They warned me.
Years of parades had created a cesspool of bodily odor, unknown stains, and rich history. With little regard to what I had just agreed to do, it was my turn to become Petey, the Press-Telegram’s 12-year-old mascot.
I was thrilled to take part in the annual Belmont Shore Christmas Parade alongside my coworkers. I had pictured myself marching down 2nd Street wearing one of the letters that would spell out our publication’s name. I was always a letter kind of guy.
But the news had bigger plans for me.
In a passing of the torch ceremony, Rich Archbold handed me the larger-than-life newspaper mascot, complete with white gloves and comically large blue shoes. I spent the next day scrubbing the hell out of that costume but that smell was forever ingrained.
Suiting up at the parade, the large tube engulfing my body felt like being placed into a sensory deprivation tank. An almost supernatural force swept through me. I was no longer Hunter Lee, I was Petey the newspaper.
And the first rule of being Petey: no talking.
In the midst of the gleeful sounds of the thousands at the parade, the suit created a sensory disconnect from reality. Marching band members shouted Petey’s name, the LBSU men’s volleyball team began moshing around him. But Petey couldn’t speak and I could barely hear. Maybe it was the restricted field of view or the muffled sounds, but the noise and commotion of the crowd felt distant.
When the march began, panic set in. Who is Petey? What makes him so loved by the community? How do I emulate those who came before?
Children in the float ahead began chanting to see what this newspaper oaf was all about.
“Do the orange justice! Do the floss,” the children yelled from their float, referencing dance moves from the popular Fortnite game.
Given the inflexibility of the suit, I would’ve fallen trying to perform those moves. So I did the next best thing: I dabbed on them haters.
And they loved it.
People knew Petey by name and they proudly proclaimed they were Press-Telegram subscribers. Children braved running across the busy street just for a high-five or a hug.
Petey high-fived everyone who reached their hands out. Some were hesitant, most likely due to his dead-eyed stare, but the majority loved him. Except small dogs – they hated Petey with every tiny fiber of their beings.
As the parade line rounded the end of the block, the inside of Petey turned into a furnace. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, my vision blurred, my palms were sweating, and breathing became difficult. Asthma, a longtime friend, reared its ugly head into the already ill-fitting suit.
While dealing with my internal struggle under the suit, Petey was facing problems of his own.
Why did it get so hard to move? My ankles felt like they were being gripped and tugged in different directions. Was this a mob of children here to put Petey out of his misery?
Then it hit. Petey’s pants fell down.
My coworkers raced to his side and attempted to dress the now-streaking newspaper. They had saved Petey’s life and more importantly my dignity.
As we crossed the finish line, my adrenaline had exhausted and I had seconds to get this suit off before fainting.
Retracting my arms into the suit, I quickly lifted it off me and was met with a crisp December breeze. It was like breathing fresh air for the first time. This must have been what Neil Armstrong felt like returning to Earth.
After hours behind the mask, I finally understood who Petey is. An ever-evolving creature, he exists as a silent protagonist tasked with uniting the community through whatever means necessary.
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