There is a sublime sense of gratification in the catch. It feels like a feat. A crucial play in a big game.
You’ve gotten some small purple, green and golds and even some dice but that something special has eluded you.
You scan the float and find the right reveler. Not the one plundering their bag looking for stuffed bears. Not the one who just tossed a handful of cups to the tourists. You find one who has a dozen or so big pink ones in his hand and he’s dropping back to pass.
“Those will be the envy of everyone I see tonight,” you say to yourself.
You say what you can to get him to look your way. Any number of clever statements may or may not work. Or you simply scream your lungs out. You being a man with no cute little kids or a well-endowed girlfriend, the odds are against you. The natural selection of the Krewe does not favor the single thirty-something man.
But he does see you and you motion that you want them, and hope that there aren’t any nubile ladies around. Or old women that look like his me-maw. Or supple teen-agers that resemble his first. But if you are smart, you will have brought your own comely female companion. Or at least posted up near one for the benefit of splash beads.
Then he gives them a throw and you set your sights on the prize. You aren’t his target, but you make the snap judgment that, with enough athletics, maybe you can intercept them. You don’t take your eyes off the bundle of beads as they seem to be sailing over your head. With your foot on the barricade, you leap up and back with five fingers spread out like a web. You bump the woman behind you and throw her slightly off balance. In the second she takes to adjust, you reach the apex of your leap. The nucleus of the throw descends and hits your palm like a bullseye, letting out a unique and familiar sound of victory. The tentacles wrap around your hand, which you bring forward and down as the others try to snatch a string or two from your grasp. But they fail and you hear her behind you, muttering something about how they weren’t meant for you.
You look back with a smug smile and are turning your attention back to the parade when a long chain of inch-wide pearls smacks you in the forehead and fattens your lip.
A small price to pay for the perfect catch.
You place the beads around your neck and await the next float.
Oh, you’re good….you’re real good. More writing like that! You make me want to catch some beads and I could care less about ’em. 🙂
Man, I remember when I could play offense at parades. Once, I got a set of flashing beads from Tucks back when nobody was throwing flashing beads. I have no clue why the guy targeted me.
Nowadays, I am playing Dominik Hasek to keep all of the Nolan Ryan wannabees from taking out my children.
I do score amazing beads, though.
During my lifetime, I have gone through every phase of this brand of angling. As a young child I harassed my father to bear me repeatedly on his shoulders. When I got a little too big for that, I learned to scream “Heyyyy!!” while simultaneosly boxing out the kids nearest me for position. As a teenager I “volunteered” to chaperon younger children in order to share their perches atop the ladders. I have leapt for cups, I have stomped on doubloons, I have had to decide which “pair” of beads already in my hand to discard in order to catch the bigger and shinier ones flying toward me. And, yes, I have.. at times.. plotted and schemed in much the same way you describe here. But that was before I learned that all you really have to do is wave, smile, and look like you’re having a good time. Someone will find you. Sometimes age does indeed bring wisdom. That and copious amounts of booze.
Varg,
What’s up with the blog discussed at Dambala’s?
I have been in contact with Ray and he sent me over some documents. I am ready to set up the site, I just want to make sure it will have content. Everyone sounds enthusiastic about it. Just need action.