Beater Boys

    When I was a boy, I got to work on my best friend Darwin's turkey ranch.  I was just a 'beater', but for the incredible fee of a dollar sixty-five an hour I could amass a veritable kid fortune just waving a croaker sack! 

   My task was to scare the flock of turkeys into a bottle neck portion of the pen where an exorbitant by-the-hour insemination team would capture and inoculate (aka give shots) to each and every bird; (Turkey's are a sickly lot and due to close living conditions apt to spread Turkey diseases!) So time was of the essence when considering the cost of the enterprise.  I was charged with keeping the birds tightly packed into where the inseminators were stationed, preventing the birds from fleeing away from the team.  Beaters were stationed at the back of the flock to make noise and wave sacks, thereby driving the turkeys deeper towards the waiting arms of the team; seemed rather simple and easy to do, I thought.

   Due to the enormity of the flock, several beaters were needed, and I, having no necessary skill sets, was selected as a reasonably good candidate for the mindless task.  I stood in the back and 'woo wooed' my little novice heart out to demonstrate my gratitude for their well-placed trust.  My fellow beater was Le Bah Ho, a foreign exchange student from South Vietnam.  His English was horribly inadequate, but nonetheless he was sent to the US for student exchange program, (I suspect it was to keep him from being drafted in his home country.)   It seemed magical that the turkeys could sense his confusion on what was actually required by beaters.  Only too swiftly a few would dare attempt an escape.  When he moved to intercept the fleeing birds, cohorts would dart out the gap he left as he attempted to thwart the effort.  So imagine several turkeys stealthily flanking movement to his right.  He'd adjust and call out 'woo woo' waving wildly his sack in reaction.  Meanwhile several others would escape on his exposed left flank.  I had to abandon my own station at the rear of the flock in order to give chase after the renegades; which made Le Ba Ho the task of attending a greater area.  It was hopeless.  Obviously part of the Turkey's ultimate over-all-plan to conquer the beater boys. The ploy continued until a good third of the flock had expatriated out of the pen into the greater freedom of the overall yard, requiring the entire team to stop what was going on in order to go fetch the escapees.  Mr. Hart was NOT amused.

   I'm tickled this morning with that recollection as I consider how in comparison our lives can be similar to that flock of turkeys.  We try to attend the entirety of our wishes, but darn if a few go skirting off on their own.  Then we, as diligent beaters, try to keep them contained only to neglect the other ones vying to get outside.  Hmm, well, visits can give you things to ponder as you pick up the clutter...that'd be mine.  Have a swell day keeping your flock under control.

Elvis Has Left the Building

Elvis Presley died on August 16, 1977, over thirty-five years ago, in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. He was 42 at the time of his death. He had been on the toilet, but fallen off onto the floor, where he lay in a pool of his own vomit. Panicked, his staff contracted an ambulance, which rushed him to nearby Baptist Memorial Hospital, where, after several attempts to revive him, he died at 3:30 pm CST.

   I was reminded of that today by my wife when she told me it was on Catalan Radio.  I remember Elvis only in the confines of my own living experience.  I wasn't a fan, I didn't dislike him. I was, for all intent and purposes, ambivalent.  So many might be able to tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news.  Much like the loss of other personalities that were bigger than life; JFK, or Walt Disney, or Michael Jackson. I am not one of those people.

  What I remember most about Elvis was not his pioneering Rock and Roll music into the American thirst for self expression, but for an obscure incident that occurred at Harvey's Casino in Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

  I was working at Harrah's across the boulevard from Harvey's and I couldn't get out of the parking lot after my shift because of the traffic jam by the crazies coming in to see Elvis perform. It was 1973. What made the experience stand out for me wasn't the delay, but hearing for the first time of the house moderator saying over the PA system, "Elvis has left the building."

  At the time they resorted to that in order to calm and disperse the crowd that was lingering in the ball room where Elvis had finished performing.  He was renowned for delivering a number of encores if the crowd was lathered up and applauding wildly. It created quite a situation for those wishing to clean up after the show; there were schedules to keep.

  Today we use the Elvis phrase to emphasize whatever was going on, it is now officially finished.

  I don't wish to get into the drugs, or conjecture on his emotional or mental disposition at the time of his death; it's been beaten to death. As with the loss of any icon, the stories just continue to become more fantastic and outrageous as the years go on. Even more fantastic than the human being they're supposed to be about.

  I wanted to pause and consider how time changes every opinion.  Whether someone was 'The Greatest' or 'The King' or metamorphosed Norma Jean. They all had history; unfortunately the most common denominator is that it was tragic history.  That seems to go unheralded when lauding how much they meant to us, the entertained, now that they're gone. So to the kid who was Elvis, as well as to all those other heroes and villains who left their fingerprints on our recollections, may you all rest well beyond our impulsive and ill-informed judgments.

Steak House Escapades

When I was still in High School I worked at a Western Sizzler Steak House as a busboy. On one occasion my best friend George and I were in the back of the kitchen attending to all of those unseen preparations that make a Restaurant work; mainly making salads and wrapping baked potatoes.  This task was usually accomplished solely by George, the dishwasher. But on occasion if the lunch crown had been large, or the most common event, the previous shift did not do their back-up so then the supplies were depleted for the night rush, well then the scum, (me the busboy) could come into the back and help out.  

   The salad was prepared in volumes that filled garbage can size containers.  The recipes were prepared by the case, and box loads.  The same was true with wrapping baked potatoes; by the box, which is to say by the hundreds.  Usually an average night’s business at the Sizzler would use up five hundred potatoes as well at least two Garbage can cache of cut salad.  

   One thing that always puzzled me was the concept that manual labor could not be fun?  Anytime laughter erupted out of the sweatshop side of the restaurant, it was automatically assumed that no work was being done.  So like clockwork whenever George and I found something amusing to yuck it up about, we were descended upon and scolded by Charles the owner-manager.  On this particular occasion, Charles was out of the shop, so we mere worker-bees were safe from reproach and free to follow our whims; sounds inviting doesn’t it?  

   Contrary to expectations, George and I accomplished our assigned tasks ahead of time, while having a good time despite all efforts to make our menial tasks drudgery. Sort of like the step sisters in Cinderella.  We had just finished and I was leaving to attend chores in the front room, when George asked,

   “Help me pull the racks from the cooler”

   I readily agreed.  During our effort of moving all of the contents from the refrigerators George speculated that someone could hide in the refrigerator once the food was removed.  I replied,

   “Let me see”, and climbed into an empty cooler. George quickly slammed the door, as I instantly realized I could not open it up.  I yelled and hammered on the door, and George opened it laughing and asked,

    “Does the light go out?” 

   I said, “Yeah, very funny, if you got locked in there you couldn’t get out!” 

   George replied, “Oh sure you can, I bet you can kick the door hard enough it’d open.” I shook my head and said,

   “I don’t think so, I was hammering on it pretty good, and it didn’t budge.” 

   “Yeah” he said, “But if you got your legs up and kicked, it would go.”  

   “Naw, I don’t think so.”

Then he said, “OK, you close the door behind me and I’ll show you.” 

So George got climbed into the cooler and situated himself so he was in the position a person gets to do those bicycle exercises. Then he said,

   “OK, close the door.”

   I was smiling and amused by my wicked impulse as I slammed the door closed.  I quickly opened the connecting cooler door and knocked heads of lettuce, green peppers and anything on those shelves over into where George was laying.  He hollered in protest and began kicking the door.  As I suspected the door held.  Laughing harder now, I raced over to an open case of lettuce on the wash counter, gathered up  armful of leaves, and tossed them also onto George as he was kicking and cursing me .

   I was really enjoying the situation when out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement outside the kitchen screen door.  My GOD! It was Charles, (What was HE doing back?!)

   I realized it was too late to liberate George and not get both of us caught, so I quickly I opened one of the doors, half whispering,

   “Charles is here. Stay put, and be quite,” I didn’t hang around to listen to his reply, I darted out of there into the main dining room and fumbled around with cleaning Ketchup bottles.  I waited to see Charles walk by the cook station, then I’d go back and let George out.

   But Charles didn’t walk by.  Where was Charles?  I visualized George in the cooler with all those vegetables on him and I smirked.  I slowly approached the pass through door to the dishwashing station. The door had a diamond shaped window cut into it to prevent kitchen help from crashing into one another as they darted in and out of the kitchen door leading into the dining room.  As I looked in I saw Charles opening the very cooler door George was in.  I couldn’t hear what Charles said, but I could see the incredulous look on his face, as vegetables rolled out. It was all I could do from peeing my pants.  I ran to the men’s room so my roaring laughter couldn’t be heard.  The idea of our serious all business manager walking into the shop, hearing an odd thumping coming from the cooler, then opening the door to find his dishwasher amongst a cascade of leafy vegetables was just too much!  Poor George! 

 How wonderful! But then, in reflection I think he got fired for that stunt.  I confessed being a partner in the crime.  They punished me by making me the dish washer.  How cruel is that?