Nearly thirty years ago, my children helped sell balloons at a local Christmas parade. We dressed as clowns. One wore a pink wig. The same one, I think, who, later as a teen, dyed her hair pink. Another wore a red nose and a tall hat striped with bright colors. The windy air patted their cheeks to a rosy glow. You could almost smell the peanuts and taste the cotton candy.
We sold every balloon we had. Dollar signs shimmered in front of my eyes. It was easy. No, it didn’t have much prestige, but in clown costume, you didn’t anticipate respect. Besides the money was decent. And the help was free.
With the new year on the horizon, the famous Pasadena Rose Parade neared. I’d ordered silver Mylar balloons from a giant hobby store in Los Angeles. Not to be outsmarted, I ordered them without an imprinted year — simply Pasadena Rose Parade and a lone red rose.
The sun had begun to set on the last day of the year when I received a call that my order had arrived. Peeking in the box of my soon-to-be-fortune, I glanced at the balloon on top. There it was — a single rose on a background of shiny silver with green writing — PASADENA ROSE PAPADE. How could this be? Five hundred balloons saying ROSE PAPADE. I hadn’t known, until that moment, one idiot unable to spell the word parade.
“How could you do this to me?” I wailed.
“I’m sorry,” the owner apologized, cowering behind the desk.
What good was sorry going to do? It was the afternoon of December 31st.
I glanced overhead at colorful miniature airplanes. “Where’s your model paint?”
In his office, with the owner still cringing, we added the missing line on all the P’s to convert the word PAPADE to PARADE. The balloons filled the office floor from one end to the other. It looked like an SOS from Barnum & Bailey. At three dollars each, visions of eating regularly danced in my head — a possible thousand profit in one night.
In a friend’s garage near Colorado Boulevard, my supportive sister, my loyal, yet gullible brother, and I inflated balloons until the icy cold left no feeling in our fingers. When adequate numbers swelled with helium, three clowns went to market their wares.
It began to rain.
“If it weren’t for bad luck,” my dad’s laughter resonated in my head, “you’d have none at all.” The only wet Rose Parade in twenty-five years. Clouds hung like rows of gray flannel slacks in a closet. With sprinkles falling upon the silver Mylar material, the balloons appeared wrinkled and old.
“I want a balloon,” one small girl cried to her parents.
Wind and plump raindrops tossed balloons back and forth and up and down. Strings tangled. Kelly, an old Army jacket draped over his shoulders, tried to single out a lone balloon. When he couldn’t, he yanked the cord and broke it off. The more balloons we sold, the shorter the strings became. Until when one young customer held onto hers, the lone red rose floated directly in front of her face.
Hopes of selling the inflated inventory dimmed. The rain dampened spirits, and people concerned themselves more with keeping dry than boasting a souvenir balloon. Three drenched vendors returned for shelter to wait until dawn.
Kelly, flaunting clown pants and Holly’s girlie (he’d forgotten his) socks, reclined on a wrought iron bench. He folded his arms across his chest; Holly covered him with a tattered newspaper. Above, strings dangled from two hundred balloons long enough to tickle his nose.
“It’s light,” I said, squinting as morning sunrays filtered through dark clouds. “Grab some balloons.”
Sloshing through puddles to the boulevard, we caught a glimpse of silver across the darkened sky, my fortune floating away. Partiers next door had sneaked into the temporary balloon factory and sent fifty balloons to their inescapable demise.
With frozen fingers, we filled yet another batch. Tears moistened my wind-burned cheeks, and I sniffled as I clamped the Mylar material closed on my last inflated hope. I put on a clown nose, and paraded between the crowd. Tears streamed down my face. The balloons had trouble staying afloat, bobbing up and down buffeted by raindrops.
I veered between the crowds only once to glance at Jimmy Stewart, the Grand Marshall. Colorful blossoms could be seen from the pavement. Each step took me farther from my dreams. At the close of the day, I’d barely made enough to pay for the balloons. There was no extra. With seventeen dollars to my name, I would try another venture later, but definitely not balloons.
Related posts:
- I’m old enough to be thankful
- Tacky & sappy but merry wishes to you all
- Let me introduce you to my family
- Family vacation nightmare
- Long ago in the land of milk and cookies
Print This Post
Pingback: Twelve things I have done | So Humor Me