“CAPACITY: 40 ASSINGERS”. The “P” had peeled off, as had many other things over the course of this bus’s long lifetime. When the old beast fired up it coughed deadly blue smoke and the unmistakable odor of third-world diesel, blending into the dark morning’s icy fog. The otherwise silent and peaceable forest kingdom was abruptly awakened from its wintry slumbers. The warm nesting squirrels, herds of deer, and a few pheasants jumped and wrinkled their little noses, not happy. Headlights blinked on and the ancient bus blasted a backfire that ricocheted the steep hills, then the dinosaur wheezed its way back to life. What remained of its transmission clanked into SLOW gear; the first of two that actually worked. The next was WHIPLASH, which is pretty much what the 40 assingers sustained when the clutch was popped.
Barely surviving the four-miles of kidney-rattling pothole-pitted dirt road, the faded yellow SCHOOL BU (the “S” long gone) lurched onto paved County Route 101 headed for Interstate 95. Thirty minutes later it ramped into light southbound traffic on 95 and proceeded at what the assingers thought was lightning speed. Two State Troopers, seated in their Crown Vic cruiser, hidden in I95’s most notorious speed trap, pointed their radar gun through the mist and clocked the bus at a blazing 45 MPH. “Haven’t seen those guys for a while,” mused Sergeant Nameen, sipping his steaming coffee. “Out for a holy romp, I guess,” mumbled Trooper Wrigley, biting into a glazed donut. “Umh,” responded Nameen thoughtfully. Neither Trooper took notice of a beat-up gray unmarked panel van behind the SCHOOL BU lost among the Focuses, Civics, and Malibu’s in swelling commuter traffic.
* * *
His Holiness Wu Hsing, alone in the dark temple, chanted his morning sutras. His shaven head was still and unmoving. His humming basso voice soothed the walls and ceiling of the temple, as did the wraiths of incense smoke gently curling up from sticks placed in front of the alter. Finished, he stopped and stood up slowly. A little monk, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, his head shaven too, walked to the Abbot’s side and placed a simple brown robe over his shoulders. Ignoring his acolyte, His Holiness murmured “Kun Chien”, turned and walked through the temple to the heavy wooden temple doors, which the monk quick-stepped to open. The Abbot was bathed in bright Spring sunshine as he walked onto the wooden porch. Birds blessed the forest with their symphony of chattering and chirping. The flowers were glistening and dewy. Turtles in the pond below lazily poked their noses out of the water.
The Abbot watched as his monks unloaded a cargo of large crates from the CLUE WAGON, an innocuous fossilized gray Ford panel van (once a CLUB WAGON before some of the “B” wore off). More monks left their dormitories to help haul the crates into a large garage behind the temple. Behind His Holiness Wu Hsing the little monk thought: “Kun Chien. This is most appropriate.”
* * *
The freezing fog was still as thick as it had been in the woods when the CLUE WAGON veered off the highway onto the Exit 7 ramp and came to a stop at the first traffic light in the city of Stamford. The streets were empty at this early hour. The van took a right and headed down Washington Avenue, through four green lights and past the huge monolithic buildings of the Union Bank of Salamanca, the Regal Bank of Swedenborg, the Government Center and other recently mushroomed financial institutions.
At the fifth light, the van swung a left onto a long side street and parked behind the SCHOOL BU, whose 40 assingers had already assembled on the manicured grass facing the offensive but apparently trendy distressed-steel-and-plywood headquarters of Sporsky and Associates, a world-famous accounting firm, architected by the world-famous Carbunkle and Partners. 40 monks, dressed in saffron and crimson robes, wearing little maroon knit caps, gathered in a circle and began to chant. The headlights of a very large tractor trailer swung around the corner off Washington. The rig pulled in and parked in front of the SCHOOL BU with the explosive hish of pneumatic brakes. The trailer was unmarked save for three small diamond-shaped DOT signs that warned: “HAZARDOUS”. The fog was lifting. The sky was brightening. It was 7:30 AM.
The truck driver, a little beefy guy, got out of the cab, walked to the rear of the trailer, and opened the large trailer doors. Inside were the business ends of sixteen neatly arranged fat steel tanks, each as long as the trailer that carried it. Metal spaghetti of copper tubing connected the tanks. The driver began pulling and unreeling a high pressure hose from the trailer.
* * *
Enter video stage left: a tall, burly, handsome hulk of a guy with obligatory goatee, long blond hair, a nifty grill of pearly whites and aw-shucks-you-gotta-love-me grin. Enter video stage right: a voluptuous raven-haired I’m-so-adorable coochie-coochie Fiesta de Sabado type on speed. Va-va-va-voom!
It's Connecticut's Channel 3 Action News Traffic "Reporter", Juanita LaBomba! Lips as red as fire-engines and almost as big. Enough foundation, eyeliner, mascara and lash extender to paint all the Rockettes in one go. A smile with teeth like Klieg lights. Hips with incredible childbearing potential. And huge are her boobs, delightfully encased in a nude tone skin tight cashmere turtleneck. The couple took their seats behind the WBUZ Action News Mobile Desk, put on headphones, grabbed the handheld mikes, did a “1-2-3 how’s this?” sound check for the camera crew, and looked over what was becoming a mass of humanity on Stamford’s Atlantic Avenue. The director counted down “Three . . . Two . . . One” and the clock blinked 11:00 AM.
“Hello, everyone!! I’m Juanita La Bomba!” (For it is She) “Welcome to this year’s spectacular annual Thanksgiving Day Parade here in downtown Stamford, Connecticut! This parade is a Thanksgiving tradition here in Stamford, and a special favorite of tens of thousands of people who travel from everywhere to be here, and of all of you watching from the comfort of home on WBUZ Channel 3: your station with the Action News Team: Bolt Fabric, Tina Baghwasali, Tony Chen, K’enosha Umbagwi, Geoffrey Hodge-Turnip, and me, Juanita La Bomba!!”
The camera zooms back and pans to the crowd lining Atlantic Avenue four or five deep. Ten mounted police slowly trot up the street next to blue police barriers.
Mounted Cop 1: “Pretty good crowd, huh?”
Mounted Cop 2: “Yeah. A couple of fallen old timers and diabetic seizures and we’ll be hoisting a few brewskies before you know it.”
Back to our hostess with the moistest (ed. surely you mean “mostest"?). “It’s a pleasure to be here with you for all the excitement of this nationally-renowned parade, second only in size to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. with eighteen character balloons, eighteen in all marching down Atlantic Avenue! And we’ve got a great crowd today, too!”
Juanita La Bomba (nee Suarez) was “discovered” selling sandwiches and coffee from the quilted aluminum back of the lunch truck that pulls up to WBUZ Channel 3 at 11:30 AM each week day. Though at the time Juanita was decked-out in frump hoodie, jeans, and scuffed athletic sneakers, Archibald (“Archie”) Godfrey, General Manager and panjandrum of WBUZ Channel 3, spotted his future WBUZ Channel 3 Action News Traffic Bimbo in the flesh, in fact a lot of it, while waiting in line for his egg salad. Archie was well-known as having a God-Given sixth sense for talent (he found Bolt Fabric at a Gun Shop), and with $2.25 for the egg salad, the promise of a meteoric career in show business, and a generous promise of scale, Ms. Suarez was his.
Considerable speculation surrounded Ms. La Bomba when she appeared on the WBUZ Channel 3 Action News set at 5AM the next day in a black-and-nude skin-tight fishnet nipple-popping mini-thing, ready to launch into he morning’s panoply of flat tires, repaving and jackknives. Mr. Peepers, WBUZ’s long-time traffic guy, known by viewers only by his nasal voice narrating blurry black and white traffic cams, was sent packing. Once Juanita exploded on the scene, if not out of her bra, groggy early morning viewers were treated to Double-D’s that upstaged anything Interstate 95 could dish out, in outfits by Fredricks of New London and Hair by Vesuvio. Ratings skyrocketed and the fan mail poured in. Not only did Archie achieve Connecticut A-List status by inserting his mug into all of Ms. La Bomba’s publicity photos but he took no end of pleasure in humiliating Ernie Tataglia, General Manager of Stamford’s Local Mega News WHOA Channel 12, Archie’s mortal morning news ratings enemy with his “piss-off, Archie” traffic helicopter.
“And with me today, as our special guest for this year’s parade is our own Clint “Banger” Zelig, heroic quarterback and eligible bachelor of the New England Minutemen. Banger, it’s great to have you here!”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. I love Thanksgiving.”
For it is She: “So tell me, Banger, just how did you get your nickname?”
Banger: “I’ve had that since High School. I’ve been banging my passes right into the pocket, like, forever.”
Juanita: “Oooh! You sure have! And your team has had a terrific season so far. 12 and 1! What do you attribute that to?”
Banger: “Sheer luck, Juanita. You know, in New England we get all kinds of weather and traffic.”
Juanita [TO CAMERA]: “You got that right!!”
Banger: “You know we played Miami and there was, like, 3 feet of snow; we played Arizona and those guys just drowned in that hurricane; then there was no wind when we played Chicago and they lost their balls in the stands; Atlanta got stuck in traffic; we had terrific weather and Buffalo folded;
You know that’s pretty much how it went.”
Juanita: “But you lost to the 49ers . . .”
Banger: “They’d had a terrible season, and the guys just felt bad for them. We gave ‘em their only win of this year, and it was our way of giving back and we really felt good about it.”
Juanita: “That’s really wonderful.”
Banger: “Thanks, Juanita. It shows the fans that we have a human side, too.”
* * *
The Abbot of the monastery arrived to greet and bless his devoted monks. They chanted prayers together, and the Abbot addressed them. He praised the assembled monks for their eternal devotion, for their discipline and sacrifice in meticulous preparation for the blessed event that was about to take place. “The Oracle has spoken,” he said, as a long oily burnt orange high pressure hose was being reeled back into the “HAZARDOUS” unmarked trailer.
* * *
“Well Banger, the parade has begun!
Much anticipated, the first of the Parade balloons turned the corner of Broad St. and Atlantic Avenue. A huge cheer came from the thousands lining the street as Popeye stood up to his 60 foot height, tethered as he was to the ground by twenty five ropes and handlers, waving his inflating spinach can. Clouds of confetti filled the air.
“And here comes the Delmar Washington High School Marching Band!”
Twenty tubas, twenty glockenspiels, forty trumpets and trombones, thirty snare drums and eight huge bass drums swiveled in unison to the marching band version of “I Want to be Sedated” by The Ramones. Forty high kicking, baton-twirling, booty-shaking majorettes led the “Marching Delmars” down the Atlantic Avenue parade route.
Banger: “They’re hot, Juanita!”
Juanita: “They sure are, Banger! Too young for you! [LEVITY].
Banger: “Heh. Heh.”
Juanita: “You know, this band is world famous! Earlier this year, they went to Lima, Peru, and marched in Peru’s national ‘Viva La Revolucion Communista’ parade as part of the world’s only Global Marching Band Exchange Program, sponsored by our own favorite local electrical utility -- Positive Energy. Positive Energy, We Put Money Back in Your Pocket!”
Banger: “That must have been something. What’d we get?”
Juanita: “I thought you’d never ask! [LEVITY] Well, it’s the Peruvian Sendero Luminoso Pan-Piping Marching Band, of course. And they’ll be bringing up the rear of today’s parade.”
Banger: “Ay Chihuahua!”
* * *
11:55 AM
The Parade continued , to the delight of what was now a crowd of over 100,000.
Astroboy was followed by a float manned by “Epiglotis”, a local grunge favorite from Moosup, screaming their hit “Toaster” through torn and dried beer-encrusted amplifiers, their angry static punctuated by occasional EMS radio chatter about today’s diabetic seizures and old folks who’ve fallen and can’t get up.
Wide-eyed gas-filled Garfield stared down at Freddy Olfahrt, the obscure and pickled Polka King from Windsor Locks, losing his footing with the rest of the “Polka Gang” on the bouncing flatbed while in the throes of “The Multiple String Sausage Polka”.
Bloated Fred Flintstone heralded “Los Aburridos”, a mariachi band now appearing during Happy Hour at Montezuma’s Revenge in Bridgeport.
Acrobatic clowns and unicyclists swerved in formation around Smokey the Bear, who was trailed by a reconditioned Model-T, in which Gene Farley, the world’s worst Johnny Cash impersonator, did his best to mangle “Walk the Line”, something Farley could do before the bars opened.
Fourteen more giant balloons glided past the happy cheering crowds in languid succession. More confetti cannons fired fountains of little paper dots.
* * *
Eight blocks behind the parade, a father and mother with 5-year old twins quick- stepped along a side street to join the throng, obviously late. Turning a corner and taking a short cut through a back street, one of the tots exclaimed and pointed: “Mommy, Daddy, what’s that?” The mother looked up, stopped abruptly and whispered, “Oh, my God!!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
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