Parade

Chapter One

Morning cracks to life. The custard-colored sky douses Reggie Lauderdale. He sleeps, a rosary twined around his neck, his dreams packed with heaves, groans and whaps.

A neck bite.

A scrotum flick.

Inside his slumber, Reggie is making love to Jesus Christ. Tingles boost through him until he spurts like a dropped can of cola. Reggie awakes. Goo warms his briefs.

"God." he pants.

This is the sin Reggie cannot confess. This is the nightmare he has fought since his twelfth year, and now, at nineteen, it still won’t cease. He feels dead-ended.

Reggie’s mother had always urged prayer. She had taught him to bind his penis with dental floss or burn out the sin by daubing his slit with salt. But nothing works anymore. He knows he must be ill. He knows he must have a condition. A disease, a sickness.

Reggie rises and pokes at his buttery crown of curls. He kneels before the window and weaves both hands together. Reggie prays, Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Reggie repeats this prayer five times while petting his rosary.

Semen clings to the rubies.

Like always, St. Leo’s Church begins to call. Bells tinker, the chimes surfing over rooftops, chirping sweetness.

Reggie attempts to smile since, recently, there hasn’t been a shooting, a bank heist, a kidnapping, a teenage car wreck, a raping, a terror plot, a killing. Even though Reggie feels blasphemous, he grins. God … I’m so sorry. Please save me. Help me stop sinning. And please, please don’t kill me. God … thank you for one more day, one more Friday. Thank you for taking care of mom in your eternal kingdom. Thank you for dad. Thank you for Cousin Elmer. Thank you for this apartment. Thank you for my job at the church. Thank you for Maria. Thank you for last night’s meat loaf. God … thank you … I guess … for everything. Amen.

Later, Reggie crams a pot pie into his mouth, showers, and reads three more pages from the Book of Revelation. After, he adds more scrawls to his list of sins. Next, he dials the telephone. Hi Jo Jo. Could I make an appointment to see Dr. Dann? For today? I think there’s something really, really wrong.

I know this is the genesis of Reggie Lauderdale’s truest life.

I see that Elmer Mott has finished painting his lone campaign sign. With bold, blue paint, he has filled in each letter: VOTE 4 ELMER MOTT. Only the L in ELMER is smudged.

Now, Elmer’s favorite Parliament cassette bumps. Jitterbugging, he grooves around his bedroom, bareback and crooning.

But the Arcade is calling and he needs a pack of Durels. Plus, there’s the gift he has planned for Pinky.

Elmer clicks off the player—grabs an unwashed T-shirt—nabs his keys—heads out. He twinkle-toes down three flights, bursting out to the stoop. Sunrays caress his bare spine with heat.

Mrs. Lolly, in her rocker, bobs on the sidewalk. A bottle of bubbles remains locked between her brown thighs. She plucks out the wand, blows gently and swirly rainbow globes sail down the street. Mornin’ boy. It’s an Indian summer! ‘Bout time you came out to meet the day.

Been busy, Elmer says, topped in scrappy hair.

What? You smokin’? You readin’ those dang newspapers? Thinkin’ ‘bout Pinky, yo sweetheart?

He jerks with a grin. "She’s not my sweetheart."

Mrs. Lolly says, "Ya want her to be, though. Don’t ya?"

Naw.

But ya gonna go an’ get a present for her like ya always do. Aint ya?

Maybe.

"She’s yo sweetheart! Don’t care what ya tell me!"

Elmer says, It’s just your old age, Mrs. L. You’re just seeing things that aren’t there.

She cackles. Get on over here so I can give ya a good one.

Elmer shuffles closer and Mrs. Lolly whacks his rear twice.

I ain’t old, she says. Seventy-three ain’t old. And all I see is the truth, boy.

He chuckles.

Mrs. Lolly says, Pinky called down and said she ain’t gettin’ no picture on her TV. Just one big box of fuzz.

I’ll make it work.

Ya do an awful lot for that girl, Elmer. Ya get her all those frozen dinners she likes. Ya get her videos. Ya take her for walks around the block. I don’t know what she’d do without’cha.

Elmer scratches his naked gut. It’s nothing.

He always says this. Nothing. Still, I know that Elmer tallies her unclogged drains, her winter-proofed windows. He doesn’t forget the pleas, the gestures. Elmer has tried to capture Pinky for three years (even wishing and hoping and praying, secretly, like Reggie).

Mrs. Lolly says, It’s nice that ya take care of that gal. It’s just lovely.

Elmer’s grin beams wide and goon-like. He pulls on his T-shirt. You want me to pick up some of that stuff for you?

Please, baby. Colace. The store brand. Generic. She puffs out more bubbles. They glide. Bounce. Burst. Wet dots paint the concrete.

Elmer looks up to the third floor and sees the ghost-like girl. Pinky waves, then disappears.

I know that Reggie carries a list of sins in his pocket. He records them several times a day. After his lunch break confessions with Father Fink, Reggie places a perfect check mark beside each sin. Today, he has penned his largest yet. Gazing at his words, he is cloaked in fear.

The List …

A) Getting mad at Elmer.

B) Smelling the front pews after Saturday’s wedding.

C) Thinking dad was fat.

D) Saying the A word (because Elmer made me).

E) Getting angry with Vic at the convenience store (it’s really NOT his fault they ran out of More Money scratch tickets).

F) Littering on Fourth Street.

G) Laughing when Ms. Prickles fell at the Sunday service.

H) HAVING IMPURE DREAMS AND THOUGHTS ABOUT JESUS CHRIST.

I have read each of Reggie’s lists. Yes … yes … I have read every single word.

Al’s Arcade, like always, is juiced with buzz. Chic’s Everybody Dance mingles with video game beeps and pings.

Elmer feeds The Claw machine fifty-cent doses. He cranks the joystick round and round. Elmer targets a mint green bunny rabbit. The Claw’s buzzer drones. Its silver fingers spread, sail down, dive through plushy mounds, clamp, and rise back to the top of the blinking box. Elmer is bunny-less.

Fuck, he whispers.

Maria saunters over and says, Are you trying to win me something, honey?

She is perfumed, shimmery. Lipsticked, wondrous. Maria pulls at her violet tube top which dips low, revealing her flat, boy chest. Stamping her heels, she pouts and peers in at the stuffed animals. Nobody wins nothin’ from this piece of shit. ‘Cept you, Elmer.

"I’m The Claw champ," he says, screwballing.

Why’s a guy like you need all these teddy bears?

Elmer dumps in more quarters. Again, he jams the joystick. These little guys … they ain’t for me.

Who they for, honey?

He glances away from the machine. For a split-second only. It’s a secret.

"Don’t play. I thought you were gonna marry me?" she says, her words drenched in titters.

The crane drops again but plucks out nothing.

Jesus Christ, Elmer says.

Maria knocks on the game’s glass wall. You’ll like me when I get some titties, Elmer. I was meant for girl parts. Swear to God.

"I already like you, Maria."

Yeah, but you don’t liiiiiike me.

Maybe I just never told you that I liiiiiike you. He slides in more money, tries again.

You speak lies. She purses her lips like a shutter-bugged starlet.

Elmer says, Don’t be jealous.

At last, the shiny, metallic fingers pull out his prize.

A koala bear.

Yes! Fuck yes!

Reggie waves to the receptionist.

Jo Jo leans through the fingerprinted Plexiglas window. Your father came to see Dr. Dann this morning, she says.

For his toe.

Is he okay? Reggie asks.

Yeah. It’s just swollen. And he’s, like, gained four pounds.

Really?

Her frizzed ponytail swings sideways. He just keeps getting bigger and bigger. You have to talk to him, Reggie.

The waiting room is silent with silver-haired men, browsing through day old newspapers.

What’cha in for, this time? Jo Jo asks.

Reggie quickly rises. Um … an infection. I think.

"Another one? Where this time?" She slurs on a lemon sucker.

See …

Let me guess. Okay … on your neck?

No …

On your earlobe? She giggles.

Jo Jo. No …

On your knee? Reggie points to the carpet, toward the devil. Down there, he whispers.

Jo Jo flushes. She doodles quickly on a pad of paper. Dr. Dann’ll be out soon, she says.

The old men turn their heads like lazy oscillating fans.

Reggie falls back into his seat and begins to flick through the only remaining magazine, Brides. He sees garlands and four-tiered chocolate cakes and grooms and jeweled heels and ties and vests and velvet cummerbunds. He flicks from front to back, pretending not to enjoy it.

Ten minutes stagger by.

Jo Jo calls, Reggie?

He rises.

The doc’s ready for you.

Thanks, Jo Jo.

A pane of paper crinkles beneath Reggie. He waits, boxed by walls checked in sailboats. His body shudders.

He prays silently, God … Please let Dr. Dann fix me up.

I know that Reggie is riled by visions. Candy stripers, needles. Massive blue pills. Death and caskets, eyes finally sewn shut. I am certain that Reggie sees an early ascent to heaven with no chance of the world he has always imagined. The world which has yet to begin.

Dr. Dann lumbers inside the examination room. Lauderdale, he says.

Reggie smiles weakly. He is pinning down tears.

Dr. Dann snaps off his latex gloves and leans against the wall. Been runnin’ late all day. Mind if I shave while we chat?

"Oh. No. Go ahead."

Thanks, Reg. He pulls an electric razor from a drawer. Dr. Dann snaps the trimmer to life and it chomps off his stubble. Above the purring, he says, I told you, you don’t have Parkinson’s and you don’t have scoliosis.

I know. I believe you.

You’re in here, what, a couple times a month? But I have to tell you, everything’s perfectly okay. You’re a healthy guy.

Reggie covers his face. I … don’t think so.

You’re exactly like your mom was.

She always knew she’d be sick.

Reg, your mom thought she had everything. She even came in once terrified about polio.

"She also thought she had cancer. And she did. And now she’s gone."

Dr. Dann kills his waning shaver. Alright. What’s up now?

Reggie says, "See, I wonder if there’s, like, a condition … a condition for … your privates. Because, l keep having these dreams. They’re not … nice dreams. Really sinful. Big sinning in these ones. And then I wake up and there’s …"

Semen?

Um … yeah. Reggie blanches with hot shame.

Reg, you had an orgasm.

"I know. I always do. I need to make it stop. There’s something wrong. I’m nineteen. I should be able to control it by now."

You had a wet dream. It’s natural. This happens to every young man. Especially if they don’t, you know, release.

"Well, I can’t … release. It’s wrong. It’s bad."

Ever had a girlfriend?

No, Reggie whispers.

Never?

No.

Dr. Dann coughs. He searches through his cabinets, finds some Lectric Shave and slicks his pink flesh. Spice taints the air. You need to have sex, he finally says.

That’s against my religion.

You need to masturbate, then.

That’s against my religion too.

Who told you that, Reggie?

My mom. My dad, he says. My church.

Dr. Dann sighs and opens the door. I can’t help you then.

"I’m sick! I can’t dream anymore. Please help me. Give me a pill or, I don’t know, a shot?"

I guess the only thing you can do is … pray.

I watch Elmer stake his sign in the balding grass.

I watch Elmer deposit his mother’s check.

I watch Elmer sing through his telephone, ordering Reggie to come by after work.

I watch Elmer contemplate a job at Wash N’ Fluff.

I watch Elmer think of Pinky’s honey-like scent.

I watch Elmer exhaling perfect smoke rings.

I watch Elmer imagine Pinky, bottomless.

I watch Elmer picture himself steering limousines toward drunken proms.

I watch Elmer gently peck his wrist, pretending it’s hers.

I watch Elmer defecate and wipe himself three times.

I watch Elmer say, aloud, I can’t wait any longer.

Reggie tells himself he’ll vanish just like his mother. He longs for moments of joy, but he feels certain he’ll pay for all his sins. His skull rocks with hopeless flurry.

Prayer.

Hospital beds.

Dr. Dann.

Injections.

Scowling nurses.

Pudding.

Prayer.

Disgrace.

Diseases.

Bedpans.

Prayer.

Loveless.

Prayer.

Prayer.

Elmer scales up the filthy steps, each clomp boomeranging through the crooked stairwell. Pinky’s tiny koala bear sits inside his T-shirt pocket. He stops before her door, raps gingerly.

Apartment three groans open. Pinky, small and soft, leans before him in a nightgown. Fiery ringlets waterfall from her head, pouring beyond her shoulders. Her hands hide a drowsy smile.

Hi, Pinky, Elmer says.

Hi.

How you doin’? he asks. You alright?

Yeah, she says, tee-heeing quietly.

Elmer pinches out the animal and kisses her cheek with its snout. Here, he says, smiling. Won this for you at the arcade.

Pinky cradles the bear like an emerald. That’s sweet, Elmer.

I just wanted to do something … so you’d know I was thinking about you. I guess it’s dumb.

It’s not dumb. It’s terrific.

I know that Elmer’s entire body wrings when Pinky says ‘terrific.’

She tells him, "I like all the animals you bring me. They fill up my entire bed." Pinky hides another smile.

He asks, So … what’s this about your TV? He begins to bumble behind the dusty, black and white television. Elmer untangles cords and stuffs in plugs.

Pinky asks, Is it broken?

I can’t really tell.

Only one channel comes on. Seven.

Maybe your TV finally shit the bed.

Well, my mom gave it to me when I was fifteen, she says.

He grins. Too old.

Maybe. Yeah.

Elmer brushes off his freshly ironed flannel shirt. An old Christmas gift from Reggie he’s never worn.

Pinky says, At least I’ve got one channel, right?

"You need real cable."

She sits on the edge of the ruffled bed. Elmer eases down beside her. Stuffed elephants, cats and button-eyed puppies surround them.

He says, I can get you a new tube.

You don’t have to.

I think my Mom has a spare.

"Don’t. This one’s fine," she says, smoothing her nightgown over her lap.

You need something better. No biggie. I’ll take care of it.

Pinky crisscrosses her shiny, powdered legs.

I have watched Elmer tend to this girl. Only part-time at first, but soon, non-stop: Frozen dinners, Shasta, stuffed reindeer, phone calls, pansies, Cracker Jacks, Ambisol at three in the morning. Some days, on his most marvelous days, Elmer can coax Pinky out into the world for a brief stroll down Nixon Avenue.

How about a walk tomorrow? he asks.

Well … I dunno.

You’ve got to get out, Pinky.

I know, but I like it in here.

Just say ‘maybe.’

We’ll see.

Elmer sighs.

Pinky says, You must hate me. You must think I’m a freak.

"No. You’re … terrific. Like you always say."

A giraffe plummets to the floor. Carefully, Pinky scoops up the animal and returns it to the rest. Do you have cologne on? she asks.

No. Just new deodorant.

Smells nice.

It’s called ‘Mountain Scent.’

Mountains don’t smell, I don’t think. Or do they?

Maybe they do. We should go and find out.

"Want to watch Jeopardy? Pinky asks. It’s about to start, on my one channel. I have Cracker Jacks too."

For thirty-five minutes they sit, side by