Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

“No,” she insisted. “That’s his brand, don’t you get it? The everyday, everyman look.”

“The bandaging has to go,” he muttered. “It’s tacky.”

The people standing in front of the gazebo drew my attention, as they seemed to be at the focus of the entire setup. A bunch of kids stood in front of the dancing fountain, looking strangely familiar. Next to the kids stood a podium crowned with a bank of microphones; the mayor of Stagger Bay stood behind it, goggling at me. The gazebo reared up behind them all on its spiral-ramped ziggurat pedestal.

I turned away from the still squabbling couple and moved toward the kids. My manic handlers ran after me.

“Wait, Markus,” the man said as they paced me. “We have to get some makeup on you before the run through. You don’t even know where you’re supposed to stand, this is out of order. The children are supposed to be last on the program.”

He had to raise his voice almost to a shout. The crowd screamed and whistled behind the barricades; people clapped and stomped their feet in rhythm, faces red and excited as they chanted my name in unison over and over, with the monotonous ding-dong-DING of the church bells as back beat.

I looked to one side as I walked, and quickly returned my gaze forward: there was Bill, the man who’d once been my barber, who’d spat in my face when I was on the way into the courthouse for sentencing. Now he bobbed up and down in excitement, his eyes glittering as if drunk. Perhaps he thought we were friends again.

At the outskirts of the crowd I saw Officer Hoffman, looking down at the ground. Next to him sat that omnipresent Cougar, its wide-shouldered long-haired blond driver standing next to his ride and staring at me through the interposing mob; his feet were spread shoulder-wide, and both fists were on his hips with his elbows jutting out.

As I tried for a clearer look at him a big, strapping woman darted past security to pick me up in a lusty bear hug and plant a kiss on my cheek. The townspeople roared riotous approval.

And then I was in front of the kids, whom I finally recognized: they were the children from the classroom at the School. They watched wide-eyed as I came up, their parents standing behind them and eying me avidly as well.

This silent group of families faced me without any of the fidgeting or shuffling around I’d have expected from such a meeting. This was stage management, I realized – they were all standing exactly where they were told for this dress rehearsal.

“Smile at them Markus!” the woman handler yelled from behind me.

The non-stop celebratory noise from the crowd and the pealing church bells was almost overwhelming as I looked the kids over: they appeared none the worse for wear from their ordeal.

They broke ranks suddenly and ran to surround me, patting at me with their hands and chattering in excitement. Their parents followed as quickly, and these families ringed me in from the rest of the world. I goggled down at the kids in wonder as they touched me and stroked my arms, as if making sure I was all right, or as if they doubted my reality.

And I realized right then that they belonged to me by way of combat adoption, and I to them. They were as much my family now as if they were blood, and everything they made of their lives from here on in would be something I’d have to take note of. It wasn’t a matter of choice – that load was simply unshirkable and I was stuck with it.

Looking at the parents ringing me in with glistening eyes, at the children pressed close in one big group hug, something snapped inside me. All my life-long hard-won reserve parted like an overloaded cable, and I raised both arms over my head strong with fists clenched.

“Yes,” I snarled up at the Heavens above – try taking THIS away from us, You.

The surrounding townsfolk and busily toiling TV crews thought this dress rehearsal was just the windup to something bigger down the road. They didn’t understand that, to us here, this reunion was the main event – any parade after this would be anticlimax.

There was the flash of a camera followed in quick succession by another, and another. Dozens of television crews maneuvered for position, anchor people eager as they led the way with their microphones. Hordes of paparazzi clicked away as they made their frontal assault on the photo opportunity I represented.

“Look at the cameras,” the male handler ordered.

I glared at him, betrayed. This was supposed to be a dress rehearsal!

The crowd’s chanting continued unabated, as if no one seemed horrified by this development but me. I walked quickly toward the barricades, the camera crews and photographers reluctantly parting to let me through.

As I passed the podium the mayor stood with the key to Stagger Bay in his arms, a big ornate bronze monstrosity that looked heavy. A masking tape X was on the ground in front of him, where I was supposed to stand while he handed it to me. As I slogged past he looked like a girl jilted by her prom date.

As I started running through the crowd I got blurred glimpses of confused faces and the mob’s roar subsided raggedly into a baffled murmur.

I ran away from the Plaza, and past the Sugar Shack. There were maybe a half dozen Harleys parked outside, and a handful of bikers stood next to their sleds goggling at me. I recognized them all: the Stagger Bay Fog Choppers and their Prez, a skinny old gray-haired cat named Spider.

Spider gave me a scowl as I approached – I still owed for a pool game I’d lost to him seven years before, just before my bust. Then the fake hard look faded and he smiled.

“Good to see you raised, kid,” Spider said, before he got a good gander at my face.

I ducked past him down Opera Alley behind the bar, hoping for a few moments peace. But media crews appeared at both ends of the alley, blocking it.

It felt like Dawn of the Dead, like the media machine wanted to eat my face. I looked around for an escape route but there was nowhere to get away from them here unless I had wall crawling abilities.

Someone blasted a car horn, really leaning on it and not letting up. Sam’s beat up old Continental bullied down the alley through the reporters, who gave way to avoid being run over. He tweaked his steering wheel, trying to cant the car over to be cool and fishtail up to me; but the tires were too bald and they only made a sad scuffing sound as the Lincoln shuddered to a halt within my arm’s reach.

“Figured you might need a ride, old man,” Sam said.

We drove south down H Street. “Wasn’t surprised not to see you back there in the crowd, nor at the hospital,” I said. “So what’s changed, why are you here?”

Sam snorted. “Things ain’t changed for squat. I figure your vanity’s getting swelled enough without me feeding into any of this crap. Besides, maybe I don’t like crowds either.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said, “It wasn’t my place, okay? This belonged to you, it was no part of me.”

“It’s all good,” I said.

I glanced around the car, absently cataloging Sam’s worldly possessions. On the floorboards at my feet amongst the other garbage, I saw a filthy old Kodachrome with a boot print stamped on it. It was a photo of a younger me with much more hair, holding baby Sam in my arms.

Baby Sam looked up at Kodachrome Me adoringly even through the boot print. In the picture I had a dopey smile on my face as I looked back down at him; we both appeared inordinately pleased with each other.

I started to bend over and reach for it, but realized Sam was watching me sidelong. I pulled out my wallet instead and sat back up, thumbing through the meager contents like that had been my intention the whole time. If it was okay with Sam this photo was down in the trash, I wasn’t about to show him it bothered me.