It could’ve been a real bloodbath. It probably should’ve been.
“Marv! Mmm…‘nother round of Jack shots over here pleash – ‘n you should…you should do one too.” With two pudgy mitts, Lon Svoboda, distinguished Potentate of the El Kahir Shriners, gingerly removed the crimson fez perched atop his flushed forehead, set it down on the bar, smoothed the 7 remaining brownish red hairs on his scalp and gave a labored wink to the bartender. At 51, Lon had now drunk well over his age in ounces of beer.
Ted’s Happitime Lounge was a small and tidy tavern on First Avenue and Third Street in Cedar Rapids, just across the Cedar River from downtown. It was the type of place that dotted the working-class corners of the city – not too fussed over and not particularly inviting, just there to get the job done. Geographically speaking, Ted’s was something of an imbiber’s gem, approximately a one-cigarette walk from the white-collar offices populating downtown, but also within stumbling distance of the near-Southwest side’s blue-collar neighborhoods – home to the city’s most dynamic drinkers.
Ever the firm and mindful lieutenant in these situations, Gary Steinke, Chief Rabban to Lon, aimed to point him in the direction of sober reality, if only for a moment.
“Marv’s gotta run the place, dummy — I beg your pardon, Illustrious Sir.”
“Pffff Marv ain’t runnin’ shit – that Hamm’s sign’s been on the fritz longz I can remember.”
“You can’t remember where your dick is,” Ronny Melsha reminded Lon.
“Pfff. You’re a dick. I rememb…that’s what I ‘member.”
“You hear that Marv?” Ronny boastfully giggled, “I says to Lon, I says, ‘You can’t remember where your dick is’! Hey Lon, Potentate this!” Though ranked as mere Prophet in the El Kahir pecking order, Ronny was married to Lon’s sister Bev, so quite comfortable giving Lon the business with the best of them. Marv, entranced by a drag racing competition on the 13-inch Sylvania black and white mounted above the corner of the bar, continued working a hand towel over freshly rinsed mugs, eagerly awaiting the impending departure of these be-fezzed cacklers.
Cedar Rapids is split into quadrants – Southeast, Northeast, Southwest and Northwest – dictated on one axis by the north-south route of the city’s main thoroughfare, 1st Avenue, and on the other by the liver-tinted Cedar River, which slimes its way, inconveniently for clean mapping purposes and anyone trying to easily navigate the city, from Northwest to Southeast. Thus, each quadrant is a shapeless and convoluted tangle of half-assed grids featuring both numbered and alphabetized avenues and streets, encircled with and punctuated by winding drives, dashed-off lanes and sad courts. And we were all just trying to find our way.
Luckily for the eight or so men gathered at Ted’s Happitime this warm June Saturday morning, urban planning was not on the agenda. Today was a day of celebration for this group of beer-softened war vets and salty assembly linemen. Across the Cedar, as the early summer sun warmed the downtown pavement, restless young families and cranky older couples, festooned and sweating in bulging plaid slacks and muted polyblend shirts or the colorful tank-toppery of the day, began clotting the sidewalks of Second Avenue, eagerly awaiting the commencement of the city’s 47th Annual Shriner’s Parade.
The Shriner’s organization is known throughout the United States as a pretend-ancient order of heroic do-gooding gentleman, gathering in regularly scheduled meetings to help raise funds for local organizations in need – hospitals, orphanages, and the like. Virtuous as their official duties are, the Shriner’s are not allergic to a little fun. So today, the increasingly plastered men of Cedar Rapids’ El Kahir chapter of the Shriners, would be heroes in another way.
A few blocks north, in the sweaty, dimly lit bowels of the Veteran’s Memorial Building, Mom and Dad and I anxiously watched as the heat moistened teens of The Emerald Knights Drum and Bugle Corps ran through their final parade prep in the expansive lower-level Armory. The Veteran’s Memorial Building was also known as Cedar Rapids City Hall. A stately Beaux Arts-style concrete behemoth, the building was completed in 1927 and resides, along with the Linn County Courthouse, on Mays Island. Together the buildings create something of an administrative battleship, splitting the Cedar River in two between from 1st Avenue south to 3rd Avenue.
The Emerald Knights practiced in the massive two-story room – nightmarish acoustics notwithstanding – during the winter months and were usually able to use the Armory as a de facto HQ whenever the need arose. Today, it happened to be geographically convenient as the Shriner’s Parade was set to launch just outside the front doors of the building.
“There’s Derek!” I pointed for the benefit of my parents, somewhat thrilled to see him in full Knights regalia, standing among a gaggle of fidgety corps members, tonguing the mouthpiece of his baritone horn in an unpleasantly suggestive manner. “What’s he doing?” I grimaced.
Mom rolled her eyes, “Don’t look at it.”
“Dave,” Mom’s maiden name was David so Dad nicknamed her “Dave” long before any of us were a glint in their eyes. I never heard him address her as Delores once. “He’s just wetting his mouthpiece.”
“Like he used to wet the bed?” I giggled.
With this, Dad stared at me with steely disappointment just long enough for me to hang my head in temporary shame. “A moist mouthpiece is key.”
Anticipation was high as today’s event was the official opening of the Knights’ season. Though not a competition, the parade would be the first public presentation of the corps’ repertoire for the Summer of ‘76.
“One. Two. Three. Foh!” With that affected staccato command, drum major Matt Daugherty launched the Emerald Knights into their legendary program opener, Tito Puente’s “Oye Como Va,” a perennial fan favorite.
Over the span of Derek’s six or so years with the Emerald Knights, these early summer appearances were always the most titillating for me. As a younger sibling with not much (nothing) on his plate, my parents (also in search of evening action) would often take me to Knights practice. While they met with other parents and discussed fundraising activities, I dawdled listlessly through hours of tedious rehearsals here at the Armory on winter evenings, and, during the spring, on the vacant football field at Wilson Junior High School. So, come summer, I was always thrilled and secretly proud to finally witness the fruition of my hard-earned hours of drum corps practice watching: the tightly executed horn melodies, the exacting drum line underpinnings, the thoughtfully choregraphed pageantry of the color guard. It truly was a breathtaking achievement of mine.
After running through the two or three numbers selected for the parade, the Knights began slowly filing out of the Armory and up the stairs, where they’d line up in formation on the access road running along the west side of City Hall. This was our cue to beat a path to our usual parade viewing spot up on 2nd Avenue and 6th Street – not too early in the parade route, allowing the featured acts time and space to fine tune their performances prior to offering them up for our highly discerning palates.
“I got the red one. Fuckin’ number 51!” Lon raced out the back door of Ted’s to the awaiting sports car/go-karts arrayed in a semi-circle in the alley parking lot. As the founding members of El Kahir’s distinguished Motor Corps, Lon, Gary and Ronny, as well as the 5 other Shriners now pouring themselves out of Ted’s, were tasked with bringing that old Shriner’s magic to today’s parade.
“Shit you can take 51,” Gary giggled. “That one crapped out on ya last year. ‘Member?”
“Mm she’s still my baby,” Lon slurred, baby talking as he sloppily lowered himself into the cramped cockpit of his comically small convertible. His larger- than-life ass found the seat with a thud, nearly tipping over the entire affair in the process.
Sure, there would be other parade attractions. The Mounted Guides of Indian Creek Nature Center atop their beautiful Quarter Horses were always good for a few poop stories – a visual wonder for the kids. The Amana Colonies’ signature Bavarian Brass Band featured cantankerous, well-nourished men in Lederhosen. And the Czech Village Clowners were a perennial favorite in this era before clowns were officially deemed pedophilic horror tropes (and these clowns tossed un-inspected candy to eager children, for heaven’s sake).
Of course, there were the Emerald Knights with their youthful, albeit occasionally off-key, exuberance. The Shriner’s Parade was always considered a critical recruitment tool for the Corps – a captive audience of children who, like me, dreamt of one day marching in a parade, wearing colorful uniforms of questionable provenance, playing songs made popular by Santana.
But nothing brought the kids out like the El Kahir Motor Corps: grown men, red faced and funny-hatted, stuffed into go-kart sized Corvette replicas, driving (shit-faced as it turned out) in formation, zig-zagging and executing figure-8’s along the way. It was entertaining to imagine these men in a vacant parking lot somewhere – maybe out front of the recently shuttered Giant superstore on the far west side – arduously practicing their stunts, honing their craft as it were, in these ridiculous vehicles. You have to wonder if they practiced drunk in order to replicate the road conditions.
We were standing at our spot on 2nd and 6th, gathered in the noon sun with all manner of parade watchers. We’d already enjoyed the fine parading of several acts, among them the CRPD’s motorcycle unit and the Knitting Sisters of So Fro Fabrics – twelve middle-aged women arranged in a chevron, carrying knitting needles and waving to listless onlookers. Now, The Emerald Knights were smack dab in front of us. Sounding better than early-season form, they were just polishing off the final notes of “Oye Como Va,” segueing into an ill-conceived upbeat rendition of “The Way We Were.” That’s when we first heard the faint, high-pitched buzzsaw of what sounded like lawnmower motors.
The distant drone created a discordant bed of noise to the Knights’ already unfortunate take on Hamlisch. And as they marched past, we politely clapped, but our attention was already drawn southward toward the source of the racket: a circling swarm of balding drunk men careening toward us in tiny automobiles.
“Oh, Dad!” I laughed, “Here come the Shriners in their cars!”
“Oh! Ha. These guys,” Dad laughed. He was always as entertained by their big-guy-in-a-little-car routine as I was. Everyone was. “Wonder if Lon Svoboda is still in charge over there.”
Mom watched the fast-approaching buffoonery, shook her head and smiled, embarrassed yet entertained – a mother of five boys. “Someone’s going to lose a hat.”
The first sign of trouble was a sense that, as the Shriners circled one another on their way to us, the parade goers on either side seemed to be backing away from the curb. To be sure, their haphazard circles appeared to be widening, punctuated by an occasional swerve inward – a vain attempt to right the ship; to undrink that morning’s beers.
But the alarm bells went off when we realized that Lon and the gang were not just closing in on us, they were also rapidly gaining on the rear flanks of the much slower-moving Emerald Knights Drum and Bugle Corps.
“Yep! There’s Lon!” my dad pointed and laughed, completely unfazed by the impending catastrophe.
“Russ tell him to slow down — they’re getting out of control!
“They’re probably just dizzy from all the circles!
The Shriner’s Death Squad was upon us know, close enough for me to see Lon’s bloodshot eyes widen as he came around.
“Hang onto your hat Lon!” Dad cracked as Lon passed by within inches of the curb, his dark red fez askew, it’s gold tassle flying in the breeze. My dad’s comical warning jarred Lon out of his drunken tunnel vision, and as he jerked his puffy noggin around to see who the wiseacre was, he jerked the steering wheel along with it.
The first person Lon Svoboda struck with the front end of his miniature Corvette was 54-year-old Irene Webb. Common sense would hold that Irene tried to jump back and to the side to avoid being struck by Lon’s vehicle as it hit the curb and briefly achieved zero gravity. Common sense would also hold that you’d wear more sensible shoes to a parade than Irene had. Thus, as she torqued her full weight to the right in an ill-fated evasive measure, her shoe heel gave way and Lon’s bumper helped her the rest of the way to the ground.
As we watched the spectacle unfold in breathless disbelief, Lon continued accelerating, turning the steering wheel away, so when the tires of #51 once again met the earth, the vehicle immediately veered to the left and back into the street, where the rest of the Shriners had suddenly slowed to a cautious crawl behind the Emerald Knights. Luckily, Irene escaped with nothing but a skinned knee, torn panty hose and a broken heel. To her credit, she recovered like a champ.
“My gosh are all you all right there, ma’am?’ Dad rushed to help her up but her mind was elsewhere.
“Somebody fuckin’ stop that sumbitch!”
Although not necessarily exclusive to or a surefire sign of drunkenness, overcorrection is one of the key tenets of the condition. And that day it was riding shotgun with Lon Svoboda. So, as he shot back left, he struck the front right fender of Gary Steinke’s Corvette, sending the vehicle and a wide-eyed Gary spinning to the left towards the audience on the opposite side of 2ndAvenue. Luckily, Gary’s car missed the crowd altogether, instead ramming head-on into a US mailbox, causing catastrophic front-end damage, crushing Gary’s fez and no doubt denting his head.
Lon, meanwhile, was now on a different journey. Dancing with the one who brung him, as they say, Lon continued his quest for better and more severe renditions of overcorrection. Having just struck Gary after veering left – and rather than applying the brakes — he now veered hard right and straight towards the color guard section of the Emerald Knights. Oddly jocular strains of “The Way We Were” provided the soundtrack to an impending go-kart/flag carrier pileup.
Just in time, Lon regained his wits, hit the brakes and turned hard left. The vehicle skidded sideways right and jerked to halt, ejected Lon from the cockpit and into the while blue yonder. For a man his size, it seemed to me Lon was aloft for a wildly inordinate amount of time – say, 25 or 30 seconds. Green and white striped flags, a familiar signature of the Emerald Knights Drum and Bugle Corps, rocketed skyward as all 245 pounds of Lon barrel-rolled through the back two lines of flag girls. Limbs flailed, skirts flew up, at one point a fez appeared to float in midair and the sound of bloodcurdling screams ended the Knights’ song none too soon.
Stunned silence does not a wonderful parade make. Finally, slowly, the sounds of an aftermath arrived: a few random groans; a bit of soft, post-traumatic sobbing; the muffled swearwords of a drunk Shriner with a broken clavicle. Parade watchers and, as I remember it, a few nearby clowns, descended on the victims in an effort to comfort, clean up and, hopefully, get on with the parade. There wasn’t much else to do that day.
Fortunately, aside from Lon’s collarbone, there weren’t any serious injuries. Pam Jemmings sprained her wrist, Mo Utley had a bruised knee and some small facial abrasions, and Cindy Bammert ended up with a chipped tooth. The girls gamely got back up, regained their composure and the Knights marched on.
After the other Shriners and a clown or two uprighted Lon’s tipped-over car and picked up tipped-over Lon, they moved all wreckage to the curb. The surviving Shriners continued on up 2nd Avenue in their vehicles, slowly, cautiously and in a straight line.
I wish I could tell you that the Shriner Police arrived soon after in miniature Black and Whites, and hauled Lon off to a tiny fez-shaped jail. In fact, let’s say they did.
City of Five Smells 