLE-THROATED CUCKOLD MISS BRYFOGEL AND THE FRIGHTENING CASE OF THE SPECKLE-THROATED CUCKOLD The sticky-sweet, body-warm taste of p.o.r.nography lingers in the soul long after the fires have been banked and the shades drawn. Where did it all begin? What ancient caveman drew the first dirty picture on the wall of his dank granite hole and then, cackling fiendishly, scuttled off into the darkness. At what point in time did some lecherous p.o.r.nographer-his acne itching, his palms sweaty-proclaim his smudgy craft as Art? Thereby giving rise and hope and sustenance to a whole generation, nay, an immense population of beady-eyed, furtive probers in the rank undergrowth of human debauchery.
At long last we have finally solved that age-old problem, that ancient challenge which drove countless philosophers of the past to the verge of madness; of how to change the base metal lead into precious gold. Even as I write this, battalions of hard-working, Serious, dedicated artists, their tongues lolling, their breath coming in short, uneven pants, foreheads sticky with clammy perspiration, their agents impatiently clamoring at the door of their sacred writing chamber, are contriving at immense artistic cost yet another description; evocation, of a basically simple bodily function, or yet another monstrously imagined portion of the human anatomy. Theirs is not an easy task. Pause and consider. There really aren't many four-letter words, and there are just so many ways you can arrange them. Already, perhaps, the end is in sight.
But their task is dwarfed by the legion of ready reviewers whose duty it is to trans.m.u.te their inchoate lead into magnificent golden works of Art. His a.r.s.enal of phrases, like that of the Artist, is also limited, and hence sees repeated use: ”Biting satire....”
”Scathing indictment of our Puritanical s.e.xual mores.”
”Brilliant parody-a real thrust at the Victorian ethos.”
”Deliciously savage tongue-in-cheek treatment of....”
”Ribald, picaresque, rollicking novel that has a deep undertone of....”
”Ecstatic poetic vision, reminiscent of an enlightened D. H. Lawrence.”