Thanksgiving Parade Delinquents

November 22, 2019

Going from middle school to high school is a big transition in one’s life.  It helps, sort of, when you have a ready-made school activity to jump right into.  For me it was band.  Spending half of the summer before you even start school doing marching band gives you some built-in friends by the first day of school.  In my case, I absolutely needed it.

Right at the time school started, there was a brand-new Macy’s store opening up in our town.  Being as our school was the closest to the store location, we were asked to play at the grand opening.  It’s not that easy for over a hundred kids to play Sousa marches while we ride up and down two flights of escalators in the middle of a department store after only about a month of summer practice.  But somehow, we made it work.  Apparently, we were so impressive, our band was invited to play the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in New York City.

It was pretty overwhelming, especially for us 14-year-old Freshmen.  The entire band had to raise thousands of dollars on roughly six weeks.  But with a lot of hard work fundraising, and begging the public for donations, we pulled it off.

The trip to New York for many of us was our first time that far from home without our parents.  It was invigorating.  We all felt so mature, so important, like the world was watching our every move.  I’m sure the other thirty bands in the parade felt the same way, but back to us.

The first couple of days were a whirlwind.  Practice, sightseeing, more practice.  The thing most people don’t know about the process is all of the bands have to show up fully dressed for the parade at 2AM to do a full dry run in front of the Macy’s store.  It was cold and wet and an absolute cluster.  But once it’s all done by about 4AM, we all go get breakfast before we all line up to do it for real for the world to see.

Marching the Macy’s parade was exhilarating, but also exhausting.  Thirty-three degrees and drizzling rain the entire way.  The poor twirler had to do the entire thing in a leotard and Keds.  The girl holding the cymbals for the snare drummer had to walk the thing backwards.  At one point she fell in a pothole, cymbals flying.  But once again, we pulled it off, looking perfect by the time we reached the cameras.  After it was over, we screamed in accomplishment.  What a feeling.  But not everything went that well.

During one of the sightseeing adventures before the parade, my friend and I walked into this one store.  It was one of those shady adult gift and party stores.  In the back of the store there was an operation that made fake ID cards.  It had no state identification markers on it, so it was meant for entertainment purposes only I’m sure.  But at the age of fourteen, all I saw was fake ID.  Visions of sneaking in clubs danced in my head.  I paid my ten bucks, took my picture, and ten minutes later I had a bonified fake ID from New York City.

Word traveled quickly around the band about my brand-new souvenir.   At the Thanksgiving Day dinner at some fancy restaurant in the Empire State building, I was cornered by a senior in the band that had never talked to me before that night.  But that quickly changed that night.

Senior: Hey, I heard about your ID.  Where’d you get it?

Me: Well, um, this store a couple of blocks from the hotel.

Senior: What’s it called?

Me: I, um, I really don’t know.

Senior: Ok, so you know where it is, right?  Take me there in the morning, I want one.

Me: But we leave tomorrow to go home.  I don’t think there enough time to…

Senior: You will take me there in the morning.  You got it?

And so, what was I supposed to do?  Risk alienation at my brand-new school?  Or gain favor from a senior?  First thing that next morning we snuck out during breakfast and briskly walked to the gift shop.  We had to wait a while before the ID maker finally showed up.  Senior quickly requested an ID card.  The maker sets up his gear, and takes Senior’s picture.  Next thing we know, we’re watching the maker type in all of the information for the card.  I don’t know if it was the hurry we were in or the smell of hangover on the guy’s breath, but it felt so much slower than when I was there days before.  Once he finally got everything typed in, he then turned on his laminating machine.

Senior: Is this going to take much longer?

Maker: It’s gonna take about ten or fifteen minutes for the laminator to warm up.

Fifteen minutes?  He couldn’t turn the damn thing on before doing all the typing?  We stood there staring at the laminator like a pot refusing to boil.  After eighteen minutes and forever seconds, he assembled the card material and sticks it in the machine.  We glanced back and forth at the time and each other’s nervous faces as we watched the card slowly squeeze through the machine.  Finally, the card drops out the other side.  Maker picked it up and tossed it on the counter, Senior dropped his ten bucks on the counter and we took off.  We were already late.

We ran through the Manhattan streets to get back to the hotel.  Left turn, right turn, another left turn.  Next thing you know, we realized we were totally lost.  Lost in Manhattan.  We argued over which way to go, then decided to go back and turn left again.  We saw Macy’s, and we knew we were close and kept going.  All of a sudden, we looked left at the corner, and there was our charter bus.  The whole band was loaded on the bus and Mr. Long, our band director, was standing outside, arms crossed.  We bolted down the block toward the bus, arriving huffing and puffing.

Senior: Mr. Long!  We’re here!

Mr. Long: Get on the bus.

Me: We’re so sorry!  We were just…

Mr. Long: Get on the bus, now.

Senior: Yes sir.  But can we go upstairs and get our…

Mr. Long: Bus!  Now!

As we quickly shut up and scurried on to the bus, the entire band watched us climb in, eyes bulging at our idiot defiance.  As we sat down, Senior quickly grinned and flashed his ID at his friends, who quickly giggled in excitement.  Which of course came to a screeching halt when Mr. Long boarded the bus, sitting in the front row. 

You would think this would have propped up my rep somehow.  I’m really not sure it did at all, but it was a thrill.  My fake ID actually worked when I got back home.  I couldn’t really use it until I was old enough to drive and actually go somewhere on my own, but it was worth the wait.

The moral to this story is, boys do stupid shit.

-TGY-