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The Man on the Throne
Nixon's- '72
Campaign
Kutztown PA - A college town in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country
I
remember being at some hippy friend of my parents' house when they took and
my play pal-Dusty Bell-out to main street- to see the parade. It was a chilly
autumn night and me and Dusty stood as close as we could to the parade route.
We stood in the brightly lit street. It was kind of boring, lots of waiting
for the next thing to come marching up the street. Folks kept throwing streamers
and confetti, me and Dusty would dash into the street and scrape up a pile
of confetti, streamers, stones, and crud to throw. We got so good at this
the dude on the P.A. said "Please keep children off of the parade route" "Children
are not to throw things at the parade". Pretty cool to get yelled at on a
public address system. I stood there in my pink and gray wool poncho, chubby
fists full of confetti and dirt, proud!
All of a sudden my dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders. We pushed
into the street. I can see a huge platform floating on the screams of Dutchmen
and the pop of flashcubes. The platform is perfectly flat. I can't see what's
on it because it's surrounded by people. I can see edges, corners-covered,
like really thick, coated with streamers and stuff. My dad is really pushing
us through this thick crowd, it gets a bit wobbly but I can see over everyone
else heads and then I see him.
Seated on a giant chair - a throne. The man in the dark old man suit-smiles
and waves the peace sign. He looks kind of familiar-like a storybook character
come to life. The jowls, the nose, the suit, the peace sign. My dad lifts
me off his shoulders and holds me under the shoulders-lifting and leaning-
what's he doing-I'm getting kind of freaked out-being held up in the air in
this giant shoving crowd. I start to twist and look over my shoulder at my
dad. Then I can sense SOMETHING-and I turn my head into a dry-hard-kiss-from
Nixon. His giant nose suddenly huge and right in front of me.
The rest of the parade is a blur. There may have been no more parade, what
could be left? On the way back to our little apartment, at the top of the
wood stairs, and the kitchen in the hall, I watched the crowds. So many people
were different from my parents soft and funky friends. Men with hair so short
you could see their pink scalps, and women with unnatural-short, curled, poufed,
sprayed , teased, pinned hair. They wore pointy eyeglasses that hovered over
their faces and gave them a squinty appearance. Their crisp, fitted clothes
were the color of crayons.
We passed the side street that had become an impromptu parking lot full of
white angular cars on the final leg of our journey home. I still dream about
this street, and the landmarks that meant "you're almost home". The huge cars
filled the bank's drive-through and flowed across the street to the movie
theater. I still wonder which was more marvelous, the pneumatic tubes and
sliding cash drawer, or the irresistible orange and red glow of the neon ringed
marquee and the endless mysteries that danced inside.
This may be one of my earliest memories.