The Parade
This is post 23 of Section V. To begin at the beginning, go here. Section II begins here. Section III begins here. Section IV begins here, and Section V begins here.
Just as the tension between the voluptuous contents of her T-shirt and its printed message (“Dare to say No”) threatened to overwhelm him, Mrs. Mayfield’s voice cut in. “Oh look! They’re coming.” She hoisted her placard.
It seemed to Bennett that bedlam had broken out. Everyone around them was yelling out insults, warnings and slogans; the police were snarling at them to keep back; and the first paraders—a rag-tag and bobtail lot of gay men and lesbians marching under a rainbow banner—were thundering out their mantra: “Two four six eight! It’s our turn to celebrate! Say it strong and say it loud: We are out and we are proud!” Altercations broke out along the perimeter. Bennett saw that the police could not be everywhere at once and turned to look for Stephen, who nodded at him, edging toward the barrier with Serena and Lizzy in tow.
For some time, however, no significant disturbances occurred around them. The floats, sponsored by gay-friendly local businesses, began to roll past. The Grotto sponsored a poolside scene with giant inflatable bottles on the corners and the pool composed of blue flowers; a gym and the Naiad bottled water company had body builders; the Interior Designers Alliance and the local Association of Antique Dealers had put together a living room under an awning, with people lolling about on Chesterfields and divans. Behind this was the largest float in the parade, “The Arts.” Bennett could see Robert playing in the jazz band on it, under a gigantic cardboard cut-out of Michelangelo’s David, which Mrs. Mayfield had mentioned prominently in her censorious account of previous parades. Also on the float, Bennett could see, as it rolled past, were costumed actors and actresses from the Endersburg Stage, the theater company, and—a slight figure with spiky ginger hair, holding a megaphone to his lips and brandishing a rubber arm with a fist. He seemed somehow familiar to Bennett, who thought he must be perpetrating some repulsive performance art and resolved to ignore it, if possible.
Continue
Just as the tension between the voluptuous contents of her T-shirt and its printed message (“Dare to say No”) threatened to overwhelm him, Mrs. Mayfield’s voice cut in. “Oh look! They’re coming.” She hoisted her placard.
It seemed to Bennett that bedlam had broken out. Everyone around them was yelling out insults, warnings and slogans; the police were snarling at them to keep back; and the first paraders—a rag-tag and bobtail lot of gay men and lesbians marching under a rainbow banner—were thundering out their mantra: “Two four six eight! It’s our turn to celebrate! Say it strong and say it loud: We are out and we are proud!” Altercations broke out along the perimeter. Bennett saw that the police could not be everywhere at once and turned to look for Stephen, who nodded at him, edging toward the barrier with Serena and Lizzy in tow.
For some time, however, no significant disturbances occurred around them. The floats, sponsored by gay-friendly local businesses, began to roll past. The Grotto sponsored a poolside scene with giant inflatable bottles on the corners and the pool composed of blue flowers; a gym and the Naiad bottled water company had body builders; the Interior Designers Alliance and the local Association of Antique Dealers had put together a living room under an awning, with people lolling about on Chesterfields and divans. Behind this was the largest float in the parade, “The Arts.” Bennett could see Robert playing in the jazz band on it, under a gigantic cardboard cut-out of Michelangelo’s David, which Mrs. Mayfield had mentioned prominently in her censorious account of previous parades. Also on the float, Bennett could see, as it rolled past, were costumed actors and actresses from the Endersburg Stage, the theater company, and—a slight figure with spiky ginger hair, holding a megaphone to his lips and brandishing a rubber arm with a fist. He seemed somehow familiar to Bennett, who thought he must be perpetrating some repulsive performance art and resolved to ignore it, if possible.
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 5:10 AM
1 Comments:
When in doubt, never take the t-shirt as the final word.
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