Forty Days of This

by Jeffrey Utzinger 
 She washes her face, dabs it dry with a towel
as I watch over her shoulder, attempting to shave,
both of us watching the image of how each ap-
pears to themselves, the opposite of how we ap-
pear to the world, and though she’s beautiful
there in the mirror, she applies a light base, rubs
blush on the cheek bone, the thick black mascara
to lashes, a subtle eye shadow that makes me re-
alize I wasn’t aware she wore any at all, and
though I’m transfixed by her face, I stop to rinse
the razor as she steps out of the way, and I miss
what I love the most, the pursed lips ready to re-
ceive the red waxy lipstick, catching only the tis-
sue floating to the waste basket—a kiss suspended
and falling, and then gone. I look up to see that
she’s smiling over my shoulder, our images re-
versed, and I turn to kiss, reversing the image
again, and as she puts her hands to my face to
rub the smooth skin, I touch my lips to the tip
of her mask.
We’re unusually close, sharing this space in
the mirror; we’ve been together long enough that
we’re more likely to seek our own time in the
morning, but we’re out of our element, staying
at her brother and his wife’s apartment in New
Orleans. We arrived in the city to rows of young,
Black girls bearing down, kicking spandex legs
high, adorned in silver sequins, ruffled skirts and
bright bows, their leader twirling a baton. We
joined the parade in medias res. Stepped into the
street on the heels of the glitter girl’s last swagger
and dance. Trombones and cymbal crash of the
marching band swelled, the final note of “Iko,
Iko,” talkin’ bout Hey now (hey now) blended into
an unfamiliar tune, with a hint of a Latin beat. I
stood in the middle of a blacktop street so narrow
cars would have to drive half in the ditch to pass,
beneath a canopy of oak tree branches. A tractor
with goal posts mounted to the front, painted yel-
low and blue, rolled lazily by, not at all a threat
to the twirling, cheering squad, but enough to
keep the parents and sponsors and a few ex-
hausted girls with their pom poms hanging at
their sides who were lagging behind, moving at a
reasonable pace.
I’ve moved at a reasonable pace through the
preceding nights and days. It’s been two, maybe
three; I’ve lost track of time. Late nights. Early
mornings. Heavy sleep with no dreams. We did
our own dance on Friday in Austin, kicking
drawers shut, holding paperwork at bay, and
spinning out the door early to drive like mad for
the Mardi Gras. Christa grew up in Baton Rouge,
and this celebration along the Mississippi, fit for
such a wild, muddy river, is nothing new for her.
I’ve never been however, and at first, I didn’t
want to come. I’m loath to spend a weekend away
from the country where we live in a small town,
on an acre of land, surrounded by trees near the
Colorado River. During the week we drive two
hours round trip each day to work in the city, so
the thought of driving for hours to relax,
smacked of madness, along with the sleeping in
guest beds, eating what others choose, spending
all waking hours talking with people. Travel
brings out the beast who usually sleeps, and he’s
prone to lash out. It gets ugly.
I’d also expected scorching heat, projectile
vomit, crushing crowds and overwhelming fa-
tigue, but my first glimpse of a parade was two
 
 
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 44 
 
 
 blocks from a university which we passed after
parking along a residential street lined with hun-
dred year old mansions that looked brand new
with immaculate lawns and gladiolas in bloom.
I hadn’t expected to get close enough to the
floats to reach out and touch the rider’s hands,
and in many ways, my first glimpse reminded me
of a small town parade. And soon after we ar-
rived, Christa spotted her brother and squeezed
my hand, laughed, and pulled me from the path
of the yellow and blue tractor, forward to the
curb into the shade among spectators yelling and
waving their arms. My sister-in-law strung beads
over our heads, and her husband handed me a
beer. Her family was lounging in a grassy median
beneath trees, waving for us to join them like we
all lived in the neighborhood and had just
walked from our house.
I had expected chaos, but found it natural to
blend into the crowd, to fall into easy conversa-
tion with strangers while men in ludicrous
rubber masks or with scarves across their mouths
hurled throws, plastic cups, and doubloons. I
hung back that first afternoon, believing the trin-
kets were for children, but each time a float
passed, the adults rushed forward, waving their
arms, so I inched forward and caught my first
strand, lightweight and green. It circled around
two fingers and I felt a lightness, an understand-
ing, almost a relief. My brother-in-law handed me
another beer as I slipped the beads around
Christa’s neck. A plastic cup hit me in the back
of the head, and I felt better than I’d felt in some
time.
I didn’t know, the first afternoon, how add-
ictive all of this would become, didn’t know I’d
want the span of time to stretch on for forty days
or more, but began to understand when six or
seven floats had passed and suddenly, the first
parade was over, and I felt the child-like disap-
pointment. We’d arrived too late for this one,
but it was only the first of many parades we’d
join. And though nobody spoke of plans or
emerged from the crowd as a leader, we began to
move as one; at first I thought towards the
parade’s mid-point, so we could revisit the march-
ing bands’ tunes or heckle the float-riders with
“hey mister,” but it was more like movement on
a raft in a river, being carried towards an uncer-
tain destination, lulled by the sounds and the
sway. A movement I slipped into with ease at that
moment, and have followed for the duration of
our stay.
We came to rest on the steps of an enormous
white stucco apartment with a narrow stairwell,
lined with a cold iron rail that spiraled to the top.
It smelled of mildew but the people ascending
and descending, drinks in hand and laughing,
made the atmosphere crackle, the hallway sparkle
and shine. I don’t remember who lived there, or
even if the one I’m remembering was the first we
visited that day—our sister-in-law has friends and
family spread all over the city.
The houses and apartments we have visited
are all tiny, but we’ve gladly squeezed inside. A
double bed with several lounging people usually
sits near the door. Mimosas and fried turkey are
crammed on narrow kitchen counters. Love seats
pushed next to tables on which sit plates of ham,
potato salad, crab dip, and tortilla chips threat-
ening to push small TVs over the edge. A narrow
hallway usually leads to other rooms full of more
people, more alcohol, more food. An ever-pre-
sent line for the bathroom whose end is never
sure circles the room, but I can fall into conver-
sation with someone at some point, and even-
tually be granted a turn. At one stop a man told
me there was beer in the bathtub, so I waited in
line, used the facilities, and grabbed a beer.
When I emerged the guy said you’d better get two.
And I did. Dionysus has moved through the day
into darkness, handing me bottle after beer after
bourbon, making me think I can drink like a
young man again. And I have.
 
 
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 Tonight we leave for our final parade with
the moon so high and full following over our
shoulders through the black silhouette of tree
branches and street signs as we walk through
neighborhoods that rose up beautiful and white.
Christa’s hand is as warm in mine as I imagine
the hot burning stars to be resting in the folds of
the sky so clear and midnight blue. The bourbon
and water that has replaced my blood reminds
me I’m so much in love, makes me fall back on
the sentimental phrase, makes me skip and talk
too loud. We cross railroad tracks and our group
reconvenes to merge in the crowds lining the
streets to catch a glimpse of another parade.
We catch the parade in preparation, still and
churning as though it’s been dammed. The
source of the stream that will wind its way
through the Big Easy, carrying lights and masked
men on ornate floats made of flowers, plastic and
papier-mâché. Herculean forms, smiling gypsies,
mermaids. The men aboard talk, swill beer from
silver cans, pulling handfuls of beads—purple, yel-
low, and green—from boxes and bags they discard
in the street, a casual preparation for a full night
of work. We move, our pool of relatives and
friends through this sea of people; we’ve arrived
too late, lingered too long over cocktails and light
conversation, the kind that moves through a day
so relaxed you haven’t noticed the time, the kind
possible only when strangers are mingled with
family, and nothing of import needs to be sorted.
Too late to really carve out the perfect spot on
the curb.
A family friend who’s a lawyer and collector
of cowboy boots, a man who always wears slacks
and a sports jacket, pulls cigars from his coat and
begins passing them around. I draw the flame in
as the smoke fills my mouth. My wife wanders
off with her sister-in-laws’ parents, back to view
the static floats. I watch as they admire, then
grow closer, waving to the men in masks. Christa
pulls the band from her hair, shakes her long
blond ponytail loose, and waves to the men on
the top tier. A swirl of large white beads move
heavenward and swing down around her out-
stretched arm. Her movements and laughter, rare
revelations of her coy nature, the flirtation with
strangers, moves me to the year we met and I
began falling asleep at nights with her image in
my head.
I look back down the alley of the static
parade, swarms of people milling in conversa-
tion, clinging to keep warm, and the colored
lights that have begun to flicker on floats, on
street posts, and from glow-in-the-dark charms
children are swinging on strings. The first float
begins to move. An enormous cheer erupts. I
find Christa and we move back to the group. The
crowds are like tides swelling, our hands shooting
upwards like flecks of foam, lashing out at noth-
ing really—plastic beads, Frisbees, and trinkets.
It makes sense to reach out the first after-
noon, when the first float passes by and you
stand there naked waiting to be adorned; you
want the beads to show you belong here, you’re
a part of this swell, but midway through if it’s too
hot, and you’ve had too much beer, and bodies
are pressing too close, enough to drown you, it
doesn’t make sense to roll your arms like a
drowning man—It’s not lifesavers we’re grasping;
it’s more weight. And midway through your stay,
your second or third parade, if beads hang like
mill stone around your neck which has turned
bright pink from where sweat bled a cheap set
into your skin, and hundreds, already procured,
lie in a tangled seaweed glut on the back seat,
strung around the rear view, draped across the
chair and under the bed, or a boxful sits in some-
one’s apartment, removed to ease the burden,
and forgotten in a peaceful stupor walking home,
then it seems ludicrous to cry out for more. But
when the float passes by, and there’s a lull, the
void seems insufferable. The crowd recedes to
catch its breath, the road and curbs like the beach
 
 
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 at low tide littered with beads that miraculously
sifted through hands and touched down. Nearly
no one stoops to pick up these treasures. There’s
something magical about snatching it mid-air. It’s
a tradition that comes from Spain, but its actions
seem so American. The thrill of the wide re-
ceiver. The hunger for more of the same.
This annual apocalyptic celebration—one
more sin before the beginning of Lent— some-
how seems out of order to me. Forty days of ab-
stinence, and self-denial should be followed by
forty days of this.
This masquerade seems more of a chance,
for an evening, to forget your failures and fears.
It’s a chance to move through an evening without
anyone questioning whether the visage you wear
is real, or if you’re only holding a mask. It’s an
evening of levity, weightless illusion, surrounded
by beauty with no time constraints. It’s a chance
for the things, real or imagined, that separate a
family to evaporate in brisk coastal air. And if it’s
just an excuse to eat and drink more, work less
for a few days, then well, that seems okay too. Re-
ligious ritual and pagan rites aside, it’s easy to get
lost in a parade.
And this one is winding down. The wind
feels a bit more brisk, our steps slowed and
speech sparse. As the crowd disperses, a discus-
sion ensues about where we should eat, and
though I’m suddenly overcome with hunger, I
think I’d rather curl up next to Christa and sleep.
We cross the street to where a line of men in or-
ange jumpsuits with white, plastic bags slung over
their shoulders have emerged from the shadows.
A man with a whistle barks a command and the
line of convicts move in methodical unison down
the sidewalk, picking up trash. Every detail per-
fectly planned.
A siren blares, and as we step out of the
street, a paddy wagon big as a city bus bears
down, red and blue flashing lights on top, and
bright neon lights inside, lighting the faces of
those who stepped out of line, faces more weary
than afraid at the prospect of a night in jail. My
brother-in-law yells go deep, and I trot back into
the street, my feet feeling for the curb, my eyes
over my shoulder. He rears back, lets the plush
football fly. I lose it in a streetlight, catching in-
stead a glimpse of a beautiful woman who’s be-
come haloed in the street cleaner’s spray. A boy
intercepts the pass and runs off. I stand and
watch, amazed at the stranger she’s become. At
the beauty of water and refracted false light. Bells
from a fool’s cap jingle, and for a moment I
pretend we are saved.
 
 
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