David Alan Dedin
The Time of Our Lives
Forty
The Time of Our Lives
2016
Opening his eyes, Patrick found himself at the far edge of the Heritage House parking lot. He was actually standing – he didn’t know how – and his arms were outspread, helping keep his balance. From a distance, he almost looked like he was bowing. Money fluttered from the sky as Alan’s package – and the $95,000 within – had been torn open during the explosion. Even more ominous was the large Verizon billboard behind him, with Paul Marcarelli looking out over the scene – “Can you hear me now?”
Creaking loudly, the billboard fell down – whump!
Across the parking lot, the restaurant was in ruins. Passerby were running towards the rubble, calling authorities on cell phones. Alan was nowhere to be seen. Sharon was nowhere to be seen. A muffled cry to his right called Patrick’s attention to a tuft of blue hair, where Stephanie had landed and was now struggling to sit up. By some act of God, the two had survived the explosion. Steph’s legs were wobblily as Patrick helped her stand.
Helping each other move forward, Patrick and Stephanie gave the restaurant a wide berth as fire trucks and police quickly appeared. The two looked like explosion survivors from a comedy movie – sooty, disheveled, hair sticking up at odd angles and smoking. Not wanting any questions from police, the duo hastened down the sidewalk as squad cars rolled into the Heritage House parking lot. There was even a news crew – “In a shocking turn of events, a trio has disappeared, and a beloved restaurant destroyed.” “They sure act fast,” Stephanie muttered to Patrick.
Even this far down the street, there was restaurant debris everywhere. A gleam of silver caught Patrick’s attention, and he noticed Sharon’s wheelchair on the sidewalk – crushed, smoldering, destroyed. He pressed forward with Stephanie, as order tickets fluttered in the wind. He could see people up ahead, and a flyer from the restaurant door got stuck under his foot. Reaching down, he picked it up. It was an advertisement for Orlando’s Gay Pride parade, an event that was close to starting. He could see people up ahead, and he heard music in the distance. A 7’ drag queen suddenly appeared in his path –
“Girrrrrl,” she said, looking them over. “I don’t know what look you two was going for, but if this is it” – she snapped her fingers – “then damn, you nailed it!”
A soft round of applause could be heard from nearby passerby.
More people were on the sidewalk now.
Patrick felt compelled to move forward.
* * * * *
The sidewalk grew crowded as Patrick and Stephanie approached the downtown parade route. Some people were in costume, but others just wore shorts and Pride T-shirts. Everyone was laughing, and most carried some type of rainbow flag or Pride-related paraphernalia. Stephanie saw drag queens and leathermen walking. “Honk! Honk!” – the two stepped aside to allow three mermaids in wheelchairs to pass, followed by a 300lb Bette Midler impersonator. Even by Pride Parade standards, this was going to be a big one.
The music grew louder as the parade route neared. The air was rich with the smell of cologne, tobacco, and marijuana, and Patrick noticed that half the crowd was drinking – some out of coolers, others out of bottles or flasks. He could see hundreds of people lining up along Atlantic Boulevard, up ahead. Like any parade, they were staking out claims to get the best views possible, and Patrick was induced to join them, which he did under the blazing Florida sun.
It was best to hide in plain sight.
The festivities would be starting soon.
* * * * *
CLAP!
“C’mon girls!”
CLAP!
“Do you believe in love?”
CLAP!
“Cuz, I’ve got something to say about it…and it goes somethin’ like this!”
CLAP!
The familiar sound of Madonna’s “Express Yourself” could be heard from a nearby float as the event got ready to start. The song was quickly drowned out however, as a rainbow marching band – a requirement for any Gay Pride parade – announced the opening of this year’s celebration, hosted by four drag queens who looked like The Golden Girls.
Toot-toot! … BUM-BUM!
Toot-toot! … BUM-BUM!
Toot-toot, BUM-BUM, toot-toot-BUM-BUM!
Toot-toot, BUM-BUM, toot-toot-BUM-BUM!
The band charged forward as runners threw condoms into the crowd.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” an unseen voice could be heard in the distance. “IT’S TIME FOR THE TWENTY-SECOND ANNUAL ORLANDO GAY PRIDE PARADE!”
The street erupted in cheers.
Someone handed Patrick a beer, as the parade got under way.
He had never been much of a drinker, but considering the circumstances, it was hard to say no. Impossible, even…
* * * * *
CLAP!
“…Don’t go for second best, baby…put your lovin’ to the test…”
CLAP!
“…Make him express how he feels and maybe then you’ll know your love is real…”
CLAP!
As the parade began to pass, Patrick and Stephanie slumped on the sidewalk like two shell-shocked soldiers. There were colorful floats, festooned cars and convertibles, and even people on horseback throwing condoms into the crowd. There were people everywhere, dancing and cheering and singing along to Madonna. It was an ominous feeling to be surrounded by so much happiness when both Patrick and Stephanie felt empty inside, saddened by the loss of Alan.
CLAP!
As the parade marched on, something strange caught Patrick’s attention. He noticed a face in the crowd, a dude who looked exactly like Marty – the waiter who’d walked out on Sharon years ago, in a hailstorm of broken ketchup bottles. Patrick went to talk to him, but by the time he reached the spot where Marty had been standing, the waiter was gone –
It must have been my imagination, Patrick thought, returning his eyes to the parade.
CLAP!
But then it happened again.
CLAP!
A seventy-year-old man, in drag as a restaurant server, appeared in the street, a dead-ringer for Linda from Denny’s, right down to the bad teeth. Again, Patrick tried to talk to him, but like the Marty lookalike, the Linda doppelganger suddenly disappeared.
Oomph! – Someone bumped Patrick from behind. He whirled around to see Cheryl Bennish – the waitress who died from being hit by a drunk driver – riding past him on a unicycle, wearing a Madonna cone-brassiere from the 90s – “BIG TITS COMIN’ THROUGH!”
CLAP!
“Cheryl!” Patrick yelled, causing Stephanie to look up.
“Dude, who are you yelling at?” Steph asked.
“Get up,” Patrick told her. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“See that lady on the unicycle?” Patrick said. “Follow her! Don’t let her out of your sight!”
CLAP!
The two pushed their way through the crowd, just barely keeping up with Cheryl. People cheered as floats passed by, but Patrick and Stephanie had lost interest in the parade, their attention solely focused on Cheryl, who rounded a corner then peddled into the street. Patrick and Steph followed closely behind. When they rounded the corner into the street themselves, they suddenly found themselves in an ocean of hair –
CLAP!
It was the Bradley Boys from Checker’s. They were as young as thirty years ago, and all wearing their Checkers’ uniforms. They looked up and smiled when they saw Patrick and Stephanie, and welcomed them like old friends, motioning for them to join their dance in the street. Patrick’s heart jumped into his throat when he saw that Jackie was there too.
And so was Ty.
CLAP!
And so was Big Tim.
CLAP!
And so were Bill and Rodney and the whole Checker’s gang.
CLAP!
No one had aged a day in three decades.
And all were dancing in perfectly coordinated movements, singing along to Madonna’s Express Yourself, though the lyrics had suddenly changed –
CLAP!
What’s with those diamond rings, all that needless shiny gold?
Cadillacs that go very fast, those NorthStar’s they get up and go!
CLAP!
What you need is a steady hand to hold you when you’re feelin’ down –
Make you feel like the king of the world –
Unconditional love all around!
CLAP!
A massive float appeared in the street, a giant rolling Checker’s restaurant, with tables and chairs and a twinkling Bobcat register terminal under a twirling disco ball.
CLAP!
In a single, fluid motion, the entire Checkers team spun on one foot and ran towards the float, jumping into the rolling restaurant and taking their places amongst the tables, bar, and cook’s line. Patrick and Stephanie found themselves in the very middle and the music swirled around them, as customers appeared and the tables filled with people.
CLAP!
Don’t take the easy road baby, do what you need to be your best!
You know you know you have to –
Face your repressed inner feelings, baby then you know what you see is real!
Checker’s was in business again for one final glorious time. It was Saturday night and the place was slammed. The parade crowd cheered from the sidewalks as the quickly fell into gear serving food and drinks and service with a smile.
CLAP!
Patrick was suddenly in his old Checker’s uniform, and Steph was at his side, dressed like her mother. But in the blink of an eye, Patrick was not alone; a shout of “CORNER!” revealed both Alan and Guinevere as young as they were in 1991, carrying trays of food rang up on fake tickets. The dining room erupted in thunderous applause – Woo-hoo!
CLAP!
You’ve got to make it happen –
Un-repress yourself, hey-hey!
CLAP
A bright white light emanated from the kitchen as the trio was united again, for one last Saturday night. The three came together in perfectly coordinated movements, a single person made of three people, the epitome of happiness, the satisfaction of working together.
CLAP!
The light grew stronger as the music grew louder.
CLAP!
If you want it enough –
Baby, show your stuff –
CLAP!
The light was blinding, now.
CLAP!
Un-repress what you’ve got –
Baby, ready or not!
But then, suddenly, as fast as the light appeared, a thunderous CRASH disrupted the float as a car roared through the kitchen, causing the trio to separate. It was a white 85’ Chrysler, Sharon Donovan’s car, the rickety old New Yorker with the crushed velvet interior. The auto plowed through the restaurant, running over both staff and customers, and Sharon was in the driver’s seat – laughing, horrifying – a hairless hobbit without its wig.
With white knuckles on the wheel, Sharon steered towards the trio and ran them over, reveling as their bodies disappeared under the chassis. She had a duffel bag full of cash next to her – not all of the $95,000 had made tickertape in the air – and once the trio was under her tires, Sharon spun her wheels towards the nearest exit; she gave her old Chrysler a lungful of gas, sending her hurtling down a side street, towards escape, towards freedom.
It was Sharon who had been there from the very beginning, and it was fitting that she’d be here for the very bitter end. Sharon was the cohesive voice, the constant voice – and the only voice that mattered. She was the voice of depression, the buzzkill for every moment of happiness, and the last voice that anyone would hear as the trio ended in the only way it could.
Sharon won.
Sharon would always be the winner.
And Sharon, more than anything, was happy.
She was finally happy…