The band was set in place and everyone was grouped according to their instruments. My conductor, Mr. Truman, was screaming at us to align in formation like we were a bunch of fresh faced eighteen year-olds experiencing day one of boot camp. I slothfully fell into line, dragging my feet beneath the sweltering heat of an unusually ferocious Memorial Day. The sun was beating down and my white polo shirt was drenched with sweat. The boys had on khaki pants and the girls wore skirts. My friends and I envied the girls because their partially bare legs had exactly one extra foot of breathing room. The fact that Mr. Truman made the boys wear long pants instead of shorts was the single largest disappointment of the day.

     I played the bass clarinet in the band and it was a fairly new instrument that I was still getting the grasp of. My original instrument was the standard clarinet but the notes in the upper registers became increasingly difficult for me to master and I eventually switched to the bass to cover up my squeaky and erratic explosions. The bass was a much better fit for my work ethic and personality, it was so low that barely anyone could hear me and I could pretty much get away with playing when I pleased. This usually meant not playing the difficult eight note runs in varying registers and settling for half notes and full notes that my brain, fingers, and oral muscles could all agree upon.

     It so happens that Memorial day was an entirely different ball game all together, Mr. Truman actually expected us to memorize all of the marching music. Naturally, I shoed away from this proposition and deemed myself the "master pretender".

     To my left and right stood other students that had the similar glaze of disinterest smeared all about their faces. I stood there, idle waiting for Mr. Truman's next command and began to grossly analyze my fellow classmates. Directly in front of me stood Veruca Goneril, she played the flute. Veruca was disgustingly spoiled and it had become clear to everyone that she had left her morals in the womb. She demanded a car for her sixteenth birthday and of course she got it. It was a yellow Jeep Wrangler, the kind the Army uses in the deserts, but last time I checked Veruca wasn't in the Army and this wasn't the Middle East. I knew the Jeep was nothing more than the ultimate symbol of her family's wealth and prosperity and I yearn for the day I could strike one of her tires with a sharp blade.

     She had on an unusually high skirt on for the occasion and wore huge silver earrings that had to cost well over one-hundred dollars. I reasoned to myself that the workers who mined the silver probably earned Veruca's daily spending money per week. She appalled me in every sense of the word and my negative feelings toward her boiled past reasonable limits when she began twirling her gum around her pristinely polished finger nails. I grabbed at my inner demons with all my might and finally restrained myself from insulting her. I ground my teeth and stopped looking in her direction and focused my attention to the right for further inspection.

     On my right hand side stood Hunter Falstaff. Hunter was an acquaintance of mine and I sometimes drank beer with him on the weekends though it was rumored he drank nearly everyday. Hunter played the trumpet and he was decent but nothing to write home about. His sole premise for being in the band was to coerce a blonde French horn player into a wild sexual escapade, and what better time to court a girl then during an unruly eight period band class where conversations were more prominent than music?

     He was mischievous in his youth and had moved from the inner city in the fourth grade. His Bronx accent never really left his side and his oral skills far surpassed the voice of his trumpet. He was a master thief and con artist with an unquenchable thirst for life. Back in the fifth grade everyone wanted the newest basketball sneaker crafted by the company "British Knights." These shoes would supposedly make you jump higher, run faster and of course be the object of everyone's affection. These shoes cost seventy-five dollars and no parent in their right mind would think of purchasing them. I can recall shortly after the shoes hit the market Hunter jazzed into school with a spanking new pair. Not too soon after this it was reported that seventy-five dollars had been stolen from the school store and an investigation would be underway. Hunter was never caught even though he was the prime suspect; he danced and pranced around the principal's questions never leaving himself open for self incrimination. He wore his sneakers proud and kept them sparkling clean and I always knew he did this to spite the school administration. It was blatantly obvious he had stolen the money and I couldn't get over his savvy attitude but the thing I was even more in shock of was his lack of a guilty conscious. He didn't so much blink in an eye once during the whole ordeal. In his opinion there was absolutely nothing wrong with what he did.

     Needless to say this type of behavior followed him well into adolescence and at this point he was a well known local hood. He dabbled in everything from selling dope too stealing car stereos. Hunter always seemed to be moving at a pace that the rest of the world could not keep up with. His life depended on a gluttonous search for action and adventure. The consequences for his outlandish schemes and plots never really crossed his mind. He was truly a man who lacked a single moral bone in his body and he had the mindset of a master criminal. I couldn't fathom how he could live in such a disorderly manner and never worry about anything.

     I finally came to the conclusion that Hunter seemed to believe that he should under no circumstances be denied anything in life and this included women, mansions, and steak dinners. He saw everything in life as a trophy waiting to be won and would take shortcuts to come out on top because life would never extend long enough for a person like him. He needn't worry about moral dilemmas or internal quagmires because they would only deter his rampant path towards the pinnacle of life.

     It was at this point during my sickly introspective dip into Hunter Falstaff that I realized that Mr. Truman was instructing the drummers to start counting off the beat. Everyone was ready to march down Front Street and I was ready to start faking it all.

     The band started out with the Marine's hymn, and I followed Mr. Truman's command marching left, left, left, right, left. I don't mean to brag but I was a sickeningly good marcher. My timing was down pat and I had even mastered the art of turning quite well. Whether this attributed to the fact that I didn't play a single note throughout the whole parade is open for debate. Anyways, the band kept marching down Front Street and proud citizens of the town stared onward with their smiles glowing. Everyone was wearing their finest clothes and glaring on with an eerie look of patriotism. I was becoming bored with faking my instrumental part so I peered into the audience further and decided to closely analyze some of the spectators. I saw a man dressed in old fashioned military garb with a breast full of ribbons and stars that seemed to glisten in the sunlight. He looked to be around 78 due to his wrinkled face and peppered hair. I came to the assumption that he must have been a soldier in WW II.

     Left, left, left, right, left but this time we were marching in place. The band had come to a halt and we were waiting for Mr. Truman's orders to march onward. "Ahhhh, perfect," I think to myself, "I can take this sweaty saliva infested mouthpiece away from my face." As I lay my instrument to the side across my body resting it on my hip I continue to stare at the old man and question his steadfast patriotism. I knew from past history lessons from my teacher Mr. Roosevelt that WW II was well supported socially, politically and economically.

     Left, left, left, right, left… must keep marching in place, don't be a fool and mess this up, you aren't even playing the notes, marching is all you have to worry about. Your sheer skill in marching shows the crowds you are an integral part of the band, it is your last line of defense from being unmasked as a fraud.

     Alright, where was I, WW II? Yes, of course back to it. The state of the nation during those times heavily favored the war and this fact is a great contrast to the Vietnam era and also the present Iraqi era. I remember going to the Baseball Hall of Fame and seeing that Joe Dimaggio and other fellow American athletes proudly went away to fight for their country while Mohamed Ali refused to go fight in Vietnam. There was little animosity and protest towards WWII while Vietnam then and Iraq now reek of it.

     Left, left, left, right left. God, why are we still marching in place, has a bag pipe player from the Irish club passed out in this climate unfit for a man of pale skin? This heat is unbearable; my eyes are starting to sting as salty sweat beads down my forehead. This stupid neck strap is killing me; I guarantee I have a huge red sore on the back of my neck even with my hair line once the day is done. Water, yes I need water, quench me please hurry up, TRUMAN! The real Truman didn't hesitate like this during WW II! MOVE THE TROOPS GOD DAMMIT!

     "Relax," I say to myself. "You won't have to waste more oxygen than the rest of your fellow compatriots so be happy you haven't been caught as a fake yet." Hmmmmm, what was I just saying? Truman, bombs, war, DiMaggio, Ali AH YES the differences between the social currents during Vietnam and WW II. My train of thought is once again interrupted and I can faintly hear the pepper haired WW II veteran singing a song. His voice is not terrible and I can faintly make out the melody. I can't believe it; he is singing the words to the "Old Marines Hymn" accapela. I vaguely remember him singing these exact words as I peered on.

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea.
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title of
United States Marine.

     The old man is now mumbling the rest of the song and I can't quite make it out. I forgive him for he is an elder soldier and his contribution to the parade has been more than enough at least from my analytical neutral perspective.

     Finally! We begin to march again and I make eye contact with the old soldier as we depart away and the horns are blasting drums banging and I just keep on faking. The old man has a tear in his eye and I can almost feel his pain as he salutes the American flag being hoisted in front of Mr. Truman. I will never understand his undying patriotism for he has lived in a land that is truly the past and cultural revolutions have changed the course of American life forever. I feel sad for him.

     The band is coming into the home stretch of the parade and the "Marine's Hymn" isn't sounding as smooth as it did in the beginning. Everyone is off key as a result of the heat. I can only imagine how all my fellow students have remained intact while blowing their lungs out for over 15 minutes. The music turns to slop toward the final turn and I think to myself that it is very representative of American military support throughout history. The strength of the military mite reached its pinnacle during WW II. In terms of the pinnacle I mean a militaristic state that is fully charged for war and undyingly supported by the citizens. The words that the old man mumbled in the "Marine's Hymn" have been long outdated since Vietnam. The elder man came from an era that spoke of honor and the power of the US Military. Since then, well, why waste my words when Bob Dylan explained it best when he coined the tune "Times They are a Changin." A verse from that song rang into my head and it went a little something like this:

Come, mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

     As the band approached the final steps of our Memorial Day march I look back at my first two victims of analysis. I see Veruca Goneril and with her lipstick smeared all over her flute and it is quite a revolting scene. I bet she even has pit stains underneath her shirt and wouldn't that be grand If I could uncover that to the entire town. I still can't stand Veruca and I wonder what the elder soldier would think of her. Would he accept her "me first," demeanor? This man sacrificed everything he had for freedom in America, there's NO WAY on earth he would tolerate Veruca's lifestyle. Veruca lives inside of a bubble and will the rest of her entire life. War is something she will never be able to comprehend; she is the new breed of American who never had to suffer. Whether I or anybody else likes it or not there are a million Veruca Goneril's out there because time has changed and now we as American's are forced to accept her. In Veruca's case I yearn for old fashion values of the elder soldier when pride and unity meant something, Veruca would not survive in that climate. She would wither under the weight of a unified mass of six billion Americans strong working toward one common goal, not caring one ounce about her personal agenda. She would surely be a recluse and I would be a happy man.

     Prhhhhhhhhhh, paaaaa, paaaaaaaaaaaa, paaaaaaaaaa, peeeee, peeeeeeeee, yes that awful cacophony of sound must be good ole' Hunter Fallstaff. Blowing away on his trumpet, incredibly off key if I might say so myself. His eyes are not looking straight forward toward Mr. Truman, he must have ulterior motives. I follow his perverse gaze and as I thought it lands directly on the French horn players behind as it sways back and forth down the road. Hunter really never sways from his motives and this is further supports it. He is a disgusting narcissistic character in his own right but he is only a by-product of the changing world he has been raised in. I once again think, what would the elder solider think of this boy who is Hunter Fallstaff? I don't have to think long to realize that he would deem him slime and unfit for society, in other words incorrigible. Hunter is the Bob Dylan song "Times are a Changin'". He's a reckless son of a bitch that will most likely end up dead or in jail before the age of twenty-six. Hunter took the term individual to a new level and if he lived in past times his obscurity and bizarre behavior would label him an even bigger outcast than he is now.

     The parade was now ending and the band had stopped playing except for the drums. I had succeeded in my mission being the master pretender and made my way towards my car. The car was hot and it hurt to touch the searing steering wheel. As I started my car and felt the pistons run I suddenly felt a wave of panic rush over my body and felt trapped inside my conscious. The analyzing had now become personal and it was my turn to be under the microscope. Who was I to judge these people? Who was I to make vast generalizations? At least Veruca Goneril, Hunter Falstaff, and the elder soldier had been living their own lives. I was just the master pretender, looking at others and criticizing them, while I was the most cowardly one of all. I kept feelings bottled up afraid of disapproval instead creating grand schemes inside my head that the world would never hear. I was the perfect example of everything that was wrong with society at the time, if there were a billion clones of myself nothing would ever get done, nothing would ever get solved, it would be a land of lies, myths and far fetched plans. I had not just faked playing the parade I had faked life. I could not associate with anything because I wasn't anything. I wept as a I sped home wallowing in my own self realizations. At last everyone can truly see the lowest form of degradation a human has ever reached-—the master pretender.