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breathing chemical fumes in an enclosed space while jogging a two mile parade route was rather high on my list of things-not-to-do.
I pulled as much of the sticky material out of the eyes and nose as I could but it was a difficult task. In another attempt at idiotic realism the insidious seamstress had only given the costume four fingers. The baseball cap and T-shirt were, apparently, perfectly acceptable. But heaven forbid a hippo should have a full set of digits.
I was finally gaining ground on the car. Everyone aboard was smiling and waving at the crowd from their comfortable seats as a breeze ruffled their hair. I was beginning to hate my coworkers..
At that moment I saw the mascot for a local sports team standing on the sidewalk. He spotted me at the same time and our eyes (or rather the eyes of our costumes) locked. We pointed at each other as we passed warily like two territorial dogs circling a favorite hydrant. Then the increasing distance broke our tenuous connection and my head cleared. What was that all about? I asked myself.
When I looked up I saw that the car had slowed a bit. I thought perhaps they were taking pity on me but that turned out not to be the case. As got closer I saw that they were pointing at something on the side of the road.
"Go in, go in," they were crying.
When I looked I saw that they were pointing at "gentleman's club" called Zeigfields. Surely they were joking, I thought.
"Go in, go in," the cries continued.
"The last hippo did it," someone added.
So, guided by mounting peer pressure and the natural human tendency to behave out of character while wearing a mask, I shuffled across the street toward the sign that promised 'Live, Nude Girls'.
I half expected to be stopped at the door but I found someone in the crowd had opened it wide for me and the brick-wall-that-walked-like-a-man, whom I assumed to be the bouncer, gestured me in. The dim lights inside, along with my obscured vision made it impossible to see.
"I can't see," I announced.
"Don't worry, baby, I'll help you," I heard a soft voice say. "You want a drink?"
"That would be great," I said.
"Do we check his ID?" I heard someone ask.
"He's a hippo. He doesn't have any ID," came the response.
"Just water," I croaked, hoping to squelch the debate over identification before things got any more surreal.
I felt, but couldn't see, that I was surrounded by several people whose gently pushing hands guided me across the room. The only thing I could make out clearly was the stage ahead where a spotlight shone upon a dancing woman.
Someone said, "I want to wear the head," and then suddenly I felt it being lifted from my shoulders. The air conditioning struck me in the face like a bracing splash of cool water. My vision cleared and I took in my surroundings. Without the mask to distance me from my surroundings things seemed more real. I found that I had been transported to the world of late-night Cinemax movies; the kind with words like obsession, tender and bikini in their titles.
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