by Bill Doyle
Our floor looks like the one from the movie SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER, but it’s different. With ours, dancers light the boxes by stepping on them.
Two hours later, we had the floor set up. The burly guys took a coffee break, and I headed over to the drinking fountain.
Mr. Myles spotted me there and stormed over. His mousy secretary, Lucy, followed on his heels. “Hey, buster!” Mr. Myles sputtered at me—it was clear he couldn’t remember my name. “I’m not paying you to stand around and drink water. Come with me.”
I wanted to point out that he wasn’t PAYING me at all. But instead, I followed him backstage. We passed the prop area and the costume racks and ended up next to a forklift.
“See that sand?” Mr. Myles asked me, pointing at a giant barrel filled with sand on the front end of the forklift “I want you to put it in those bags.” He gestured toward a stack of empty canvas sacks that sat on a tarp-covered table nearby. “Got it?”
“You want me to make sandbags?” I said.
“You’re a genius, kid,” Mr. Myles said sarcastically.
Probably trying to soften his tone, Lucy cut in. She spoke in a flat voice, almost a monotone. “We tie the bags to the ends of ropes, and the bag’s weight helps us raise and lower the lights and other equipment safely.”
I nodded. I understood, but it seemed like they might put my brain to better use.
Mr. Myles must have read my thoughts. He looped an arm around my shoulder. “That’s showbiz, kid. One day you’re stuffing sandbags, the next your name is in lights.” For a split second, his eyes went kind of dreamy. Then, just as quickly, he snapped out of it. “Why are you yammering on and on? I’ve got a show to run!” He hurried off to yell as someone else, and Lucy went chasing after him.
Well, it could be worse, I thought as I reached up to take a canvas bag and start filling it with sand. They could ask me to dance.
After about an hour of mind-numbing work, a voice bellowed, “Clear the way for his royal highness!” It was Richard King, a big bear of a man who was in charge of the lights for the show.
He had a bushy mustache, sprayed spit when he talked, and insisted that we reverse his name and call him King Richard—but I liked the guy. He lent me copies of his Sherlock Holmes mysteries to read on the bus, and he had a great sense of humor.
King Richard
He was leading Mr. Myles back over to the tarp-covered table. Richard took the remaining canvas sacks off the top and handed them to me. He turned to Mr. Myles.
“We need to but our own equipment for this show. Look at this lighting booth!” He pulled back the tarp. And I saw that beneath it wasn’t a high table at all, but a very small booth. “You expect me to use this to run lights for the show?”
The booth was a rusting metal box with walls as high as my chin. It clearly had been built year ago for another long-forgotten purpose. Cables and wires snaked from holes drilled in the side of the booth, and a control panel had been welded to the interior. There was room for a chair, but it seemed impossible that Richard would ever fit inside.
“How cozy!” Mr. Myles said. “Why this booth looks excellent!”
But Richard wasn’t buying it. “That’s not the worst.” He walked to the nearby wall and removed a huge steel plate, revealing a snarl of coiled electrical wires. It looked like an old-age home for snakes—very dangerous snakes.
“Mr. Myles,” Richard said, “this electrical system is older than King Tut. It can’t keep up with the modern demands of 1970s disco.”
Mr. Myles wiped the spray of Richard’s saliva off his face with his handkerchief. “You say this every time we do a show, Richard. If you can’t do it, I’ll just have to get someone who can.”
My Myles
“I’m in the union, Mr. Myles,” Richard said, but Mr. Myles’s words had had the desired effect. Richard opened the steel door of the lighting booth, which had a little plastic window. He squeezed down into the chair and closed the door behind him. He looked like a huge sardine shoved into a too-small can. “You can’t fire me,” he said like a king on a throne—a very big king on a very tiny throne.
Mr. Myles lips twitched, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Whatever you say, Richard! Just make it work,” he said and rushed off.
While I filled bag after bag with sand, I watched King Richard do battle with the electrical system. For a big guy, he was a whirling dervish of arms, snipping wires and reconnecting cables. Three hours later, I was still stuffing sacks with sand when King Richard squished back into his booth and said out loud, “Here goes nothing.”
He hit a button, and there was a low whirring sound. But from where I stood, I could see the dance floor suddenly come to life. King Richard pumped the air and shouted, “All hail the king!” He had the power up and running. And just in time.
“Two minutes until show time, people,” Lucy called in her flat voice.
The huge barrel was still filled halfway with sands, but I had run out of sacks. I walked over to check out King Richard’s handiwork as he continued to fine-tune things on his panel. As I gazed at the wires, there was that itch in the back of my brain, and I felt myself slip into Code Zone.
The pattern was off. Something was wrong.
“Are you sure about that connection?” I asked him, pointing at the wires that sprouted in all directions and then disappeared into the wall. There was a blur cable in the mix that seemed out of place.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said gruffly, then gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, kid. King Richard is just a little hot and cranky. Save yourself from my royal wrath and go watch the show, would you?”
I smiled back and said, “Sure.”
I walked closer toward the edge of the stage but was careful to stay behind the curtain so the live audience and the camera wouldn’t be able to see me. I could hear the excited chatter of people as they took their seats for the show.
Out on the stage, the dancers were still rehearsing at the last second. Madame Katerina whizzed around them like an angry queen bee. She jammed her stick against the floor and shouted, “Remember! My Muse makes the demand that this dance be done exactly right.”
“Sixty seconds!” Lucy called. “Dancers to your places. Madame Katerina, clear the floor.”
The choreographer left, and I gave R.T. a wave to wish him good luck. He returned a salute.
There was a schedule of events on the wall near me.
SCKEDULE OF EVENTS:
Guest Host INTRODUCes SHOW
DaNCE EXTRAVAGANZA
CommeRCIAL BReaK
MEET KING TUT (PRe-RecoRDeD VIPeo)
CommeRCIAL BReaK
DaNCING (EGYPTIAN) QueeN
SecReT Mae Box aND DANCe FINaLe!
Each TEENS FOR TUT show opens with a local sponsor or businessperson introducing the show to the crowd. Today, a nervous man who owned a series of car dealerships stood before the camera. He was sweating through his silver polyester shirt and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
A cameraman held up three fingers and said, “And we go live in 3…, 2…,” He brought down a finger with each new number—but the cameraman never said “1” just in case the camera had turned on early.
But I knew it hadn’t. You can tell a camera is broadcasting by the light on top of it. If the light shines bright red, you know the camera is on.
And now the red light blinked on—and the show started. I imagined the tens of thousands of people across the country who would be tuning in to watch.
Lucy
Lucy held up a sign that said APPLAUSE and the audience clapped and cheered.
The nervous man licked his dry lips as he read out loud from the cue cards behind the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, travel back with me, if you will, to a time when mystery and magic ruled the Earth. Come journey with me over 3,000 years ago when a young pharaoh ruled the desert! And remember, when you want a chariot to drive you and your little pharaohs around the pyramids, come to Dickson’s Auto Mart
!” And the musicians on the other side of the stage started playing a Bee Gees hit. The man stood in the light for a second, looking confused about what to do next. Lucy signaled him to get off the stage.
Richard turned on the lights over the dance floor, and they burst into blinding-white life. The audience squinted and by the time their eyes had adjusted, my brother and the other dancers had taken their places on the floor.
Now the band switched to the hottest Bee Gees tune on the radio.
Without any help from Lucy, the audience started clapping. I’m surprised they didn’t start laughing.
The dancers’ costumes weren’t like the ones KISS wears, but they were pretty ridiculous. Each dancer wore Egyptian robes and a mask. Max, the lead dancer—a sleek, good-looking kid from Miami—wore the funeral mask of King Tut. A tall chorus girl wore a jackal mask with a long snout. And R.T. was wearing the head of some kind of bird, which I didn’t recognize. I doubt anyone in ancient Egypt would have either.
As the music got cranking, the lead dancer really started to move. There was lots of spinning, small kicks, and fancy footwork. Because Max was the lead, he hopped and spun in front of everyone else. The other twelve dancers were in the chorus and formed a pyramid behind him.
Max was a decent dancer, but I knew my brother was better. I could tell R.T. had to force himself not to jump higher or turn with more snap than Max. As Max strutted from one box on the floor to another, the lights under his feet blinked on and off in a spectacular display of colors.
It was strange, but as I watched them, I suddenly felt that familiar itch somewhere in the back of my mind—POP!
The sound of a small explosion broke into my thoughts. The smell of burning wire filled the air as half the lights under the dance floor started flickering like crazy.
The musicians continued to play, and the dancers were doing their best to keep the show going—but the audience was looking around fearfully as if checking for the nearest emergency exit. I glanced back at the lighting booth where King Richard sat with a panicked look on his face.
“All the lights! They’re too much for the system!” he cried, clearly not caring if the audience heard him above the music or not.
“The blue cable! Disconnect the blue one!” I called as loudly as I dared. I wondered if Richard had heard me. And then I had my answer, because the lights blazed back to life.
The sudden brightness seemed to blind many of the dancers. Two girls collided and bounced off each other. The kid wearing the Anubis costume fell back into the curtain and started thrashing around like a fly caught in glue. A girl dressed as an Egyptian priestess and holding a scepter skidded across the stage. Only R.T. and Max managed to keep their feet under them.
Even in all the chaos, Max seemed determined to get to the end of the number. Madame katerina’s choreography called for the other dancers to lie down in a line and for Max to leap over them and land in a split.
But while most of the dancers were lying down, there was nothing orderly about them. They were sprawled everwhere. Max looked more like a driver at the county fair about to jump over a bunch of wrecked cars. Only R.T. and the girl dressed as a priestess were in the right spot, lying on their backs in the middle of the stage. Max took a few steps back and launched himself into the air—
He didn’t leap high enough, and the scepter of the priestess caught on the hem of his robe. It was just enough to throw him off-kilter. Max’s body twisted in midair, and he went sailing into the audience. There were screams as he slammed directly into an older man with dark hair and white sideburns in the front row.
There were more shocked cries from the audience—and even some laughter.
“Commercial! Go to commercial!” I heard Mr. Myles screaming. The red light above the camera finally went out. We were no longer broadcasting. People at home were now watching an ad rather than a bunch of kids with strange masks stumbling around the stage.
I rushed past the dance floor and out to the audience to see if I could help anyone. The man Max had catapulted into was crawling to his feet and straightening his glasses. The thick lenses made his eyes look like fish swimming in a tank, and he looked upset.
Max was still sprawled partially under a chair in the second row, his King Tut mask twisted around to the back of his head. I helped him up and turned back to the man with the glasses, but he was gone. R.T. stood in his place. My brother held his bird mask in one hand and reached out to steady Max with the other.
“Are you okay, Max?” I asked.
He nodded, looking dazed. “I think so,” he said. “It’s not my fault. Madame Katerina’s dance was too hard. No one could do it.”
I glanced at R.T. I knew he wanted to say, “I could.” But instead, he said, “Come on, guys, let’s help the others.”
We were moving to do just that when a scream filled the air. “Oh, no!” It came from behind the curtain. “Help me—!” The voice broke off.
“Now what?” R.T. said as audience members started to get up from their seats.
“Please stay calm, everyone!” Lucy appeared out of nowhere and soothed the audience. “It’s all part of the show.”
But I knew it wasn’t. That call had been full of very real fear and panic. Someone was hurt or in danger.
“Get to the pay phone outside the auditorium,” I told R.T. “Call an ambulance!”
I rushed backstage. Once there, I found the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.
The screams had come from King Richard, and I could see why. He was still seated in the lighting booth—but he was no longer alone in the tight space.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare.
A waterfall of sand was pouring down on top of him!
Somehow, the forklift had moved behind Richard’s booth. The barrel of sand had been lifted up in the air directly over the booth, and the bottom had broken off. The heavy sand pouring out had crashed through the top of the booth and now, it was flowing all over Richard! The sand was already up to his shoulders, trapping him inside the booth—and soon his head would be buried.
King Richard was trapped in the lighting booth!
He looked terrified. “Kid, get me out of here! I think I broke a rib!”
I darted to the door of the booth and yanked on the handle. But it wouldn’t budge. The pressure of the sand from inside had bent the lock. I pushed on the booth itself, but it was bolted to the floor.
“I’m being buried alive!” Richard cried as he struggled to get free.
“Where are the keys to the forklift?” one of the two burly guys shouted. “I can’t move it!”
Mr. Myles and Lucy must have been busy calming the audience. Max and a few of the other dancers stood there looking dumbfounded.
We had to do something!
I grabbed the jackal mask from the tall girl’s hands—
“Hey!” she cried.
I shoved the mask over Richard’s head just as the sand reached the level of his ears. The long snout of the mask stuck up out of the still-falling sand, like a snorkel sticking up out of water. It would let Richard breathe until we could figure something out.
R.T. strode over to the booth. He was carrying a crowbar. The tall chorus girl sighed at the heroic sight. R.T. wedged it in the crack of the door and put all his body weight behind it. The door flew open and, pushed by waves of sand, Richard popped out of the booth like a cork exploding from a bottle.
It took two big men to pull King Richard out of the booth.
JULY 9, 1977
4:15 PM
The two burly guys pulled King Richard out of the pile of sand.
“OW!” he cried and clutched at his ribs. He looked like he might faint the pain.
I moved closer to R.T. and asked in a low voice, “How did that barrel of sand get right over his head?”
R.T. shook his head. “I don’t know, bro. You were the last one near it. Maybe the forklift rolled over here on its own? It looks pretty old.”
“It rolled over on its own, lifted the barrel, and positioned it exactly over Richard’s head?” I said. “And the barrel just happened to crack open? We need to secure this area. It could be a crime—”
Before I could say anything else, two paramedics brushed past us. They were wheeling a ratting stretcher between them. Relief swept over me. Medical help for Richard had arrived.
“You got here fast,” R.T. said to them.
“Yeah, we were taking a break just around the corner when the call came in,” one of them said.
“You don’t charge extra for rush service, do you?” Mr. Myles asked them as he joined us. When Richard grunted in disgust, Mr. Myles held up his hands. “Just kidding, just kidding!”
Wearing a headset that kept her in touch with the control room, Lucy scurried over to Mr. Myles. Sure, she might look mousy—but she seemed to be the calmest one of any of us. “Boss,” she told him. “We’ve hand almost twenty minutes of commercials. What do you want to do?”
Mr. Myles took a look at the damage around him, and his eyes settled on me. “Run one more sixty-second commercial” he told Lucy. “We’ll skip all the other dances and go back on the air for the secret Map Box presentation.”
Lucy spoke into her headset. “Sixty-second spot and then bring us back live.” She said to Mr. Myles, “What about the spotlight for the secret Map Box presentation?”
He said to me, “I’ve been watching you know about lights?”
I felt dazed. “What?”
“Forty-five seconds,” Lucy announced calmly, sending the rest of the cast and crew into a tizzy of frantic movement.
A vein in Mr. Myles’ temple started to pulse as he asked me again, “Do. You. Know. About. Lights?”
