Rain on my Parade.

I was supposed to replace a pipe between my muffler and a catalytic converter this weekend, to make my car run quieter and smoother. I was going to cut the lawn, and help my dad and the neighbor put up a new fence. Most importantly, I was going to play in a parade. It’s funny how well “scattered” thunderstorms can disrupt one’s weekend plans. I managed to watch Everything is Illuminated, Snake Eyes, 8 MM, and several episodes from the third and final set of DVDs for the Superman animated series, but accomplished nothing of importance or significance.

Saturday was an odd day. I looked outside, saw a squirrel foraging in the wet grass, and wondered when the sun might come out so I could fix my car. My dad was certain we wouldn’t get to the car, and that we should rest for the parade and worry about the car on Sunday instead. Every time I looked out the window I saw something different. Sometimes it would be absolutely pouring; other times the sun would almost peek out from behind thick clouds. Driving to the parade we encountered more bizarre weather patterns, as lightning would strike in the distance and torrential downpours would last from one traffic light to the next. At the starting point, there was no sign of any fire trucks, only band members in parked cars outside a school, waiting to hear whether or not the gig would be canceled. The radio mentioned a flood watch in effect, and as golfball-sized spheres of water pelted the car, I was certain they were right.

When 5:30 hit, the time we were supposed to meet, my dad got out of the car. I convinced him to put a poncho on over his uniform, and silently wished I’d brought one myself, or a jacket at the very least. He was visibly embarrassed and pointed out no one else was wearing one, but I was firm in my position. Even though fire department parades are strict, and we’re judged on our appearance, I wasn’t about to risk a 76-year-old man getting pneumonia. My health was expendable, since I could shake off a cold better at my age than he could. Together, we made our way across the parking lot as other band members from our group and others started climbing reluctantly from their vehicles. The downpour had subsided to a drizzle, and it looked like we might get the parade in after all.

We were supposed to start at 6. By that point, other than a few police officers blocking a side road and some fire trucks from one town at the end of a street, there wasn’t any indication that anything was happening. We waited by the side of the road as various people pulled over to ask questions. Some asked what was going on. A limo driver asked directions to a road miles in the opposite direction from where he was driving. And a woman in an SUV informed us that her baby in the back had a fever, and she needed to know where the nearest pharmacy was. As one of our trumpet players directed her, I told my dad what she had said since he couldn’t hear her, and he immediately started shouting to a police officer across the street, “HEY! We got a SICK BABY OVER HERE! HEY! SICK BABY! HELLO!” Meanwhile, the traffic light changed and people started beeping at her, so she drove off.

City workers started putting out those plastic bag lined cardboard boxes for garbage, and someone heard that the battalion really wanted to get the parade in, and a decision would be made by 6:30. As it started to rain again, I wondered why they didn’t start on time, and get the parade done before the next downpour. All over Long Island, shiny fire engines remained safe and polished in their garages, as band members slowly got soaked. Eventually, we received word to gather, so we got our instruments out of the car even as other incredulous musicians called to us from their cars, asking if we were really going to play. One musician kept bemoaning the fact that he had given up an indoor gig that paid twice as much. Similarly, my dad and I had passed on an Italian procession in Queens. The Italian band leader wasn’t happy about it, but we had booked the parade first and had to stand by our original commitment.

“Put ‘em away; it’s canceled!” called a man in a kilt. Word spread quickly, but a few people had called our band leader and were instructed to wait for him, rain or shine. Sometimes we still get something, just for showing up. And so eventually, as firemen, police and musicians vacated the area, 30 of our players stood alone under a tree that provided little protection. When the boss did arrive, apologetic and saying he’d take care of us the next time we were together, a few people were unhappy. On our way back to the parking lot, the trumpet player who’d given up the indoor job informed us that this was probably his last outing with us. He was DONE. My dad tried to dissuade him, since no one can control the weather and it’s actually a very rare occurrence for us to be rained out, but it wasn’t the right time to convince him otherwise. The final irony, the insult to injury, hit when the sun appeared as we drove home. There wasn’t much of it, but it would have been dry enough to play after all. Who knows, maybe later in the season they’ll reschedule it. For now, I just hope Sunday is dry enough to fix my car, so I can say I accomplished something productive this weekend.