CUB SKITS, TAKE ONE… In the approximately seventeen days I managed to endure the Cub Scouts I had a truly traumatic experience. The only treatment available at the time was, well, revenge, and I pursued that with a vengeance, later, but still the following contretemps is seared like a brand into my brain. Against all better judgment I allowed myself to be dragged away from my collection of Tonka Trucks and Matchbox Cars—my primary interest in life—and inducted into a Cub Scout Troop; it was viewed by my elders as an excellent way to assimilate into the new community to which we’d moved. Now, Scouting is an integral part of many kids’ lives and I know people whose Scouting time remains a shining memory. I’m sincerely happy for them, but this did not hold true for me. As I looked around at my first meeting I noted that I had nothing in common with the other Cubs. The color of their socks didn’t match their shirts, they didn’t know the first detail about the new cars that had just come out, and they all knew one another from kindergarten and had already formed a cabal. I had only one thought: This does not bode well. The only one in the group with actual acting experience, I was cast with seven Cubs of much longer standing in a skit to take place my very first week. It was titled The Feather Dance. Or The Feather Chase. The Feather Something. Anyhow, for some reason, when the performance drew to a close and the curtain fell (or more exactly squeaked across the auditorium stage to meet in the middle, in fits and starts, as some kid valiantly but ineptly yanked the ropes), one of us was to be in possession of a special Feather. Which he had picked up with his teeth. If you can imagine. And then he got to marry the fairy princess or something, or maybe that’s another skit altogether. Anyhow, to be presented at a convention or whatever of different troops of eager young Cubs, this fairly racist performance piece was considered acceptable at the time. I myself found it undignified but having made a commitment, I applied myself to the role. As authentic Indian Braves we were required to behave in a most outlandish fashion. First, we were to execute a strange, spastic kind of bent-over marching maneuver while simultaneously slapping cupped hands to our mouths in synch with our steps, and chanting “WOO woo woo woo WOO woo woo woo …” I’m being totally serious here. All this stereotypicality had to happen as we circled around a chair which dramatically represented a bonfire, or a shrine, or white people strapped to a stake—I never knew, I wasn’t paying attention during rehearsal. Morphing it out of the drama category and into that of musical theater was the compelling accompaniment: a lucky Cub named Tommy—I’m not kidding--played a tom-tom drum upstage left, providing an ominous atmosphere and a driving background beat, but drawing less audience focus and thereby being less embarrassed than the rest of us… For our costumes were frightful but not scary in the least. We had streaks of paint on our faces and white—white?—triangles on our cheeks. Our heads were squished by tightly tied—so they wouldn’t fly off—feathered headdresses dragged down from somebody’s mother’s attic and our feet were encased in make-believe moccasins. But the crowning glory (read crushing blow) wasn’t on our heads, it was down below; our personal section was covered by two flaps of fake red leather—one front, one back—held together with a skinny piece of string. As it was a family show we had pants on underneath but the illusion was nonetheless complete. We were told we totally approximated the part. And I was mortified. The headdress was ridiculous, I thought, and the red flaps clashed with my chestnut brown cords. If I had known THIS I wouldn’t have shown up. Trying to prepare for my performance was tough, for the other Cubs were jostling for position backstage and in general acting rowdy. When this one kid bumped me one too many times I gave him a shove and he fell. And then he cried to his Mom, who, unfortunately for me, was the leader of the pack, and she remonstrated with me—the only one behaving professionally because even though I thought it was stupid as hell I still treated it seriously—and soothed the little crybaby by saying he could be the one to emerge victorious. Everyone else was instructed to fail in their attempts to pick up the treasured feather. Oh yeah? I thought. Just watch. I made up my mind to undermine their nepotistic plan. And then it was showtime. Tom-tom ominously thumping, we made our entrance Indian file to wild audience response. I immediately felt the familiar rush of excitement that a crowd will instill in a would-be performer but tried to ignore it in my righteous indignation. Still, the show must go on, so looking appropriately fierce we launched into our dance: First-graders on the warpath! I was still wishing I were anyplace else but I did have a mission: snatch victory from the grasp (or the dentition) of the sniveling mama’s-boy Brave. (And simultaneously giving the finger to the mama although that was not a weapon I yet had in my arsenal.) The crowd was enthralled and watched our tricky choreography from the edge of their seats. Then a strange thing happened; the enthusiastic applause kicked me into another gear; I caught the familiar fever and surrendered myself to the beat. Faster and more ferocious each lap I worked myself into a frenzy. Nothing was going to break my concentration; my performance was spot-on. I put in a few spins which weren’t in the book but embodied my Native American rage. I had become that Indian Brave, on the prowl, wearing warpaint in risqué attire. I was going to get that feather! My future in the Cub Scouts and then the Actor’s Guild was guaranteed. The drums got louder and so did the crowd; I was completely immersed in my character and itching to hit somebody with a tomahawk. But then, the third time around, I danced over a pair of modesty flaps on the floor and started to giggle: Oh my God, I thought, some dope’s dancing around up here fully dressed with nothing on. The crowd grew loud; scattered laughter could be heard. I started to chuckle harder and harder and tried to sneak a peek to see who the poor dumb fool could be. Not that kid; not the next kid, not the next… huh. Nobody seemed to be missing his britches. And then I looked down. Yes. They were mine. And that’s when I decided to quit Cub Scouts and—for the time being—the entertainment industry. Being a trouper, I kept in step long enough to retrieve my costume. Then I did the Indian march across the stage, solo, exited into the wings, threw the headdress and flaps in a corner and said, in so many words although I didn’t yet know the term, “F—k that Feather, I’m going home.” And so I did. And although I dearly love musicals, now you know why I detest Westerns. --JmackG
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 12:31:30 +0000
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