NATE CORRIGAN

Dallas Yancey lined his own go-kart up with the Shriners at 8:15, got run out, and ran over Toad. Phil the dentist clipped a stroller and got pulled out by the fez. At 9:30, with the Shriners regrouping behind the Rexall, Phil's commotion drew one Shriner away from a running kart.

Nate Corrigan got in. Thirty-one, not a Shriner, sunglasses hanging from his shirt's V. Serious face. Nate generally doesn't do things. By God, he was fixin' to do one.

He drove one block in the parade behind the band. Shriner speed: eight miles an hour. Looks like nothing from the curb; down there by the pavement, I reckon it felt like hauling ass. No waving, no figure-eights. Straight behind the tubas, hands at ten and two, sunglasses swinging. Most responsible damn theft of a ride you've ever seen.

At Church Street he pulled over, climbed out, and stood beside it. Toad, still shaky, looked him over.

“You're not a Shriner.”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“I've always wanted to.”

Well, hell. Toad understood. Everybody does. A little kart, a block of music, a thing you finally got to do. He booked Nate anyway.

Nate's serious in the Polaroid, sunglasses still there. He'll never do anything like that again and doesn't need to. The Shriner got his kart back. Said it was “warm.”