white girl’s skin on a cold day

        Now “Little Giant” ended and they would switch to “Our Director”.  After the last cymbal crash from the half-frozen arms of his friend Jared ten rows back, he and the other trombonists counted three beats and then dropped their instruments down to waist level in “ready” position.  The next tune after that was “Washington Post” and then “Manhattan Beach”.  This was part of their regular rotation, the traditional marches then “Hold That Tiger”, during which the band could finally do a little swinging around to get their blood moving again.

        Anything was better than straight marching on a frigid day like this.  His feet were getting numb, and the tips of his gloved fingers.  The wind was now blowing into their faces as they began marching downhill with the road.  He could feel his nose sniffle and hoped snot didn’t run down where he couldn’t wipe it.  Unnecessary motions were much discouraged, they ruined the formation.  He thought of their band director, Mr. Weaver -- they called him “Sarge” because he used to direct an Army band -- who was marching to the side twenty feet back.  He glanced furtively down at his white fake-leather gloves.  Would snot show on them?

        The drum guard, way behind him, did their vamping and he looked straight forward as he was supposed to.  He could see the city ahead, and the stadium in front of it, looking like it was ten miles away.  It wasn’t that far, but this was a long parade -- first going down to the park, then a short break, then the final leg down Broadway, in front of the reviewing stand, then finally into the stadium.

        The sound off, and now into “Our Director”.  D-flat was not his favorite key but this was an easy tune, not too many notes.  The band didn’t make as many flubs on this one.  Now he looked a little to the right, to their regular majorette, a white girl named Brigid, prancing and twirling her baton all alone at the head of the parade, and contemplated her very interesting skin.

        ..................

        He had noticed it in the photos in the glass case.  As the uniforms for the rest of the band got more abundant and ornate over the years, with the addition of high boots, cummerbunds, epaulettes, the majorette’s uniform got more and more skimpy.  The 1940’s majorettes wore mid-length skirts which showed some leg, but otherwise their uniforms were much like the rest of their band’s.  And then over the years the big “shako” hat got smaller, the jacket shrank to a vest, then disappeared, the blouse and skirt shrank to leotards, then in the 1980’s the midriff appeared, the boots shrank to sneakers . . .

        He liked looking at Brigid’s beautiful skin, very white with freckles over the shoulders, a product of her Irish heritage.  It was certainly well on display.  Her uniform began with a little pillbox-style cap, a shrunken version of the shakos the rest of her band wore, black and white, the school colors, with a “T” on the front.  It was pinned to her red, braided-up hair.  Her nipples were covered by circles of white fake-leather (called “circlets”) maybe three inches across, little rounded cones, with again each with a black “T” on them.  He wondered how the circlets were attached so they didn’t fall off as she went through her vigorous paces.  That was something the girls in the locker room would know, though for obvious reasons, Brigid had emerged from there this morning well before the others.

        Further down, her closely-shaved pubic area was covered with a little white V-shaped triangle, certainly the smallest bikini bottom he had ever seen, held on securely by sparkly silver strings that went low around her waist, meeting in the rear at the crack of her butt where they formed a delicate “T” with the band that went down and disappeared between the cheeks.  Add a pair of low-heeled, dressy flip-flop style sandals, held on with just the thinnest silvery straps, and that was Brigid the majorette’s uniform.

        He was fascinated by white girls’ skin, how it changed color, getting a tan in the summer, blushing, turning whiter when they were afraid, red when they were mad, red and blotchy in the cold.  White folks’ skin was pretty funny in general.  During the competition in Atlanta, watching the other bands, he and his buddies almost lost it during another band’s audition, an all-white band from Kansas or someplace.  Five trumpeters did consecutive solos and the face of each started out white and turned red, one after the other.

        Brigid was beautiful, though.  Nothing ridiculous about her or her skin.  He didn’t really know her.  Her regular instrument was clarinet, and the clarinets were across the band from the trombones.  She always sat between her friends Debra and Virginia, black girls who were pretty O.K.  And her skin, especially today, was interesting, fascinating really, like a canvas of a painting created by God called, “On a Freezing Cold Day”.  Her shoulders were reddish, her arms blotchy, her bare back a little lighter, her legs and feet a little purplish, her toes a little more so.  Her sacral dimples, a few inches above the T-string, were lighter than the blushing butt cheeks below.

        It was kind of callous of him to think of her this way, of course.  She must be suffering on a day like this but she didn’t show it.  She was a real trouper.  They had never marched on a day this cold.  Feeling his cold hands and chilly arms in their gloves and two layers of sleeves, he thought of how her bare hands and arms must feel tossing and twirling that baton.  Feeling his whole body trying to get some blood moving under his full-length wool uniform and long underwear, he felt sorry for her bare torso, the breasts tightly bouncing in the freezing air behind the -- were they glued on? -- little circlets.  His butt was freezing -- but how much more freezing Brigid’s must be, entirely naked to the winter wind except for the ridiculous tiny string.  And his feet were almost numb in their heavy socks and boots.  Meanwhile the frigid wind whistled between poor Brigid’s bare toes!

        But like always, she kept a smile frozen on her face, alternately twirling and the jabbing the baton in the air to keep the beat, then when the band was marching in place, tucking the baton under her arm, stepping in place.  He wondered how she kept those backless sandals on her feet while whirling around.  It must be hard to grip with toes going numb.  Only once did she falter, one heel slipping a bit on black ice, but she recovered right away and hardly lost a step.