A clown cartwheeled, and when she came back to upright she pulled a balloon rabbit out of nowhere and handed it to a woman in pink satin shorts.
Meyers looked at Valewski.
“We could issue jaywalking tickets.”
A hearse led the procession. That small formality made the trailing vehicles, all with funeral flags, legal.
Two ice cream trucks behind the hearse had clowns, jesters, people in devil and frog costumes and one devil/frog combo costume passing out free ice cream.
A marching band played hardcore songs.
Valewski quietly admired the sax player, playing notes at jet speed.
As the Monster Truck carrying the casket came into view, Meyers said “That can’t be street legal.”
Valewski felt his breakfast burrito backflipping in his stomach.
“You can radio motor vehicle enforcement, maybe Bluestein will roll down and pull it over.”
Valewski had tried, and failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
He scanned the crowd, two deep in some spots for the funeral procession of Blister Moloney.
Everyone in Port Cotter knew Blister.
His band, The Abrasions, single handedly created the punk scene in the small city known for making seat belts and fudge.
If you were a punk or a metalhead, even a Juggalo, you had a Blister story.
Sheriff Kurtain shut down three of the DIY clubs that Blister helped create, then Abrasions fans came of voting age and Kurtain wound up running a walleye charter out of Bayville.
That was before Blister made money, almost accidentally writing the theme song for the the most popular reality show in Norway.
The Abrasions toured constantly after that, all over North America, but Blister still insisted that the band be based in Port Cotter.
He was loud, and usually drunk, and threw wild parties at the old Duncan Farm, which was now known as Ranch Dressing.
As the casket neared, seven women wearing Abrasions shirts removed them. They were naked from the waist up, with body paint that spelled out Blister.
“That’s it,” Meyers said, stepping into the street.
Valewski tapped Meyers on the arm, thought about grabbing him.
“Mitch?”
Meyers turned.
“We got indecent exposure Billy. Gotta do it. Let’s go.”
Valewski shook his head.
“If they have pasties under the paint, they’re legal.”
“Let’s go find out.”
Valewski shook his head. “If we get a citizen complaint we can radio Wilson, she’ll do it. Relax.”
“Trying to do my job, Billy. You should think about it.”
“It’s basically a parade duty. You knew this one might be a bit different. You’re not all amped up on Fourth of July or Thanksgiving.”
Meyers stepped back on the curb and looked at the Monster Truck.
“I hated that guy.”
“You get into it with Blister?”
Meyers scrunched his face, though Valewski didn’t see it as he watched a bodypainted woman eat an ice cream bar. Looked like a strawberry shortcake.
“No,” Meyers said, “I didn’t get into it with him. But he was a joker. Dumb tattoos, got rich off lousy music, stumbling around downtown PC with a half a dozen skanky women.”
A unicyclist buzzed passed the cops singing along to the instrumental the band was playing.
“Listen to that garbage.” Mitch Meyers tensed, his blue uniform shirt going taut against his back muscles. “We risk our lives every day and they’re acting like that bum is a hero.”
Valewski was getting a cramp in his leg. He wanted a seat, some shade, and an ice cream bar. Even a Push-Up.
Whatever song the band kicked into, now most of the crowd was singing along.
Almost everyone was smiling.
Valewski thought the song was pretty good.
Meyers had his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked like he was pouting.
“Hey, Mitch,” Valewski said.
“Yeah?”
“This is Port Cotter, Michigan. There hasn’t been a street homicide since 1973. And no Port Cotter cop has ever died in the line of duty. Ever.”
Mitch Meyers head snapped around as though someone had slapped him.
“You already forget Paul Nilphin?”
Valewski inhaled. He could smell hot asphalt and Monster Truck exhaust.
“Nilphin had a heart attack yanking the knob on the Kiwanis gumball machine in the lobby,” Valewski said, and stepped out into the street to see if a clown or a devil would give him an ice cream bar.
***
Long live The Abrasions! Sounds like a fabulous procession. Wish I could have been there. I also wish I could write lines like these:
"Abrasions fans came of voting age and Kurtain wound up running a walleye charter out of Bayville."
“Nilphin had a heart attack yanking the knob on the Kiwanis gumball machine in the lobby,” .
You are a very funny man, Jimmy.
I love the search for an ice cream bar.