GIANT TURKEY LEGS

I made my way through the huge art festival that descends on the city each year, plodding along with the mass of people flowing like a sluggish river in the moist July air. A man passed me eating a corn-dog, his baseball cap turned backwards in the current style. Beyond the man read a sign that said: GIANT TURKEY LEGS. I thought about the corn-dog, dismissed it, since I’d recently eaten before heading out to the festival. Otherwise, this might have been an attractive choice for my evening meal. Then I imagined myself with a giant turkey leg, nibbling at it in a desultory kind of way as the heat and masses of people enveloped me. It was all too much: I had to sit and shake the thoughts from my mind. The giant turkey leg oppressed me, as did the constant crush of people that I actually tolerated a little better than usual. I wandered over to a display, put out in front of the train station, that depicted images of happy, well-adjusted people, their eyes sparkling with contentment and fulfillment. It had a name like “City Happy People’s Faces Project,” or something like that. The others who were looking at the photographic portraits of course knew many of the faces.
“Oh, Look! There’s Ted!”
“Over there is Amy!”
“Here’s Josh and Sandra!”
I know many faces from the city, not necessarily their names, but recognized not one of these people. I started off again, the thought of a giant turkey leg still gnawing at me a bit.

Along a main thoroughfare of art and exhibits and other interesting things were some interactive displays. One little booth featured a broken-down set of drums and a keyboard or electronic instrument dating maybe from the seventies. You could sit at one or the other and put on a little performance. A man was playing the outdated keyboard, hammering out a melody, while another man struggled with the broken drums. I was interested in this display, because it was like a nightmare come to life. There have been times—long ago, but not recently—when I’ve imagined putting on a concert-hall performance with a big national band, my place being improbably at the helm of a gleaming set of chromed drums with exquisite wood and finely tuned for the best possible sound. There would be people around, minions, adjusting things and asking if everything was all right. We’re ready to start, I pick up the sticks, realize with horror and frustration that they are nothing but broken toothpicks—splintered into useless fragments. Nothing is too clear after that, but you get the point. The tableau playing out before me was like my dream, with the drums in this place all topsy-turvy, only a few hastily thrown-together cast-offs with nothing in the way of a snare drum, and the equipment for the most part non-functional. The encouraging sign read: “Be Heard! Play music!” or something along those lines. It could just as easily have read: “Welcome to My Nightmare! Enjoy!” For his part, the man at the electronic keyboards was actually playing something; the only movements on the part of the would-be drummer were those of a frustrated man trying without success to get the drum kit in working order.

Farther up the avenue was a real band, playing with a horn section and broadcasting their sound from high up on a stage in the middle of the closed-off street. I managed to catch the last bit of their last song, and they put on an energetic and captivating performance—with all musicians at the top of their game. The consisted of four horns, an acoustic bass, drums, keyboard, electric guitar, and maybe something else I’m forgetting at the moment. They had a fast honky-tonk or swing style that had a few people dancing in the heavy, sticky air. Their lead man, a charismatic fellow at the keyboard, was more than good at his instrument, and his vocals helped propel the sound along and tap into the audience’s enthusiasm. It was probably the highlight of the festival, and my thoughts turned no more to giant turkey legs.

I passed by the many booths set up to serve food, didn’t even buy a lemonade on this sweltering evening. I headed back to the car, which I’d fortunately parked in the immediate vicinity of the festival. This is almost unheard of, and I relished my good luck as I wended my way through the packed thoroughfare, with the thumping of rap and hip-hop emanating from some unseen stage, and people yelling things through loudspeakers. I began to feel just a little dizzy, maybe from the heat or want of sleep, and decided to make a real effort to retrieve the car without getting lost. Awash in a super-heated and slow-moving river of humanity, it is easy to lose one’s bearings. At least, it is for me. I got headed in the direction of the big Ferris wheel they’d set up for this thing, and managed to cross the light rail line without getting snagged by a passing train. They had officers there whose job it was to blow whistles and signal the safe take-off and stopping of the trains, and to make sure that no one walked in front of the rail cars. Then it was just a block or two to the car, with again the shouts of merrymakers and sidewalk revelers providing an accompanying soundtrack to the hot July evening. I was glad to get in the little station wagon, turn the key, and head out to the street for an unimpeded drive back home.