Today’s Short Story

 

What a long, strange trip it’s been

 

        I stand here, arms well muscled after countless days in the gym. I assume the position, as it has come to be known, in the small circle that is event security. Feet apart, shoulders squared, arms folded at the chest with a menacing scowl on my face. The position is meant to intimidate anyone who gets too near the stage, to make them think twice about trying to get to the performer. They have to know that there is the possibility of getting roughed up by a three hundred pound plus bouncer, someone who, in all likelihood, does not know the meaning of the word civil.

I wear dark sunglasses and am dressed in a black, fitted t-shirt and black jeans. My hair cropped short, my head swivels slowly from side to side to scan the crowd for potential trouble. Legendary promoter Bill Graham, who first hired me as stage security in 1974 told me at that time that there were only three things I needed to do: Keep my eyes open; keep my mouth shut and don’t get distracted by pussy. He added the qualifier, “…and do whatever I tell you without questions.”

I learned this simple formula in my years with the Graham organization and the other tours I have worked over the last thirty years. The only difference now, is that the stage and the audience are smaller. I am working security for the annual Children’s Fair and the performers are Scooby Doo and Friends, a cast of young dancers in costume dressed as Hanna-Barberra characters including Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble.

The dancers don their costumes in a dressing room on the other side of the hall. Each dancer wears a chest harness on to which is attached their character’s massive head before stepping into a body suit. The dancers are tiny, none over five-five and must dress in full costume in private so as not to traumatize any of the children who might catch a glimpse of a decapitated Scrappy Doo holding his own head tucked under his arm. This is a written contractual arrangement with additional stipulations that the dancers will only perform the authorized dance steps for the show and that contractor will not use the costumes for purposes other than the authorized stage show. They don’t want pictures of Wilma Flintstone doing a hootchie dance or Huckleberry Hound and Betty Rubble doing it doggie style turning up on the Internet.

The costumes are hot and stuffy to work in. Although the show is only twenty minutes long, it is a high-energy program and these petite dancers are performing with an additional sixty pounds weighing them down.  Despite frequent cleaning, the costumes smell of weeks of sweat and BO. This, I’m sure is not the glamorous life each dancer had in mind during the long hours of paus deux. It is imperative that the dancers get back to the dressing room before they pass out from heat exhaustion.

The audience is a throng of screeching children all under the age of 10. They have been at the Children’s Fair for the entire morning and are worked up into a sugared frenzy that only the free Ritalin samples from booth 10 can cure. As we make our way to the stage, each child wants a piece of Scooby and his annoying nephew Scrappy. (Children relate better to Scrappy, with good reason.) They paw, pun intended, at Scrappy’s paw as he high fives his way through the throng. The eyes of the parents sparkle with childlike glee as the cartoon characters of their youth fall meekly in step behind Scooby and Scrappy. A top heavy Yogi Bear and Huckleberry hound are nearly toppled by a few back slaps from over enthusiastic parents. I can see this is going to be a problem.

The show gets under way with the dancers in position and the soundtrack blasting “Rurro Reveryrody!” in Scooby’s voice. A squeal goes up from the gallery and the dancers, led by Scrappy, take over. The dancers move flawlessly in their costumes to the beat of old rock and roll tunes. Despite a few clumsy jete’s, nearly impossible with giant cartoon feet, the performance is going well. The crowd has become less of a concern for me than the logistics of getting the performers back to the dressing room. I will have to traverse this grand hall the length of half a football field with my charges in tow, trying to get them back to the dressing room before they pass out from heat exhaustion. Every second will count.

The easiest way seems to be by going around the crowd. I call one of the red shirted volunteers over to ask if she can gather a few more people to help me form a human chain off stage left where the actors will exit. She looks at me a bit puzzled. “I’m sure the kids will want to meet with Scooby.” No, I tell her. Scooby won’t be signing any autographs or taking pictures. He’ll need to get back to his dressing room A-SAP.

“But…”

“No buts. Now go and find some more red shirts.” With that I go back to planning our escape route. I feel energized, like I did after the destruction of a luxury hotel suite by John Bonham. My job then was to stand between Bill Graham and the hotel management, local police and press until he could get the suitcase full of money open. (A suitcase full of money solves almost any problem.) It was an incredible rush to be in the midst of all that power and money and authority with the fate of Bonham and the tour hinging on my actions or re-actions.

I’m amped as I run contingencies through my head. What if the kids break through the line of volunteers? How should I handle an irate parent? What if the elevators are delayed? The solution to each question seems to be the same as it has always been in these situations, keep moving.

I look to my left and see the dancers starting to tire. We're nearing the end of the program and I wait to hear the out cue over the sound system. The volunteer returns with a half dozen other semi-confused volunteers. "This is all I could get. Everybody else is manning a booth or watching the door for pedophiles."

"Not good," I mutter. I'll have to change my plan of action. "Here's what we need to do" I begin to explain. Most of the red shirts at my disposal are only a few years older than the kids in the audience and are transfixed by the stage show as well. They are clearly not taking the threat seriously. I Press on.

"We need to form a ring around the characters and keep the kids and parents at arm's length. I will lead the troupe and move the kids out of the way." The volunteers are only half listening and the kids are now at critical mass. From the speakers I hear "Scooby Rooby Roo!" We're on. The dancers take their bows and head stage left. The volunteers help them find and negotiate the stairs. We begin to move toward the back of the hall.

As the characters leave the stage, the kidsstart to close in. One thing I hadn't counted on is a seven-year-old child's lack of fear. Back in the day, when I had to confront an over sealous fan or a jilted "girlfriend", all that was usually necessary was a stern glance that said, "I'll kick your ass right now!" Even a stoned junkie understood that message. Kids, however, are a differnet animal. As we begin our march around the periphery of the hall, the kids flood by me. I hold my arms out like a turnstile, attempting to slow the rush. The parents stand back and let the kids race toward us, some encouraging the more shy children to get in and mix it up. The volunteers are no help at all, reveling themselves in the celebration. We sally forth.

Scooby taps me on the shoulder and I lean in toward the massive head with the psychotic grin. “I’m getting dizzy.” I hear him say. As I look over my shoulder, it is apparent that the rest of the characters are somewhat disoriented. I begin to try and gently move children out of my way, but they are fluid, swirling gently off of my arms and moving beyond me to their costumed heroes behind me. We are halfway to the elevators and the crowd shuffles alongside and behind us, hoping for more. The dancers are valiant in their attempt to satisfy every child. The barrier between children, parents and the volunteers has completely broken down with the red shirts beginning to fade into the sea of children like shipwreck survivors in their life jackets.

I raise my voice a little. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Ooops, sorry little guy.” The kids pay no attention. We’re making progress, although slowly, leading the pack with kids grabbing onto Scooby and Scrappy’s tails trying to get their attention. Some parents shout “Slow down” and “Wait”, hoisting their little ones onto their shoulders. Almost there.

When we reach the elevator, the doors pop open as if on cue and the characters squeeze themselves into this box designed not for them but for normal sized humans. I stand at the door and announce “Thank you! They’ll be another show at two-thirty.” There is a collective groan once the doors close. I rush up the stairs like a fugitive and meet the elevator just as the characters start to dislodge themselves from the elevator. Some volunteers that have been taking a break in the dressing room help the dancers through the door. Despite the fact that the expressions on the costumes remain fixed, the body language of each character screams exhaustion.

Once safely in the dressing room, the heads are removed from each of the costumes. Steam pours from each cavity as the sweat soaked and weary dancers collapse onto the costume trunks. They step out of their body suits and release their harnesses, letting them drop to the ground. Towels and bottled water are handed to each dancer.

“Jesus, I thought I was going to die!” say the girl who was Scrappy Doo. She chugs her water and in seconds, her towel is soaked. “I have to get out of these dance skins.”

“I was suffocating” another chimes in. “I never knew what that felt like. It’s horrible.” There’s a knock at the door. I crack it open just a little to make sure it’s not a tiny fan hoping to get an autograph. It’s the promoter. “Some of the parents said you were shoving their kids around?”

“Not a chance”, I say. I might have moved a few kids out of the way, but I didn’t shove anybody.”

“Well, I’m getting complaints.” I don’t know what to tell him. I explain the situation. That the dancers have to perform in an airless environment carrying another person on their back. That they have to get back to the dressing room before they go unconscious. That the stage is too far away from the dressing room. But like all of the promoters I have ever worked for, he’s just worried about having to give some of the money back. I listen as he gives me a stern warning. He can’t scare me. I worked for Bill Graham.

The process is repeated twice, each time with a little more success. When the day is over, the dancers get their hard earned money, the kids and the promoter are happy and the costumes go back into the trunks ready for the trip to another carnival, state fair or community event.

If I had to compare, I’d have to say that this show was no less arduous than any other I’ve done. I have had to throw drunks off the stage and pull an artists head out of the toilet and get him cleaned up and on stage. I have had to lie to wives and girlfriends and boyfriends about the whereabouts of the band member. I have had to take the blame for drugs and women and crimes that didn’t belong to me. But nothing has been as surreal as making sure that when I pulled the head off of Scooby Doo or Snaglepuss that the person inside the costume was still alive. I think my event security days are done.

By the way, if you happen to find some pictures on the Internet of Yogi bear inappropriately touching Boo Boo, I had nothing to do with it.

 

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