Jul 03 2008
Independent Perspectives
No two people view the same event the same way. In a given crowd, you’ll find as many opinions as individuals, and those and their behavior can say a lot about each person’s background, motivations, and general outlook on life.
Since it’s practically on top of us, I’ll use the Fourth of July as an example: specifically, a downtown parade in Somebigcityorother, USA. It’s ten-thirty am, to give people time to go to their picnics afterward. The crowds are four-deep on the sidewalks at their thinnest points, with more spreading behind in the alcoves holding the shops’ doors. Small children squat on the sidewalk or balance on their parents’ shoulders. There are a few dogs here and there, large ones panting in the shade and darkening the cement below in drops and spurts. It may not be possible to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but it’s certainly hot enough for heat distortion to blur the sidewalk on the other side.
Near the origin of the parade, Mia Nye moves from foot to foot nervously, balancing her trombone on her shoulder. She’s not thinking about the meaning of the day, not by a long shot; she’s more worried about getting her music holder to stay on her trombone, and making sure she can guide both right and forward, and not hitting the trumpeter in front of her with her slide. Her uniform’s been starched a bit too much, so it rubs against the back of her neck, and she’s extremely aware of the sweat dripping down her back.
Cody Payton perches on his mother’s shoulders, looking out over the street. He’s been up since 6 am, and this is the first time in four and a half hours that he’s been able to hold still—mostly. There’s still a bit of wriggling, and he’s waving his flag on a stick hard enough that the air around it hums. A steady stream of chatter pours from his mouth, mostly loudly wondering what tonight’s fireworks will be like and when the parade is going to start. Marsha Payton, meanwhile, is trying for the twelfth time today to see if she can teach her son that the importance of the day isn’t just “It’s when they set the fireworks off”. When the whistle blows to signal the beginning of the parade, she lets out a long-held breath from relief, and then scrunches her eye shut so as to protect it from the stick end of her son’s flag.
Gertrude Hall absently listens to the two one-sided dialogues from her own vantage point next to the lamppost on the corner, and chuckles under her breath. It doesn’t last too long; the parade moves into view, and her eyes sting, vision blurring, the blue-uniformed musicians becoming just a row of cerulean dominoes, easy to tip, easy to bring down. She cheers for them anyway, though it comes out almost as much a squeak as a shout, and turns into a coughing fit. The lamppost is the most solid thing near her, and she leans on it for support; the flyer, dangling with her thumb between its pages, opens to a poem about how freedom is not free.
Stuart Wilson, meanwhile, tries to find the thinnest point of the sardine-packed crowd. It’s not working too well; if anything, they jam closer together. He pushes forward, drawing himself up onto the balls of his feet to see over the crowd. As the band passes, he only passively searches for an opening; a few floats go by, and his attempts to reach the curb, or a slightly higher point, or much of anything become more intense. He finally reaches a planter just in time for the color guard to pass; as they do, so do his jitters, and he settles back to the ground to watch the backs of people’s heads and the occasional top of a particularly showy parade entry.
King lounges in the shade of the drugstore awning, his tongue lolling out and his drool spattering the cement under him. He’s used to the noise, finally, but he still flinches when the cheers reach a particularly high pitch, and when the engine of the car bearing the mayor backfires. The fireworks will be worse.
And those were just the obvious ones. Feel free to add your own observers/participants to this particular parade!
