Trombones Can Laugh

by Lorraine Ray

  “Sure! What do you want this time?” I asked.

  “Oh, anything they’re dishing out. Seeing the Bastards coming today has interested me.”

  “Okay, Moses!” I said.

  I worked my way to the back of the bus. A crowd had formed near the back window. Everyone was still studying the motorcycle which was behind us, but approaching fast.

  “Sure looks like that to me,” said another man who took a look for the first time and sat down promptly. “I.O.O.B.!”

  “Me too. I agree it’s getting closer and closer at a faster speed every minute,” added another.

  “It’s gonna pass us and crash!” screamed Ed. “A real crash in a few minutes! I’m serious guys!”

  I got Moses a Bloody Mary. The bartender thought it was for me, because I told him to make it a little weak. No matter what he said, I figured drinking as much as Moses did couldn’t be good for a guy as old as he was. I wobbled my way back up to our seats with the potion for my friend.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing him the tomato drink.

  “That looks good,” said Moses, dashing an enormous amount down at once. “I haven’t had one of these in days.”

  The bus riders were still going wild over the approaching motorcycle.

  “Nah, it’ll slow before it gets to us. It’s gotta do that.” This was added by the bored man who was still piling his cigarette ashes into the hat of the Shriner who stared vacantly, and happily, ahead.

  “I tell you it’s gonna pass us and crash,” warned Ed. “There’s no stopping it. It’s gonna come and come until it does the same thing to us!”

  “It’s getting mighty close,” agreed another.

  “God, that driver’s a nut,” said someone. “A nut of the first order. Look at the way they’re accelerating.”

  “Yeah, a real nut case.”

  “Hey, driver! There a nutty driver coming up behind us!”

  I noticed the driver nodding solemnly.

  “Don’t bother the driver. Let him do his work. There’s nothing he can do now until the motorcycle gets to us,” said Moses.

  “Stop screaming!” someone screamed. “Everyone stop the screaming and let the driver think without having to hear screaming!”

  “Whaddaya think we oughtta do?” asked a drunken Shriner leaning over the driver’s shoulder.

  “Sit down,” said the irritated driver.

  The drunken man who was lurching about at the driver’s shoulder whirled around dramatically and addressed those of us in the back of the bus, “He is asking everyone to sit down.” This drunk was now the only Shriner at the front of the bus who was still standing. Moses and I laughed.

  “Why doesn’t that motorcycle slow down?”

  “Too big of a hurry to get to his own death.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Brace yourself. That’s all you can do.”

  “Yeah, get in your seats everybody and brace yourself,” said another man who played the piccolo.

  “Brace for impact!” shouted Milton II.

  “Oh hell, it doesn’t worry me’” said the smart aleck guy who was using the Shriner hat as an ashtray.

  “Watch out!”

  The guys ducked and scrunched down in their seats. Some pulled themselves into tight balls and others started crossing themselves and praying.

  The motorcycle roared up to our bus and zoomed past at an incredible speed. The tail of it whipped back and forth as the crazy driver, whose black leather jacket bore the unmistakable emblem of the dreadful I.O.O.B., floored the gas and the cycle shot forward. As it passed the bus, the passenger in the sidecar lifted his middle finger triumphantly.

  “He’s giving us the bird!” screamed Ed.

  Just then the bastard floored the motorcycle, plowing past us with a deep throaty vroom, rocketing down the road toward Cuervo Loco Days.

  “Whoa!”

  “I felt it go by!”

  “There’s a Bastard driving it. I recognized him,” said a man in shock.

  “Figures,” said another.

  “A crazy looking son of a gun. His eyes were purely buggy! Like this.” A Shriner did a horrible imitation of the Bastard’s face.

  “Normal,” commented another observer.

  “Who does he think he is anyway?”

  “Car! Car! Damn!”

  I felt the bus yank to the right. Moses and I crashed shoulders.

  “It’s swerving at us!” cried Moses. He put his hand around me and had us duck.

  “Are we heading off the pavement?” asked someone with fear, “That’s really not advisable at a juncture like this.”

  “The shoulder is soft! What’s happening?”

  Our bus crashed across some cactus and small rocks.

  “We’ll flip the bus if we go out there!”

  “Whoa! Hey driver, what do you think you’re do…o…ing?”

  The frightened bus driver applied the brakes, too quickly.

  The bored man who was standing and horribly drunk lurched forward, struck his head and fell to the floor in a crumbled heap.

  “Help! Help him! Help!” someone nearby cried.

  “We’re back on the road!” screamed Ed.

  “Thank god for that,” said Milton I.

  “I was never worried,” Milton II replied.

  “Those damned Bastards!” said Ed to me. “They practically killed one of us! Again! They won’t stop until they have! They’re as good as murderers.”

  A few minutes later, the man who was knocked out came to, didn’t remember a damn thing that had happened to him, and we entered Crow Flats.

  There we were—an entire busload of Shriners, bombed out of our heads, except for Gluey, the driver, and me. Our task was to get our instruments out of the bus and make the transfer to the float. I wasn’t sure most of them could manage it.

  I’d never ridden on a float before. I learned from Moses that the Shriners always used them. Given the age of the band members, this certainly was a wise move. None of them could have marched two blocks in a parade, especially since they all were smashed out of their gourds. To make them walk even one city block might have meant the death of several of them. Milton I and Milton II, for example.

  The driver found the float on the teeny side street where it had been built. In someone’s driveway, actually. As we pulled up, dogs were barking at us from dirt yards full of weeds and rusty cars. We got off the bus, and picked our instruments out of the bottom of the bus. I had to help Ed with his tuba. Some old ladies were drinking tea out of jars and laughing at the old men Shriners as they fell over trying to pick out their instruments. I felt rather humiliated by that and tried to help the two Miltons who were always in bad shape.

  The float for our band that day was built over many weeks by the local Shriner temple. It was a clever thing, put together on an old flatbed that had been modified with some pipe rails for supports. A large chicken wire and paper mache crow perched on the front of the float, large enough to support two Shriners. The band had to use some made-up wooden steps to climb up on the float, and it took forever to get the drunken old coots up the steps. With the exception of Gluey and me, they could barely shuffle themselves forward. They carried their instruments very slowly and carefully; we left the cases in the luggage compartment of the bus. Once I got on the float I discovered there were small risers. I worried that the old drunken guys wouldn’t lift their feet the four inches it took to get up those, but nobody fell. The bottom of the float had a drape of paper with the name of the local Shriner chapter and some words of boosterish crap about the town. The conductor stepped into a box made of plywood that came to his waist, so that he wouldn’t fall off. And I remember our stands had tie-downs to the float. It seemed like some of the skinny guys should have been glued down or tied down in case the wind snatched them up and carried them away.

  When the float was ready to go, several more neighbors stepped out from behind their screen doors and laughed at the big crow, whose fli
msy wings were flapping peculiarly. A dog chased us and a cat in the limbs of a big tree in someone’s yard swished its tail at us and meowed fitfully. Maybe he noticed that weird gigantic crow.

  The driver of the float was the man who built it, so he knew the ins and outs of the truck. We stopped at the local temple to pick up the Shriners who were supposed to ride on the crow, and they climbed on—slowly. Holy shit, they were crocked too! Although it wasn’t too common, some little towns also provide a few member who could play instruments. At Crow Flats we got a percussionist who wasn’t actually ancient.

  Once the crow riders had settled themselves, the driver started the engine again and we drove toward the town’s main drag. Each gingerbread wooden home we passed on that street had a stunted Chinaberry tree in a Bermuda lawn in front of it. The fat old trees looked like stubby men lined up for an inspection. I didn’t think we were in very good shape.

  As we waited for the parade to start, I quizzed Moses for more information about the Bastards.

  “I think their name is a joke on ours, James. We’re the A.A.O.M.S., right, and they’re the I.O.O.B.”

  “Will they come after us?” I asked Moses.

  “Oh no. Not at all. First thing is, we are on a float. Since the Shriners don’t march, I don’t think they can bother us. I don’t think the I.O.O.B would stop a parade float. And they know we’re harmless, James. After all, we don’t ever raise a hand against them and most of us are not bothered by being called names or having the finger showed to us. We would never harass them or be offended by them. No, it’s the Mountain Men that they want to get even with and they'll go after them. They have no fight with us.”

  “Who are these Mountain Men?”

  “As I said, another group of nuts. They dress up as trappers. I guess they’re not here today,” said Moses.

  “Don’t you want to defend yourselves against the insults of the Bastards? You said they insult everyone. Like that guy on the motorcycle flipping us off?”

  “No, James, nothing comes of nonsense like that. Nothing good, that is. We know it’s better to be at peace with others. They’re entitled to their opinions and the Mountain Men are entitled to beat the pulp out of them. The Masonic way is not to pick fights, but if a fight is going to happen between them and the Mountain Men, well, I will not be above enjoying it!” said Moses. “It’s going to be very, very wonderful to watch!”

  Moses kept looking for the Bastards for me during the wait for the parade to start.

  Just when I was about to give up, he caught a glimpse!

  “Look, behind the funeral parlor! Look there!”

  At first I couldn’t see what he was pointing at, and then I noticed some dirty men in a group. They had long scraggly beards and hair that was like blown weeds that had been swiped over and over on the oily undercarriage of a car. Maybe the best way to describe them is to say they resembled a gang of pirate cut-throats. Weather-beaten and grizzly gray pirates or evil Gabby Hayes look-a-likes. The old geezers fobbed along, swinging their arms and looking the part of the old western wanderers and bad guys. Some of the old chums looked like they’d been packed too long in cry-o-vac packages. Their faces had squeezed up features, pressed together. As they assembled, I’d never seen a more rag-tag group of gentlemen with dirty, saggy jeans, wrinkled skin and faded hopes. Their teeth were missing, stained, and crooked.

  “These are some low-life characters if ever Arizona had produced them, James. Shoot, they are thoroughly rotten, a plague upon the parades in Southern Arizona.” Moses chuckled when he said this, though. “No matter how much I hate them for their evilness individually, I must admit that their group is humorous. I don't take them seriously and neither does anyone else.” The Shriners, Moses explained, had long since discovered the nature of the I.O.O.B. “They’re idiots.”

  I only caught one more glimpse of the outrageous gang that day at Crow Flats. The glimpse I got was enough for me to know Moses was right. Shit, what a bunch they were!

  It wasn’t the way they looked that shocked me. It was their actions. They glowered at the crowd, laughed at children, kicked at dogs and marched out of step. The front group seemed to be mocking the famous fife and drum from Valley Forge. These gentlemen limped along and cursed the crowd. Most of the group was quite old, but they’d recruited some young men who probably were grimy miners from small towns who lived in trailers and needed excitement in their lives. They wore greasy-looking leather vests and had hideous hair. They were not the loudest, or the most obnoxious, but they probably were only learning their trade.

  A quick end came to the Crow Flats’ annual parade. Cowboys and wagons, carriages and bands, packed up and went home after showing what they could do. We were the best band in this parade, which was basically saying jack shit, because the others were terrible.

  “How did this I.O.O.B. form? Where did they come from?” I asked Moses later when we were on our way home in the bus.

  “They formed out of an ether, James, out of the mysterious filament of nature from many unknown elements existing in the universe.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I haven't the foggiest, James. Your guess is as good as mine. Those guys simply appeared in a parade a few years ago, and they’ve been coming to parades since. Who started the group? I don’t really know. And what is their purpose? Frankly, I’m afraid to ask. What would happen to me, James, if I did? They’re a rough bunch, that’s for sure. To annoy people, maybe that’s their purpose. But they don’t annoy me very much at all.”

  I studied my Geometry book all the way back to town. Mom was sitting in the car ready to pick me up late in the afternoon when our bus returned.

  Over the next months, I attended two more parades, which were similar to Crow Flats, except for no more English motorcycles racing beside us to flip us the bird and run us off the road. We saw the I.O.O.B. in neither of these parades. Then another summer arrived and the parade and circus season ended.

  I thought about telling Mom that the busload of Shriners were always crocked, that there was a group called the International Order of Old Bastards making fun of the Ancient Arabic Order of the Mystic Shrine and another group called the Mountain Men who hated the Bastards and that my friend Moses thought the two groups would battle, but what would she make of all of that madness and mayhem? Something bad, I figured. Frankly, I was beginning to enjoy my time with the Shriners and I didn’t want it to end. Wow, it was out of sight to realize how my opinions had changed. Was I the same James who had been trying to get out of Shriner band with a lot of stupid lies?

  CHAPTER NINE

  On the first day of school that year, many other things had changed. It wasn’t just the music or the clothing; the opposition to the war in Vietnam had strengthened among those of us who were young, even in backward old Arizona, and we’d convinced more of those who were older to march and protest.

  On the second week of school, a student walked up to me near the end of the lunch hour. He stood before me, just staring into my damn face. It was so shitting crazy. I thought it best to apologize quickly. The way I figured it, I’d probably violated some crazy school rule or something and I feared that I was about to be beaten up. This guy was big and he had to be a senior, because he had an impressive beard. Seniors had a bunch of dumb rules around the school, and one of their dip-shit rules was about this dumb plaque or shield set in the concrete of the senior patio. If you stepped on the school shield, you could be forced to clean it with a toothbrush by upperclassmen that grabbed you by your arms and pinned you down to do the scrubbing. Or so they warned everyone. I didn’t think I’d even been in the senior patio in months, or I didn’t remember going through there, at least, but I thought I might have been mistaken for someone else. I couldn’t figure why else the guy was just standing in front of me, so I said, “If I stepped on the senior shield, I’m awful sorry.”

  However, this guy didn’t budge or say a word and I was left trying to figure out why he was blocking my way.
Finally, when he had studied my face enough, he spoke. “Don’t worry, brother. Peace, man.”

  I realized then that he was not one of the usual school idiots who would enforce a dumb rule like the school shield. He seemed to be different. Looking at his beard, I thought he was not the type to like any rules, probably. This was a new kind of kid.

  Then I knew I was seeing at my school a real honest-to-goodness hippie up close.

  He used a hand to brush his long brown hair back behind his ears. Then I realized a long ponytail hung at his back.

  In slow motion he lifted a necklace of dark wooden beads carved into flowers from his neck and hung them on mine.

  “Love, brother,” he said, making the two-fingered peace sign and smiling.

  “Yeah,” I said sheepishly, looking around self-consciously to see if anyone was noticing the embarrassing thing that was happening to me.

  When he left, I tore the love beads off of my neck and stuffed them in my pants pocket. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. When I got home, I immediately gave them to Ginny, though I was rather proud I’d been given them.

  “Did some girl give you these?” Ginny asked suspiciously. She seemed delighted with the idea.

  “No, a girl didn’t give me those. Everybody at school is going hippie. This guy came up and hung them around my neck today.”

  “A guy? That’s weird. But maybe it’s cool,” said Ginny, in a second thought, uneasy with the idea that anything cool might have happened to me. “I like these beads.”

  Shit, fashions had changed completely. All the girls who had wanted pale pink Villager shells, and Villager sweaters, and the cut-out Cappezio shoes were wearing flowered Mu-Mus. The conservative, well-pressed preppy kid look, had changed to Roman sandals and headbands. Everybody was flashing peace signs. They liked Jimi Hendrix, the Doors, and wanted to march in peace protests.

  Ginny watched TV nonstop that summer; it was the boob tube or nothing. She started in the morning watching the toddler shows like Captain Kangaroo, and then she watched game shows, soap operas near noon, old movies at about two, and the local news before the national news. She sat there on the couch staring at anything that came on as though it were the most fascinating thing on earth. It was like she was retreating from reality. It really scared me. She wouldn’t even walk up the alley to the swimming pool with me anymore. We used to walk up there and see how many sticker burrs we could get in our tennis shoes. One time the sole of mine was covered almost completely with sticker burrs from off the weeds.