Little Casino

4th of July

THEY REMEMBERED, FOR YEARS, THE BAR becue they went to in East Orange, in somebody’s car. It was a lovely 4th of July, cool and sunny and dry, with a steady, fresh breeze off the Atlantic. In any event, that’s where death began or, perhaps, asserted itself. When questioned about it a few months later, everyone agreed, separately, that it began to become clear somewhere toward late afternoon, just before they got back in the car to return to the city. It wasn’t the day itself, certainly. The day was relaxed and cheerful, there were people everywhere, music and dancing, and no one got terribly drunk. A lot of people brought their children, as a matter of fact. It seemed to be the sort of 4th of July that is proffered as the American small-town norm, celebrant with bands and parades and picnics on the town mall or under the trees next to the Grange Hall. And yet there is no denying the fact that something happened, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, kegs of beer, and the Stars and Stripes notwithstanding. Not even “The Washington Post March” could have overwhelmed it. There is a photograph to prove it.

Darkness and oblivion are often recognized by means of the small, tentative steps taken toward the “realm of silence,” and at the most unlikely times in the most unlikely places.

The driver of the car reportedly cried out, spitting out partly chewed kernels of sweet (butter-and-cream) corn, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” This should count as a rumor. Many years later, on his deathbed, he said, “Five minutes more?” as if his nurse could grant this request.

A regiment, its battalions under their snapping flags and guidons, wheeling, company by company, at the far end of a parade grounds so as to pass in review, often marches to John Philip Sousa, the “semper fidelis maniac,” as Edward Dorn calls him in one of the great poems of the century. Such a regiment on parade is something to see.

Incidentally, “Five minutes more?” is, essentially, what Dr. Faustus cried out when his time came.

John Philip Sousa knew all of Hamlet and Dr. Faustus by heart. Or so the driver of the car said.