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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 162: Brown 341
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 134
Derek and Vashti awoke early, adrenaline driving them such that they were hopping up out of bed. From stomach to mind to heart a race was being run to see which feeling would rule their souls. Fear at the upcoming confrontation with Scratch; exaltation at the blooming revival in the City; apprehension at performing in front of perhaps ten thousand; and simple excitement at being part of the biggest party in America for that year. They got dressed in record time, and were out the door in time to see the Rambler drive up. Another car drove up behind it, and parked.
Both were festooned in green and purple for Mardi Gras, and white and black for the Blind Men’s Club. Jumping in, joining Maurice and Pierre, they went to get Lei and some of the rest of the Club in the following car. All this ended up with Vashti on Derek’s lap in the passenger seat. They yelled and waved at people on the street, many of them all decorated as well.
Halfway down Canal Street they got out and joined the Golden Hiawatha Tribe. The march was shorter today, and GH had made it to the final five. The Blind Men’s Club members got out, and joined the others of their group already there. The newcomers put on their black glasses--except for Pierre’s butler, whom they met for the first time today, an older man named Robichaux who was part Cajun and quietly fierce. He came forward from the following car, and took over the driving of the Rambler.
“I think you joke when you say you have butler, Pierre,” Lei said softly as many other street sounds including other bands in nearby streets warmed up, and cheers echoed down alleys as well.
“Oh, no. My father hired Robichaux the week before I was born. He’s been my butler, personal valet, and while I was growing up my personal bodyguard. And of course, my friend.”
“Is he one of….” Maurice made a stabbing motion.
“Robichaux, my friend Maurice wants to know if you ever killed a gator with a knife.”
“No, sah. Not I. I always used a rifle. Now my cousiness, a pretty girl named Deirdre, about your age, young sah, why, she had one come into her kitchen, and she killed it with a rolling pin, and a black iron frying pan,” Robichaux replied, leaning out of the car window to speak to the standing Maurice.
“One of my favorite weapons,” Derek injected.
“How?” Maurice was hornswoggled.
“He tried to swallow the pan out of her hand so she shoved it in, got it stuck in his throat, and she beat him for a while. She’s not married either.”
Maurice looked halfway intrigued and halfway horrified. Before he could decide what to say, the Golden Hiawatha Tribe heard the beginning speech by their chief, and began the walk. It was much like the other times, but only half as long. The Blind Men’s Club did their routine, slightly more complicated than the first time, around the slow-moving vehicles. The Living Colors walked behind the cars and played. Forty minutes later, they walked into Jackson Square. It was nine thirty in the morning, but already the square was filled with party-goers in the thousands.
They were the second to arrive, and over the next twenty minutes the last three of the top five of the all-Black Tribes arrived. Except, to Derek’s pleased sight, he saw one other group, the Forest Fighters, had an attached group like the Club with a mix of Creole and Chinese which they called the CCC, for Creole-Chinese Club. Dances, taunts, jests, and people standing on others’ shoulders entertained the thousands there, and more thousands joined, streaming in from all directions.
One benefit was that the clouds were heavy, almost threatening rain, but no drops came down. This kept the sunlight from glaring off the many shiny objects in the square. The Tribes were the best to see, but a number of the all-White Krewes were in attendance as well, watching, and getting ready for the official start of the Mardi Gras parades. The Tribes took advantage of this, and slung many jokes and insults their way, and for a little bit Derek was afraid there might be violence, but he soon saw that the Krewes were here as the straight men to the comedians.
For just a second he considered becoming Michael Gabriel. That would surely put the Golden Hiawatha Tribe in first place--but it was not the time or place for that, he knew. Instead, he played as well as he could, sometimes having to blow harder than would sound best just to clear the noise of the excited crowd.
In the end, the judges came forth. The trio stood on a wooden stage in the middle of the square.
“In fourth place, we award the garland to a very pretty chief and his Tribe, the Silver Feathers.” Cheers interrupted this, along with boos. “And in third place, a Tribe which lurched up the ratings from last year--” He saw the others in the Tribe about him slump. “The Golden Hiawatha. Last year, they were placed twenty-one. This year, third place. A remarkable run!”
Cheers came forth, and the chief walked up, accepted his eight-foot long garland of roses and other flowers, and proclaimed, “Next year we win, and I’m still having barbecue at my house. Everyone’s invited.” This show of good spirit got even more cheers, and the final two, the River Runners and the Buffalo Stalkers, finished with second and first places to even more cheers.
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #518: Versers Plan. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
