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Swingin'
in the Dark: Gigs From Hell
(sequel
to "Swinging for Cash")
Copyright
1999-2003, Bob e Thomas. No reprinting without permission.
USA: 1 617 733-9298 (Boston)
GERMANY: 49 5241 207 1777 (near Bielefeld, NRW)
email bob -@- bobethomas.com
People
are always saying, "It must be so much fun to get paid for
performing. You're obviously having so much fun!" Well, it
often is fun, much the same way as being good at any job is fun.
But
frankly, when we sit around a table with other performers, the
gigs everyone wants to talk about aren't the gigs from heaven,
but the gigs from hell. Most gigs are like any job, an ever-varying
mixture of satisfaction, pleasure, insight and frustration. But
every now and then there's a gig that will never quite fade from
memory for the sheer depth and breadth of its awfulness. Here
follows a few of our personal favorites.
Please
remember, that we've done several hundred gigs in the past few
years and that these "Gigs From Hell", thank goodness,
were isolated--but very memorable-- experiences. Or else we'd
be doing something else besides dancing by now.
How
it Usually Starts
Usually
we get a gig by answering the phone and talking to someone we've
never met. And sometimes will never meet. Sometimes it's a member
of the general public who has heard of us from someone who knows
someone who's heard of us from someone they know.
Other
times the caller is an agent who has received a mailing I sent
out, probably from four or five years ago, with glamorous photos
of us dancing in Asia or with the Boston Pops, captioned with
thrilling hyperbole, eloquent bombast and memorable quotes from
newspapers and agents about our work.
In
a mailing to agents we try and leave them with the thought that
the Kamikaze Jitterbugs are brilliant and perfect for every possible
function, while Madonna, in comparison, is a narrowly-qualified
no-talent slacker who'd be eager for a chance to work with us.
The
PR hyperbole is necessary and has to do with the psychology of
agents. Many agents believe that the best performers are vain,
egotistical liars who will gush, with energetic sincerity, that
"the crowd loved us, we killed" on every gig they've
ever done. Since early childhood. And the agents believe that
if you don't do that, you must not be very good. Although presenting
oneself so bombastically takes getting used to, over the years
I've learned to fake it.
Back
to the story. To when the not-agents-but-friends-of-someone- who-heard-from-someone-
who-knows-someone- who-heard-that-we-were-good-at-what-we-do calls
me and asks lots of questions. And we talk about how my remarkable
skills will ensure that their event or function will be a big
success. And they tell me the date. And I set a price. What, no
drama yet? Well, that was a friend-of-someone, not a professional.
Surely you know, it's the professionals who make life interesting.
But
Agents, on the other hand...
Agents.
"Entertainment professionals". Who sell "talent."
Yes,
agents are entertainment professionals who sell talent for events
and functions. Used car salespeople sell cars: 'It's a beauty,
only driven on Sundays by a little old lady to church.' Furniture
sales associates sell couches: 'Last one in stock, it's a bargain,
marked down 50% just last week, go ahead, isn't that the most
exquisite bit of naugahyde to ever touched your bottom?.' Beauty
consultants sell cosmetics: 'You are so gorgeous in shimmering
firefly fuscia mascara! And it comes with this cute little cosmetics
valise!'
And
agents sell talent: 'They're incredible, they dance like that
guy in Flashdance, jump like Barishnyev, and, absolutely true
on my mother's grave, they've got seventeen women of the most
beautiful women with legs this long in skirts that short with
fishnets from heaven, every kick perfect and as high as your nose!'
Get the idea?
Agents
are gloriously busy. Talking on the phone, selling talent, booking
gigs for talent, sending bills for gigs. Sometimes while they're
talking on the phone selling talent hoping to book a gig the mail
arrives. And while explaining how remarkable the Hawaiian dancers
they can provide the client for the cubicle people of the year
appreciation party at the Hyatt Regency -- the agent doesn't have
any Hawaiian dancers, but as soon as the call's over he or she
will be calling Fred Astaire Studios to send them over four Hawaiian
dancers -- they read the mail.
In
the mail is a color postcard with a doctored picture of The Kamikaze
Jitterbugs suspended mid-air in front of fireworks over the Boston
skyline with the title "Dance Shows" in bold print below.
The agent manages to read the words Dance Shows, perhaps glomming
one or two more bold-print words, like "Exciting... Boston...
Symphony... Best... World... Television.... Honest Truth..."
And they say, "Hey, forget the Hawaiian dancers. I just remembered
I have this dance company that'll be perfect for your function.
Yeah, The Kamikaze Jitterbugs. Sure, they're exciting, they've
danced with the Boston Symphony and they've been on television.
Best in the world, God's honest truth."
Of
course the postcard actually read: "Really kind of exciting,
the Kamikaze Jitterbugs of Boston move like an old-fashioned symphony,
slowly but surely. They have the best of the bad moves and wear
world-class shoes. Featured on local television's popular Midnight
Cablecast Cabaret, they were wicked good and very honest. Truth!"
After
a few more minutes they say, "Two thousand, and that's the
best I can do." Then they hang up the phone and call me:
"You guys do shows, right? How about an hour show for a corporate
function featuring ten of your best dancers? Excellent. Two hundred
dollars. You heard me. Three? You got me by the short ones. How
about two-fifteen? Great."
Or
maybe, the agent reads the card, but still books the Hawaiian
gig using four Quickstep dancers from Arthur Murray's. At the
end of the phone call the agent shoves the color Kamikaze postcard
into a drawer.
Six
months later a client calls: "What we want is dancers. You
know girls with legs..." And the agent says, "Oh, yea,
I, uh, I've got these terrific dancers. The Kazmakazy Jitterbuggers,
real famous, best in the world, New York Philharmonic, television,
the whole ball of wax. They'd be great at the BioTheology Sales
Convention at the Hyatt." And the agent starts fishing around
in the drawer, trying to find the postcard.
Client:
"A dance show? You mean like Broadway or Flashdance?"
Agent:
"Absolutely. Oh, a half hour at least. Yeah, let me check
availability. I'll call you right back.."
So
I get a phone call. "Bob, this is Sammy Frost from Bim-Bam-Boom
Productions and we were wondering about your availability for
July 7th at the Hyatt. Yeah, we just thought maybe a little thirty
or forty minute show with eight dancers. How much? Oh. Well, how
about a fifteen minute show with two dancers? That much, huh?
But you're good, right? Professionals and everything? Costumes,
too? Really? Okay, hold that date, I'll call you right back."
Agent:
"Yeah, just checked with the dancers. What you got is your
basic Broadway style show, half hour of song and dance, ten girls
in fishnets with a Flashdance finale. Nope. No problem at all."
Now
it's important to remember that the materials I've sent the agent
make it clear (to normal people) that The Kamikaze Jitterbugs
have a maximum of three men and three women specializing in period
dance from 1920-1960. But agents are busy people. No time to read
boring press materials or watch tedious videos...
Please
note: the stories that follow, although true, all took place before
1996 in the Boston area and involved agents who would be most
kindly referred to as "local". Since that time, we've
raised our rates, we send the agent what's called a "Tech
Rider" with details about lighting, flooring, etc and we
very clearly specify in writing our personnel and exactly what
we'll be doing on the gig.
“What?
There Are MEN in The Kamikaze Jitterbugs?”
An
agent, on the basis of a photo sheet I sent out featuring four
two-inch photos and a paragraph of inflated PR description, has
contracted for seven dancers to do a twenty minute show. We're
talking decent money here. Music will be provided by a six-piece
band.
The
night of the gig my wife and I race to the car with our costume
bags over our heads because outside it's raining melons and squash.
As we drive down Route 24 towards Fall River [MA] we steam through
sheets of rain pouring down out of a sky that's a windblown whirlpool
of doom.
My
wife and dance partner tries to read directions by passing headlights
as I keep watch that I don't hit the Flying Dutchman and its crew
of the damned with our '86 Camry with 178,000 high-quality miles
passed under its rudder.
Finally,
after a half hour of meandering on flooded back roads that appear
to have been recently gouged through empty weed-blown fields somewhere
north of Fall River, we pull up to a huge rusting aluminum (how
is that possible!?) warehouse. The area is in the middle of a
miles-wide wasteland punctuated with scattered rusted junk cars,
dried brush and dead trees, occasionally thrown into stark relief
by intermittent lightning. The warehouse is fronted by a war-torn
macadem beachhead randomly marked with fading stripes of white
paint.
As
we enter the warehouse, dragging our bags, we are met by the client
(that is, the woman who hired the agent who subcontracted the
agent who hired us, none of whom we've ever met). Seeing us she
quips, "You're the dancers?" Long pause sprinkled liberally
with confusion. "I didn't know there were men in your group."
Seeing instantly she has no sense of humor, I give a numb nod
as I turn and make my way to the employee snack bar that's going
to serve as our dressing room.
Bad
vibes ripple fill my chest cavity like fumes from a gas line recently
ruptured by an errant backhoe. But I take a deep breath and my
vision slowly clears. A simple misunderstanding. The agent is
a busy woman and she forgot to tell the client that we were doing
PARTNER dancing with women and MEN.
The
rain hammering on the sheet metal roof high overhead (maybe the
rust stains streaming down the inside walls come from the roof)
sounds like a bad Mambo band chasing a cat across the stage. The
thin aluminum walls of the warehouse bow in and out with each
gust of wind, and I realize I'm standing inside the world's largest
iron lung.
Thin
streams of water dribble from the darkness-far-above-that-must-be-the-ceiling.
We arrange our gear carefully in the snack bar, avoiding the small
puddles that are pooling here and there over the concrete floor.
The
warehouse is lit by sixteen foot-long fluorescent strip lights,
dangling from thin wires that descend out of the darkness. They
sway gently to the torrential Mambo rhythms. In the middle of
this dim wash of gloom gleams a small stage, fuzzy pink in the
glow of six theatrical par-cans [think institutional green bean
cans sans wrappers with low-beam car headlights inside] on pipe
stands. The stage is filled with band PA equipment, chairs and
slow-moving musicians.
A
small dance floor cowers meekly in the dimness before the stage.
Ambient light during the event will be tiny table lamps. Twenty
tiny table lamps. Twenty tiny battery-powered table lamps, each
holding two AA batteries. Powering a tiny pointy flashlight bulb
[think kiddy flashlights sold for ten cents]. We were going to
perform in the glow of twenty tiny points of light.
"Hey,"
I said to a lighting tech, "Any chance of getting some light
on the dance floor?"
"No
one told us about any dancers or a dance show. Ask Gary. He's
in charge of the lighting."
Gary
says, "Nope, no one said anything about dancers to me. We
only have four instruments [institutional sized green bean cans
that have car headlights mounted inside]. Maybe I can tilt one
of them so some light reflects from the band's costumes out onto
the dance floor below." I'm not enthused. The band members
are dressed in black.
The
cavernous space is suddenly filled with the noise of six hundred
evil skeleton sailors clambering off the ghostly hulk of the Flying
Dutchman into the building. My dancers and I look for somewhere
to hide. We look again. Oops, sorry. It's the client's honored
employees shouting and high-fiving each other as they take their
party favor bags filled with M&M's (with peanuts) and Homer
Simpson finger puppets.
They
sat, they talked, they ate. We did our twenty-minute dance show.
They liked it. Everyone loves watching shadowy figures jump and
leap about in near-darkness vaguely silhouetted in front of a
dimly-lit band dressed entirely in black, playing sullen versions
of Chatanooga Choo-Choo. Oh, it was a night to remember. A really,
really fun night. Honest.
Pulling
the Wings from the Clients: Four dancers and a DJ
Rhode
Island Convention Center, Providence, RI. 5:00pm. Two hundred
Donut House franchise managers have been locked in a conference
room since 9:00am. Eight hours of tedious sales lectures about
how to sell more donuts.
At
five o'clock exactly it's time for a... 1950's Sock Hop in the
Main Ballroom! Whoopee!
No,
you may not invite spouses, relatives, friends, or pets. This
fabulous party is for the 180 men and 20 women of the highly select
Donut House franchise managers.
Five
o'clock on an August afternoon, more than fifteen years in the
dance business and I confess, I never even saw it coming.
The
Donut managers had numbness in their bottoms and home-sweet-home
on their minds. Our Sock Hop was to "relax and entertain"
them before they were "allowed" to drive home at eight
that night. They were tired, we were stupid.
And
for three hours we were like rats in a maze pulling the whiskers
off each other. We used every trick in our arsenal of dance torture
to thrash the living daylights out of those exhausted people.
They did everything they could to avoid having to leave their
seats and their two-dollar glass of beer or wine (what, no open
bar!?).
Yes,
indeed, they didn't want to dance. They didn't want to talk with
us. Or with anyone. They just wanted to go home. And so, we, the
dancers, smiled and danced... with each other. We led Conga Lines,
Stroll lines, the Electric Slide, the Macarena... with each other.
We performed cute 50's jitterbug numbers.... desperately... while
bleary-eyed donut makers stared at us out of bloodshot eyes, sliding
lower and lower in their hotel ballroom chairs.
Some
of them would right themselves, only to fall forwards, helpless
to their pain and exhaustion, their elbows splayed across the
white paper-covered banquet tables, their chins lifted just inches
above the table's surface. Avoiding eye contact with us, afraid
we might get the wrong idea, that we might think for a second
that they weren't actually feeling hostile towards us. And they'd
sit there, eyes downcast, shivering with fear that we'd dart over,
and try to get them to participate... in their own demise.
That
was the day we developed a new type of audience participation.
Called Infinite Referral Participation.
A
dancer goes up to a table and says conspiratorially, "Who's
sitting at the NEXT table that we should ask to dance?" Everyone
at THIS table turns and stares at the people sullenly nursing
drinks at the NEXT table. They confer among themselves while people
at the NEXT table fidget nervously, unsure what's about to happen.
Then
people at THIS table point at the NEXT table and say, "Jim.
He'll dance. He got drunk at Christmas and danced on a table."
And our dancer walks quickly over to the next table before Jim
can escape to the bathroom, and says, "Hi, Jim. I heard you
really like to dance."
And
Jim's only out is to desperately confer with HIS tablemates and
point out a possible candidate at the next NEXT table over. This
can, and did go on for hours. It gave "table hopping"
new depths of meaning.
Eight
pm and the Dance Inquisition is over. Thirty seconds past eight
and the room was empty of Donut people. Shell-shocked from hours
of leading riotous dance fun, we slowly packed up. On our way
to the parking garage, two men who'd been at the event stopped
us in front of the elevator. "Tough crowd, huh?" one
of them said.
We
looked at each other and then in one falsely enthusiastic voice
we said, "Oh, no, it was fun." "Good try, though,"
said the other guy with a sly grin.
In
fear of the truth, we simply nodded, our smiles forced. Trying
not to appear desperate to escape any reminder of the tragedy
we'd just led, we quickly shoved into the elevator. Before the
doors were even half-open. Pushing the "Close Doors"
button repeatedly, frantically. We knew that he knew that we knew
that he knew what had really happened in there. The doors closed
and we were free. Whew. That was fun.
The
Music Never Stops
A
Newport hotel, just two dancers on the gig, me and my wife. We'd
talked to the band ahead of time and, since they didn't know "Begin
the Beguine", one of our standards, we'd brought along a
copy of a "head arrangement." The "head arrangement"
was three pages taped together of the melody and chords for the
tune. Professional musicians read these all the time, with the
lead instrument (trumpet or clarinet or whatever) playing the
melody, and the rest of the musicians improvising on the chords.
The
trumpet player draped the music across a music stand and, backed
by the guys playing sax and trombone, began the tune.
We
begin dancing our "Fred and Ginger" foxtrot. The room
is filled with sighing delighted seniors. A few bars into the
music, the rhythm gives a little shake, a ripple of uncertainly
emanating from the band like the trumpet player just swallowed
a pebble or something. But the audience doesn't notice, they're
still awake, no one's throwing anything at us, and we're heading
towards the dance's finish.
As
we prepare for the big lift that ends the piece, the trumpet player
lets loose a very sour note. Still whirling my partner around,
I steal a glance at the bandstand. The trumpet player, his horn
wobbling precariously in his right hand, is gesturing furiously
at the music with his left hand, hitting it over and over with
his extended index finger so that the three pages of music have
begun to droop sideways off the music stand. The guys on sax and
trombone are huddled on either side of the trumpeter player, still
playing as they shake their heads emphatically "No! No!"
The
sax player tries to right the music with the bell end of his instrument.
The trombonist begins poking at the music each time he extends
his trombone slide. Over-zealous, he smacks the music stand and
there's the dull clang of metal hitting metal.
The
three pages of music music dangle for a second and then slowly
waft to the floor. I'm spinning my partner who's draped over my
shoulder. We're waiting for the final chords that signal the end
of the spin and the final pose of the dance. The band keeps playing
the same four or five bars, over and over. They're locked in a
time loop. I feel like I'm in a bad remake of Bonnie and Clyde.
The end part where everything goes into v-e-r-y s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n.
The part where they die.
We
turn. And turn. I'm dizzy. The world is a blur. My dinner is starting
to make its way upwards, seeking one last glimpse of the world
before digestion sets in. Still spinning, desperate, nauseous,
I try to discern what's happening on the bandstand.
One
of them, I think the trumpet guy, leans over and picks up the
music. I'm not sure, but the musicians seem to have left "Begin
the Beguine" in favor of an obscure Klezmer tune. No, it's
a battle of the band, the trumpet, sax, and 'bone players dueling
for bragging rights.
The
drummer is abstaining from the fight, randomly banging away with
only an occasional suggestion of rhythm. While in the middle of
the floor we're still spinning. And spinning. And spinning. On
the bandstand they're pounding away in a musical demolition derby.
Time
for us to take charge. I lower Idy from the lift. We hit a pose.
Cue: We Are Done. The musicians keep playing. We shuffle around
a bit and begin doing pivot turns like in "Top Hat".
The
trombone player seems to approve; he's bleating delightedly on
his horn. The drummer plays what sounds to us like an ending cadence.
We stop turning. I roll out Idy to my right. They keep playing.
I tug her back to me into an oversway. The musicians are huddled
together, it sounds like they're seeking a chord.
I
drop Idy into a shock drop. She's suspended by both arms, her
body horizontal, six inches from the floor. I smile weakly, waiting
for them to agree on the notes of the chord.
It's
a musical train wreck up there, notes derailing and piling up,
rolling off the stage into the audience. I roll Idy out to my
right. Again. I tug her back in and kneel. She sits on my knee,
brings her hand romantically to touch my cheek.
We
look at each other lovingly. Endingly. The drummer hits a rim
shot, thumps the bass drum, crashes a cymbal, and the rest of
the guys each play their favorite note to play a wavering chord.
The
audience loves the image of romance we projected and they applaud
us. Idy and I stand, bow twice. We wave regally, flashing smiles
left and right. As we run off. Never to return.
That
night we neglected to acknowledge the band. In fact, they never
even gave us back our music. But I figured that was okay. Maybe
they'd practice it. Sure. Right.
Who’s
the Guy in White Pants, Governor?
The
mansions of Newport are a favorite party site for political types.
Hence the night we were hired to dance and lead participation
for the New England States Treasurers' Conference. The theme was
Caribbean. Several weeks in advance I talked with Charlie, the
band leader. "We're a Caribbean band," he said, "and
we wear white pants and Hawaiian shirts."
Coordination
and planning is the name of the game, so I went out and bought
a pair of nice white linen pants. Sixty dollars. I knew I'd never
wear them again (I live in Boston, after all). But, hey, I'm a
professional.
The
night of the gig, Idy and I drove our 1986 Camry with 188,000
miles (a couple of months after the warehouse gig) past the limousines
and Cadillacs and Bentleys and a few Continentals parked in front
of the mansion. We drove to the far corner of the parking lot,
park in the darkest spot we could find under an old tree. So no
one would see the fabulous dancers dressed in white pants and
other expensive Hawaiian garb (recently purchased from Nieman
Marcus) emerge from a rusting beat up junker of a car.
Idy
and I strode into the mansion confident, aloof, elegantly casual
in our Island Attire. I was a vision of pristine linen topped
with a shirt gobbed with blobs of fuscia and magenta and scarlet
and lime green. Idy's dress was like an impressionist still life
of a tropical fruit bowl, hand-painted onto an expensive canvas
carefully and tightly stretched over her tight little dancer's
body (okay, maybe I'm overdoing it a bit, but she looked good,
alright?).
The
mansion had a foyer that was several teak steps higher than the
spacious old-world mansion ballroom. We stopped in the foyer to
admire the crowd displayed below us. The tresurers and their wives
all elegantly dressed in black-and-white formal attire. We turned
to admire the band. Also elegantly dressed. In black-and-white
formal attire. We surveyed the room again, the treasurers, their
wives. The band. Everyone elegantly dressed in black-and-white
formal attire. Everyone except us.
The
world stood still for several seconds as we grappled with that
last fact. Yes, it was true. Idy and I the only ones off-island.
Carefully unobtrusive I slouched down and inched my way around
the periphery of the room. Until I stood hunched beside the bandstand.
Slowly
(and I hoped ominously) standing to my full height I asked Charlie
in my best stage whisper, "What the hell? Hawaiian shirts?
White pants?"
"Oh,
we decided we didn't want to stand out," he said loudly,
so everyone could hear him over the noise of his band. "We
thought we'd look foolish in Hawaiian shirts." God's honest
truth. He actually said that as I stood there not two feet away.
In a Hawaiian shirt.
My
first thought was where to find other clothes for the gig. My
second thought was where to obtain a loaded projectile weapon.
My third thought was that firearms are dangerous. My fourth thought
was that this was a perfect example of temporary insanity. I do
not exaggerate. Standing there that night, I truly wanted to hurt
this man.
After
a long considered pause, I acted as if everything was just peachy
keen. I told Charlie what we were going to do during the upcoming
dance segment of the evening. I was very professional. And yes,
I was surprised, too.
I
told him, "We'll do teaching, then a song for dancing, then
another bit of teaching, then two songs for them to practice to.
Then we'll do a Conga line with the crowd to finish."
Perhaps
I was a bit abrupt. Perhaps I didn't speak clearly. I'll never
know. I began by teaching a hundred older white male pole-up-their-butt
Yankee New England policitos with their suburband wives and girlfriends
the Caribbean Merengue.
They
stomped their feet and wagged their shoulders and heads from side
to side in what's known as "Yankee hip motion". I had
them smiling. Well, as much as white male pole-up-their-butt Yankee
New England policitos ever smile through their clenched teeth
when they're doing something that doesn't involve women, liquor,
and big business contracts.
Then
Idy and I danced a Merengue. As I said before, Idy was in a bit
of a linen dress covered with brightly colored print flowers.
And she moved her hips really well. A lot. They liked that. They
smiled excitedly through their teeth.
The
temperature in the room went up two degrees. They were getting
interested. I got a wireless mic and said, "Now we'll all
do a..." When the band cut me off and started playing Paul
Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." It's not a Merengue. It's
not even a dance tune.
The
crowd was confused for a second. Then their natural indifference
took over. The men turned to find a drink, the women turned to
find their man. They'd been released from the siren-like grip
of the strangely clad dance team. And they eagerly dispersed,
the room quickly filling with the sounds of chatter and ice cubes
tinkling in over-filled Scotch glasses.
I
went up to the bandstand. I stood on tiptoes so my face would
be as close as possible to the bandleader's. I began to berate
him. I called him a coward. An idiot. A traitor, a turncoat. An
asshole. I think he'd heard it all before. He never even flinched.
He held the trumpet in one hand and tried to wave me off with
the other. When I grabbed his mic stand and began testing it for
weight and balance, it occurred to him I was preparing to injure
him. He shouted, "Look, it wasn't working. I thought we needed
a change of pace!"
He
put the trumpet back to his lips and, as I debated how best to
hammer the horn with my fist, sending the first several inches
of the horn down his throat, he quickly stepped back out of range.
I took a deep breath and shouted, "Just play a Conga Line
next, and then we're out of here."
Next
stop, Conga. The band goes into the Conga. Idy and I herd and
cajole the politicos, now half-blasted from the open bar, into
a Conga line. We thread our way through the ballroom, laughing
shallowly, perhaps a bit hysterically. We lead them through the
dining room, the solarium, the sitting room, the drawing room,
the pantry, the coat room, (the bathroom was occupied). Until,
finally, we're again conga-ing in front of the band.
I
gesture to the band leader: "Stop." He pretends not
to see me. We circle the ballroom twice more. I dance by the bandstand
and shout at him, my florid features a few bare inches from his
endangered trumpet and vulnerable teeth: "Time to finish!"
His
hearing and vision are fine. He sees me, he hears me. But he's
a man without a brain. Or guts. Or intelligence. Soon perhaps
to be also without teeth.
Inside
my head there's this roaring sound. Like ten locomotives are careening
at ninety miles an hour down the final incline of my mind. Tons
of deadly steel. And no brakes. My vision blurs. I'm holding Idy's
waist in the Conga line and she darts a glance at me over her
shoulder. There's a look of fear in her eyes.
I
shake my head in a desperate attempt to regain my sanity, to stop
the locomotives before they derail and we're all killed in a hundred-ton
tangle of mangled steel. Slowly, I loosen my death-grip on Idy's
waist. "Sorry," I manage to say into her ear. "I
didn't mean to hurt you."
We
snake the line into itself corkscrew fashion. When we've screwed
ourselves into a tight knot and are about to spontaneously implode,
I raise my hands in the air and shout "Hooray, hooray, hooray."
I
applaud madly, my hands in the air. And then I make a run for
the bandstand. But I'm drawn up short as Idy grabs my elbow, nearly
yanking me backwards off my feet. She knows. She wants to save
me. I want to leap onto the bandstand and break things.
Not
that the bandleader would have noticed. He and the band were still
playing the conga, lost in their alternate universe of pathos-dependent
psycho-musical hell. By the time the band moves on to a new tune,
Idy and I have packed our costume bags and are crossing the foyer,
trying to simultaneously sprint and look casual.
Once
out of the mansion, we give up casual and run to our car. We jump
in, lock the doors, start the car and drive off without looking
back. Half laughing, half crying as we describe to each other
over and over everything that had just happened.
Occasionally
we look over our shoulders, back into the the darkness that spreads
out behind us as we drive home, unable to shake the feeling that
we're being pursued. By pyschopathic hunchbacked demon musicians
from Hell.
Fun.
Sure it was fun. Sure. Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, haaaaaaa!
The
next day I called the bandleader on the telephone. I berated him
at the top of my lungs. I called him an idiot, a coward, a half-assed
unprofessional schmuck. I insulted him, his band, his family,
his sadly cursed unborn descendents. Over and over again. He just
kept listening to me as I went on and on. Finally, as I began
to tire of saying the same things over, as I desperately searched
for new combinations of old words, he quietly asked, "What
do you want? An apology?" I said, "Yes." He said,
"I'm sorry." And I slammed down the phone.
Yeah!
Alright! I sure showed him! That I'm above it all. That I'm...
uh, professional. Gosh, but I love my work. It's such... fun.
Suspended
Animation on Runway 7
One
memorable job was in a large party tent behind Boston's Aquarium.
The tent was wedged between the ocean (off a six foot high pier)
on one side and the aquarium (up a six foot long ramp) on the
other.
Inside
the tent, next to the tiny 9x9 foot dance floor, the agents had
made us a "dressing room" out of pipes and black canvas.
The dressing room was ten feet square made from a ten foot tall
pipe-frame cube over which were draped four canvas walls that
were ten feet tall. The "dressing room" had no ceiling.
It had no lights. It was a priests' alcove, a large confessional,
a holding cell.
We
had seven dancers on this gig. The space was only big enough to
hold five chairs and a clothes rack. All of us were crammed together
inside this twilit "dressing room". Two hours before
we were to dance. Because the dressing room was in the exact center
of the tent, and the agent didn't want the guests to see us arrive.
The
clients-- telephone company account executives on a corporate
field trip to Boston-- arrived at the tent almost an hour late.
They were a sullen crew. They spent an hour grumpily drinking.
Another hour picking at their food like spoiled children.
From
inside our confessional alcove holding cell we could hear no chit-chat,
just the occasional clank of forks and knives shredding food on
china plates and the sound of ice cubes slowly melting in drink
glasses.
We
waited. And waited. The lights in the main tent were halogen floor
lamps placed in the corners. The light shot upwards into the dark
at the top of the tent. None of it reflected back into our isolation
cell. We shared a penlight I had in my clothes bag.
We
told jokes in whispers and played an informal musical chairs.
We took turns with the chairs, five of us sitting while two pretended
they were warming up, every ten minutes moving over a spot. Chair
to chair to chair to chair to chair to floor to floor to chair.
The women did makeup with the help of a penlight and a compact
mirror. It was a tight fit, two people warming up on the floor,
two squiggling into their costumes. And three of us quietly ducking
the various elbows, hands, legs and feet that the others were
flailing about as we did makeup or buttons or whatever we could
manage.
But
don't feel bad for us. Not yet. So far, this was nothing. Honest.
No one was bothering us, and we were really quite content in our
little religious retreat, our iconoclastic isolation.
Finally,
two and a half hours after we'd arrived, time for the show.
Four
of us slipped from the holding cell and took our places on the
nine by nine foot miniature dance floor, ready for the sound guy
to play our recorded music. He pushed some buttons. Nothing happened.
The crowd waited, indifferent, not drunk enough to enjoy the suspense,
not sober enough to ponder what we might possibly be doing as
we stood there in our costumes, awkwardly awaiting the unknown
signal.
After
thirty seconds the painful silence resolved first into a buzz
that gradually became our dance music. Somewhere in the middle
of the dance.
The
other two dancers on the floor tentatively began, Idy and I stood
poised on the floor, heads cocked like trained sheepdogs waiting
for the whistle that cues them into action. There was no whistle,
no cue.
So
I bounded onto the floor, raised my paws, er, my hands and barked,
"Wow. That was something! Let's try that again. From the
beginning please!" The sound man hesitated, glaring at me,
his hand poised over the stop button. I growled at him across
the floor. He hit the button, rewound the tape, his eyes locked
on mine.
The
tent meanwhile was filling with the sound of spoons clattering
nervously in nearly empty coffee cups as the execs responded by
doing what they knew best.
At
this point I need to explain that three hundred yards from this
tent next to the Aquarium, across a tiny bit of water known as
Boston Harbor, lies the great expanse of Logan Airport. And right
about that moment, the tower must have broadcast something like,
"Pilots, we are pleased to announce that runway A33C is now
open and available for take-off."
Because
at that exact moment | 
Kamikaze
