Mardi Gras

I was born in a fake alley with paint on my face and two bullets
snug against my heart. My white top-hat had spilled here, my cell phone
had fallen there, and my small gun touched a canvas that was not
painted brick like the rest. It was night. The first sound was a scream
that rushed to the face of a fake cop a yard ahead of me. His gun
bucked and I felt the bullets suck once, twice from my chest. I slid
upright. I returned. I was resurrected. He told me to drop my weapon.
The top hat rose to my head, the cell phone flew to my left hand and
the gun flew to my right. My birth was complete.

I drew a bead on the cop and he holstered his gun. He retreated to the
mouth of the alley, where tourists in shorts and sunburn turned away,
losing interest, where the fake Mardi Gras was no more, where confetti,
fluorescent whistles and cheap candy dusted the street. I turned and
bounded backwards from the alley. I drew hot breath and exhaled it
fresh as I ran.

The street was wide and straight. It was All-American from its dry
hydrants to its empty stores; each item an average of every item in
every street in America. Like a thick river, the tourists were its
community, its new body. Bunting lay dead on streetlamps. The rattling
bands and hired thumpers were silent.

A young man stood dressed like a bug. There was nothing less than blood
and brain on his face. He stared at me.

"ouY," he gasped, "uoY."

The guard was no longer chasing me. He leaned on his knees and peered
out at the street even as his vomit returned to his gulping mouth. I
followed his gaze and then, only seconds from my birth, did I
understand the purpose of my life.

A few yards down the street was a crater. The asphalt had been ripped
out and pushed down. The crater was full of black pieces, some big and
some small. The pieces had been a float with dancers (the dancers ever
ready to pick out a person in the crowd and give them a smile, give
them their Florida Welcome). The pieces had been the shopfronts. And
they had been people. A man jogged past and he was on fire, cooking,
even.

Flames curled under the shopfronts. Smoke condensed at the hot fringes.
Here was an overturned stroller, there was a woman in pieces, and she
was shaking her head incredulously. Lost balloons drifted down and
tears rose into my eyes.

By some magic, new knowledge was mine. In that crater was a device that
might heal these people, and in my hand was my cell phone. The two were
linked by something like fate. I don't have a word for this knowledge.
It's like the knowledge was already out there, always had been, and the
ability to know it came from my soul.

I hit 'dial'.

There was light and sound to the bounds of my senses. The world was
abruptly sucked to one point. The crater pulled. I felt that a great
evil was being assembled. The process of materialization fed on the
pain, the broken sinew, the exposed bone and the odor of barbeque.
Glass, shrapnel and fire returned and healed flesh as it passed
through. Fingers found hands while glasses spun improbably back to
their wearers. Bodies were flung upright and became people. What was
charred became pristine. The naked became clothed. Screams laughter.
The horror cleared and again it was Mardi Gras. The crowd cheered and
procession restarted. The float containing the point of misery reversed
over the repaired asphalt. Southern girls spared a smile for the
gentlemen in the crowd. Children threw necklaces and candy back to the
staff on the floats. The bands thumped oil drums and sucked whistles
and the tourists, that river in this fake street, were alive and
happy.

I wept. A long number disappeared from the display of my cell phone as
I keyed the digits. When I replaced the phone, a child was standing
next to me and crying. His mother took a photo as I boomed a laugh and
swayed over his head. I said, "emadaM, rus nieB," and tipped my white
hat. She asked me if I would pose with her son. She turned away. For
the rest of the day, as the sun rose and it became afternoon, I walked
the fake streets. I was fancy with my cane. I boomed with disdain and
parents applauded. Children offered only their suspicion. I went behind
the scenes and helped to prepare the floats. I arrived with an empty
day-bag. I slipped under the float of Calypso Dreams and retrieved the
bomb. I detached the second cell phone, which would trigger the bomb
when called, and put the pieces in my bag. The bomb contained all that
pain. But it was now safe. I would take it home and dismantle it, send
parts to silent couriers, and discuss my plan in code.

A man, dressed as a bug, watched me emerge from the canvas womb. We
spoke but I do not remember his words. He turned and then he had never
met me.

I left the park and walked to my hotel. International Drive was long. I
felt the bomb bounce around. Nobody had thanked me. But I was not sad.
I had saved lives. In the years until my childhood, I would save many
more.