The Parade

The Parade

“I’m so tired of all this,” he said slumping in the chair, feet stretching out under the table, arms dangling straight down and his large head drooping forward until his chin rested on his chest.
He was very tired, but could see no end to it. Year after year after year they depended on him. They continually coddled him and cajoled him and said condescending words each time they got him ready. He was so sick of it all, yet he couldn’t leave.
“If I left they’d find me almost immediately and just bring me back,” he reminded himself for the thousandth time. “They’d clean me up and the whole thing would just start over again.”
He felt utterly hopeless as he looked around at the busy activity. It indicated that they were getting ready again.
“Oh, Lord,” he muttered. “Already?” But his face remained totally expressionless and gave no hint that his fondest desire was to just give it all up, to run away and hide somewhere where they couldn’t find him. He fantasized about lying in soft hay, maybe in a barn somewhere behind bales where they’d never see him.
Ah! lying in the warm sun with no one around, he thought; and the thought indeed warmed him as he momentarily escaped into the fantasy. No crowd noises or cheering or looking at the endless sea of waving arms and smiling faces.
Don’t they realize that I’m over seventy-five years old? I’m so tired of it all! I’m wealthy beyond measure yet imprisoned and serving a life sentence with no hope of parole. They dictate every move, schedule every moment of each long day without ever consulting me. ‘Okay, let’s go!’ is all I ever hear. Never, ‘Do you feel up to it?’ or ‘do you want to skip this one?’
The bustling people paid him no attention as the tight schedule of the twice-daily routine fully occupied them. Then a pretty young girl sat down next to him and placed a make-up case on the table. She lifted his chin from his chest and pouted as she studied his immobile face.
“My, my,” she said. “We have some places that need a touch-up. Gotta get rid of this gray that’s showing through by your ears.”
She patted and rubbed until she was satisfied that the jet-black of his hair was restored. She then examined his face and dabbed pancake make-up on a few dark age spots that began to peek through the prior applications of make-up, and she disguised a few new wrinkles that showed on his forehead. Standing back, she scowled and said, “Wait a minute! Where did that big zit come from on your nose?” She dabbed some more to blacken the offending pimple. “There now,” she exclaimed. “You’re as good as new.” Then she closed her make-up case and called out, “He’s ready.”
A young man came to the table and took him gently by one arm. “Up we go now. This is the last parade today and it’s a big crowd, so don’t just stand there on the float this time. Wave back at the crowd. They don’t come to Disney World to see Mickey Mouse just stand there with his mouth hanging open staring at them.”
***

554 words.
Copyright © 2003 by F. Lohan (71-parade-.doc)