Ah, summer—full of barbecues, beach days, and ice-cold glasses of lemonade. But my favorite summer event is always the big parade, when the whole town comes out to celebrate the season’s arrival and I sit along Main Street, in my trusty chair, and cover the festivities for the Gazette.
This year, I’m sad to report that, while reaching for my folding chair, I slipped and fell into my car’s trunk, locking myself inside. But the show must go on, as they say, and I still have plenty of news from the annual parade!
The weather was perfect, the sort of day you spend all winter fantasizing about. It did get very, very hot and stuffy in the trunk of my Jetta, but the wisps of sea breeze that snuck in were just enough to keep me from fatally overheating.
I missed the beginning of the parade because I was thrashing around, screaming and banging, in the hope that my girlfriend would hear me. So I’m not sure if the oldest person in town, who traditionally rides in the lead car, is still Nancy Yee. But, no matter who it was, I’m sure that he or she looked regal in the back of that cherry-red convertible! Though I doubt that anyone noticed, I was still able to shout my three cheers for our town’s eldest!
As the marching band approached, I realized that soon no one would hear my screams, and, since my cell phone wasn’t getting a signal (I have an exceptionally thick-bodied car), I decided to take notes on the parade as best as I could.
Looking back, it was good that I didn’t have any cell service, because it kept me from Googling “steamed alive in car” or “how much air needed to survive” or “is ‘127 Hours’ guy happy now?”
But, my own troubles aside, the band sounded as good as ever! What’s better than trumpets blaring and cymbals crashing on a summer day? I suppose that, yes, seeing a parade would be better than only hearing a parade, especially while an ice-scraper tool is jabbing into your back.
Around the moment that I realized continually crying would only dehydrate me, I heard cheers for the approaching Little League players. As a former mini-slugger myself, I have fond memories of proudly marching with my team. In the trunk, I recalled the satisfying feeling of an aluminum bat connecting with a baseball, and I imagined the feeling of that same bat connecting with my accursed Jetta.
Hearing the fire-engine sirens blaring down Main Street was doubly exciting, because I’ve never quite let go of my childhood fantasy of becoming a firefighter, and also because I thought for a second that the fire department was coming to rescue me.
Finally, the parade ended, I assume, with the mayor bringing up the rear. I was curious about how the mayor would be received after all those sinkholes opened up in the new park, but I didn’t get to hear the crowd’s response because some teens had gathered around my Jetta to smoke. All I heard was some juicy gossip about how Darren S. got in big trouble with his parents after Senior Skip Day and that they suspended his gaming privileges for a week. A good journalist never says no to a scoop, no matter how small!
As the other cars drove off, I intuited that the day was at its end. Eventually, I was rescued when my girlfriend opened the trunk and tossed her own folding beach chair on top of me. Bless her heart—she’d thought I was out conducting interviews the whole time!
Until next year, dear neighbors, when I most assuredly will be walking to the parade!
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