Livin' the Dream!

Today, I find myself in Jenner, California, a very small town on the coast, just north of San Francisco, where the Russian River flows into the Pacific ocean.  We're staying with friends and their house sits atop a hill above the estuary.  The view from the front window is of a pewter blue river, bounded by steep, brilliant green hills, that force it left and right until it finally disappears a couple miles off in the distance.  Small bits of ancient and abandoned farm houses are visible here and there through the trees.  Large birds float past the window, riding the strong winds that seem a constant.  The picture from the side of the house is of a green-framed, though otherwise unobstructed, view of the never calm, white-capped Pacific Ocean, fading off into a bright grey fog somewhere, way the fuck out there.  The sky above is blue, cloudless.  And I am able to be here due, clearly, to the generosity of wonderful friends and as a result of the only thing good about getting old -- the freedom of  retirement.  I say to all of you who are not yet retired  -- and I invite all my retired comrades to sing along:

"NA-na-NA-na-NA-na!"

Sometimes I miss some of the work, but I never miss working:  the getting up at some specified, but always inconvenient hour, showering and shaving (I have nothing against showering actually, but I really prefer to shave only when I'm ready to change my fashion statement), rushing out into the light and the noise, stressed out by the clock and expectations, chugging along rat-in-maze style for eight hours or more at the direction of an incompetent and in concert with a legion of the equally discontented.

Certainly, there are people who enjoy their work.  It is not a universal truth that EVERYONE hates working.  But it is also not a universal truth that seeing a guy take a softball to the cajones is always  funny (for example, seeing it while you are looking in the mirror), but it is true often enough to make America's Funniest Videos possible. 

Most people will tell you that they don't really hate work, they just hate the work they're doing.  I've worked with waiters, limo drivers, and bartenders who wanted to be actors, writers, and musicians.  I worked with guys who wanted to be professional athletes and women who dreamed of being models.  I worked with a tubby, red-haired, little guy who aspired to be a chipmunk at Disney World and spoke frequently about how close he had come at the audition.  There are CEO's of multi-national corporations who lament their failure to pursue a career in carpentry -- except, of course,when they are lighting their cigars with hundred dollar bills -- neurosurgeons who wish they were forest rangers, farmers who wanted to star in porno films and housewives who wanted to be magicians.

We're all convinced that work would be easy and rewarding if we were only working in pursuit of our dream.  Things would be great, if you could just be the Blues guitarist you’ve always dreamed of being, if you were the Country Western singer that lives in your heart, if you could just open that pizzeria.

I was lucky enough to have spent a large portion of my life living my supposed dream, acting in film and television.  But even that job had its horrible moments.

On one gig, I worked as a pitchman on an interactive CD for an insurance company.  For two days, I sat stock still in front of a green chroma key screen, repeating each of twenty-five paragraphs, one hundred twenty five times each, changing only two items indicated in the script.

“And after twenty-five years, assuming you have not taken advantage of your cash withdrawal option, your policy will have grown to nearly X times your initial investment or $X.”)

Sadly, that was not the worst of it.  Not close!  The money was good.  During the hard times, I took jobs where I could get them.  For six months, I worked as a character at children’s parties:  I played a Ninja Turtle, Captain Hook, or Batman.  It had its pleasant moments: 

There was the joy on the little boy’s face when he realized a REAL Ninja Turtle had arrived at his 7th birthday party.  I can still see the gleam in his eye when he ran toward me and the way his little nose crinkled up as he karate kicked me square in the nuts.

There was that time when I was getting ready to perform the centerpiece of the party agenda, the twenty-minute, sit on the grass Indian-style, child astounding, company standard set of five ridiculously simple magic tricks, and suddenly realized that I, as Captain Hook, had only one hand and could not do any of the tricks with a single hand and a hook.

And then there was that day in Carson, a low income suburb on the south side of Los Angeles.    

I was booked to play Batman at a birthday party in a local park.  The normal routine was that I would arrive about half an hour before the scheduled time and, still wearing my street clothes, bring a tape recorder to the scene of the party.  I would collect the fee, then instruct one of the adults to watch for me to arrive at a particular location and, when I waved, press the 'play' button on the recorder.  The music would mark my entrance and the beginning of the Batman Funstravaganza.  After clarifying all this, I would retreat to my car and change into my Batman outfit.  On that particular day, I did everything according to the plan.  I walked down a long slope to a gazebo full of children and their parents, delivered the tape recorder and the instructions.  The mother of the birthday boy nodded understanding and I retreated to the parking lot to change into my costume.

The humiliation actually began with the costume.  It was godawful!  The muscles weren’t very muscular, the ears on the headgear flopped over like a dachshund’s and the black tights were very, very tight.  There I was, a little flabby and out of shape, dressed in tight black pantyhose, wearing a dachshund head and a cape, walking across a parking lot at a park full of people on a bright, warm Sunday afternoon.  I looked straight ahead, concentrating only on the fifty big ones, hiding behind my Barman persona.  I reached a little knoll overlooking the gazebo, stood arms akimbo for a moment, then waved boldly at the woman who would start the music.  Nothing happened,  I waved again.  Still nothing.  Suddenly, I heard a voice from somewhere outside my peripheral vision. 

“Hey, Batman!”   

It was the voice of an adult, obviously several quarts of beer into his afternoon.  I waved in his direction, barely looking, noticing there were actually four men, brown-bagged bottles in hand, getting up to move toward me.  I waved again in the direction of the mother with the tape recorder.  The voice bored through my panic and humiliation. 

“Hey, Batman!  What the hell is it with you, man!?” 

The voice was getting closer.  I smiled, barely turned, and said softly, "it's cool."  One of the other men chimed in.

“Yeah.  What’s with you man?” 

I smiled again, tried to wave them off, felt them approaching.  I signaled wildly to the mother down the hill.  The questioning continued. 

“How come you don’t fly, man?  Superman flies.  You don’t do SQUAT!”

“Bat powers," I mumbled, " I have bat powers,” hoping that would satisfy.  I waved once more frantically to signal the mother to start the music.  She continued to ignore me.  I could smell the breath of one of the men.

"And what's goin' on with you and that Robin, man?!”

I finally lost it.  Music or no music, I, a fully grown adult, standing at the top of a knoll, hands on hips, cape flapping, perspiring through my black, too tight tights, fearing I might cry from the humiliation, lost it.  To hell with mom!  To hell with the music!  It was time to use my bat powers.  I screamed, “Here comes Batman!” grabbed the edges of my cape and took off down the hill, leaving the four drunks behind, questions unanswered.

Living the dream!