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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 126: Brown 327
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 123
The next day something a bit strange happened. The songs had been excellent again, perhaps not as great as yesterday, but beyond his prior skill. Then when he packed up, he expected to see a lot of them begin to leave as the room was overcrowded in a way that might give a fire marshal of the future apoplexy. Many did leave, but as he left, he saw a number go over to a corner, and gather together. Sensing no ill will, he instead headed home.
That afternoon he entertained Vashti in their bedroom until it was close to time for their afternoon practice. As they got set up, he heard Pierre cough a bit uneasily, and he looked over at the uncharacteristically flustered young man. Pierre had received abundant training in socialization, and he rarely seemed ill at ease even if he might be.
“Hey, Maurice.”
Maurice turned toward him as he was oiling his slide, and just looked.
“The Golden Hiawatha and some of the other Tribes are going to have one of their first walks day after tomorrow, right?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks fo’ ‘mindin’ me, Pierre. Yeah, ah din’t join ‘em, but ah still talks to dem. I’m gonna watch. Y’all are invited to come.” The other three said they’d be glad to come too, and then Derek saw Pierre breathe in and settle himself.
“I was hoping for a more direct role. I have about ten friends who would like to march with you. We don’t have the fancy gear you do, but we can wear suits and glittery face masks with feathers.”
Maurice’s mouth just fell open a bit. He tried to speak. He failed. Derek found himself amused. It was one of the very few times he had seen Maurice at a loss for what to say. Even as young as he was, he was self assured around friends. Finally, he spoke.
“You sure?”
“Yes. My cousins and some of their friends and my friends would like to walk with the Golden Hiawatha.”
Maurce chortled.
“You know what this means? GH is going to have to win with ten White men joining in. And it’s gonna be because uh me, so GH is gonna be so happy wit’ me, an’ some uh GH’s membas have really cute sistuhs.”
“We are happy to help with your romantic life, Maurice,” Derek dryly said, and then there was a bit more hugging. This one had more rough and tumble to it than the last group hug.
“Can the Band come along too?” Vashti asked.
“I--I’m pretty sure you can. We do have a band already, but they don’t play the whole walk, so if we played in between bits--would that be okay?” The others nodded.
So that was how, two days later at nine thirty in the morning, the forty members of the Golden Hiawatha Tribe were joined by ten young White men with blind men’s canes in white linen suits, and by the Living Colors Dixieland Gospel Band, at the top of Canal Street. It was a pleasant morning, and a couple dozen well wishers were there at the starting point as well.
The Black members of the parade, the Golden Hiawatha, were dressed as American Indians might be, if one took a Redskin brave and dunked him into eggwash, and then dunked him into glitter. Headpieces with spiked ‘feathers’ holding enough ‘jewels’ and colored beads to buy Manhattan a dozen times over rose from heads, and trailed down naked backs. Arm vambraces in every color that was not quiet, and decorated with enough sparkling paisley to cause a headache, and tights, and boots all shining, and often in purple and green for Mardi Gras or gold for the Hiawatha Tribe, expanded the outfits. Some had cloaks of purple or pink, also loaded down. And those were the normal members of the Tribe.
The ‘chief’ exceeded them all. For one, he was near seven feet tall and very sturdily built, which he needed to carry the weight of his gear. Maurice told him that they had weighed the chief’s regalia last night, and it was just a touch over eighty four pounds of over-the-top madness.
Derek, with his two-pound feathers and mother-of-pearl buttons face mask with green and purple and gold feathers, felt positively sedate in comparison. He glanced over at Vashti, who was even more beautiful than usual. From somewhere she had gotten a Plantation era Southern ball gown, and her face mask was even more gaudy than Derek’s. She looked up at him, and winked, and he felt his heart turn over. She was so beautiful.
“Ay yah, ay yah. Hear me, hear me. I am your chief. We will win today against the other tribes. It will be tough. Forty nine other tribes. Not all will walk today, but we will win this day, and walk again, and win again, and walk again until I, your chief, will be acclaimed as the prettiest chief of all chiefs. And then I will feast you at my house with steer, and pig, and fish, and gator, and crawfish, and shrimp, and we might have a vegetable or two, but no promises!”
Raucous cheers rose from the Tribe, and the onlookers who had grown in number, and the white caned men; and Derek and his crew joined in with toots, and some of the Tribe that were carrying instruments countered with their toots.
“Enough, enough. Save your energy my brothers, and new friends of the Tribe of the Golden Hiawatha. Yes, we have White brothers. The Club of the Blind Men they have named themselves. They see neither race nor creed nor class, but only the love of God, the love of wine, and the love of good music.” With that, all of the Club, including Pierre, pulled out black glasses and put them on their faces. Now Derek understood the white canes, and he had to admit the solid white suits looked good. Cheers slowing, the chief spoke again.
“My fellow Tribe. You might have heard a thing or two about the next group to join us: The Living Colors. I’ve heard them myself. They are bonafide good music. No shame to the boys in our Tribe who also play, but these guys are good. We will be marching, and when our boys aren’t playing, they can play. This means we have more music than other tribes which will help us--”
“WIN!” the Tribe shouted as one.
“Follow me, Golden Hiawatha!”
The Tribe set out, followed closely by the Blind Men’s Club and the Living Colors, in a stream down Canal Street. As they went, the Tribe began to sing, and some of it was very rude. Derek shrugged and went with it. At various stops, the Tribe did dances, and hollered out joke routines, often making fun of the all White Krewes which were in the official parades of Mardi Gras. They proclaimed with great detail why their chief was the prettiest to the gathered crowds who yelled back at them. Sometimes hecklers in the crowd got the better of the Tribe, but usually the Tribe got the better. It was a display of frequently insensitive humor that would have gotten them kicked off broadcast television in the days of censorship and network standards. The more puritanical citizens of the future would have required safe spaces with abundant therapy to get through it. But almost everyone in the crowd, even most of the hecklers, loved it. For the hecklers it was a prime chance to display your wit and verve in the toughest comedy show around. Some won, some lost. It was a game.
More than a few times, Derek heard comments that made him blush, but he pushed on, and once when it got too blunt, he ordered his band to start playing, very loudly. The chief disengaged them at that point, and moved down the road.
The Blind Men had a simpler routine; they had not put anywhere near the amount of work into this that the Tribe had, having been established exactly one day ago. So they milled slowly around, and bumped into people, and apologized, or tried to make conversation with benches or horses.
Two hours after they started they came to a crowded square where another five other tribes were already waiting. Four more joined them. This started the whole ‘my chief is prettier than your chief’ which reminded Derek of some rap music he had heard, with the boasting. But there was a continual comedic edge to the whole thing instead of death threats with pistols displayed. More dances, and more playing, and Derek was so very grateful when ladies with lemonade and sweet tea started walking around, serving all the marchers. Toward the end, he was just pushing onward, while the bell tower in the square struck noon.
This brought the end, and the judges came out, and Golden Hiawatha won. He was not sure they had the best of the glitter, but the Blind Men’s Club and Living Colors had weighed heavily in the balance. With cheers, the party broke up, and Derek and the others gratefully headed home. By the time he arrived home he was refreshed, which was a good thing because they had a gig at the Tenth Street Music Hall that night.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
