My first, and only, dramatic overture as an “actor”, was in, The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, a competitive skit in a Cub Scout Blue and Gold dinner in Upstate N.Y., circa 1961. We were up against several others vying for the coveted, annual Blue And Gold Cup.
We were chosen for our roles with a keen eye for our acting “chops” or various other attributes, chief among them size or lack of same. Thus, Donald Pier, spindle thin, and pushing six feet tall, was cast as Ichabod Crane. Several other of the “bigs” roles went to, well… boys of some size, playing soldiers, irate townsmen and assorted rabble.
But the second, and some might say the most significant role, had yet to be cast. That of Ichabod’s sweet smiling and beguiling Katrina. Well, you can just imagine the pushing, shoving and magical disappearing acts that ensued as the three remaining Cubs vied for not getting chosen for this choice morsel of theatrical infamy. In a true Solomon-like gesture by the barrel-chested Scoutmasters, it was decided that a “drawing of the straws” was the most equitable method of divining who would have the honor of playing fair Katrina to the soon to be Advanced Cub Scout – a trembling Icabod. The three of us lined up, shoulder to shoulder, for the fateful draw. You know the deal. You draw the top of the straw, cupping its true length in your hand, waiting until the last person draws for the reveal.
The stage was set. Marvin Persons, ubermeister, eight year old plenipotentiary and fellow short-boy drew first. He smiled as he cupped his straw. Next, second fellow short- boy (whose name I will never remember) drew. He smiled like the Mona Lisa. My turn. I pulled the straw, cupping its fateful length in my small, moist palm. Let the praying begin.
“Please, God. Please God. Please…please…PLEASE LET MY STRAW BE LONG!”
Finally…the reveal: Marvin’s straw: LONG. Second fellow short- boy’s straw: LONG. With both of the, not as short as they thought they were only a few moments ago, boys grinning wicked, double cheshire grins, I opened my hand. And there I beheld the world’s, possibly even the Milky Way’s, shortest straw.
The shock rolled over me like a dryland tsunami. I turned to my fellow thespians and said the only thing that I could think of. “Hurry! Lets get this over with! ”
Those six, simple words sealed my fate. Proud and stout, the Scout Masters smiled. Resplendent in their matching uniforms, brightly scarabbed with shining buttons, sashes and badges, they had done their job. Now, it was the Scout Mothers’ turn.
WHOOSH – they grabbed me, hauling me off to their sanctum-sanctorum …THE LADIES DRESSING ROOM. Joyfully, they dragged me through an overheated copse of hanging coats and disembodied capes, past mute hats, feathered caps and serpentine boas; gleefully veering me round a quivering mound of steaming, woodland furs; beaver, mink, fox. Deeper and deeper they waltzed me breathless through florid hedges of skirts and dresses, the riotous ladies rushing me fog-like though gauzy forests of chiffon, smoking magentas and haunted black damasks creeping like crepe myrtle and Spanish moss dripping from skeletal racks and hangers.
Finally, we arrived – the inner chamber. Perched atop a creaking pedestal, the sweet scented room spun before me, toxic with putrefying perfumes, dusting powders, frosting hairsprays and acid-lacquer nail polishes.
In the the arclit glare, stripped of my blue and gold neckerchief and slide, my badgeless blue shirt and trousers, trembling bare chested and boxered before them, the chattering pack of burly Scout Matrons leered happily, poking and pinching and prodding.
“Here we go!” they chorused triumphantly, yanking my arms up in the air in a frozen pose of unconditional surrender. Clamping my eyes shut as if I could block out the bogeyman, they cackled as they oohed and ahhed, lowering the spine tingling dress, shroud-like, upon my quaking shoulders.
In the slow-motion blur that runs an endless playback of trauma, I was transformed before the merciless glare of a gothic-arch framed, three panel mirror. The boy who dreamed of becoming a full-fledged WOLF that darkened, new moon night became, instead, a curly haired, taffeta-swirling, dimpled and mascarred, rouged and lipsticked, daisy bonnetted girl. HORRORS. I am become Katrina!
As history might have recorded that day, ( and, prayer answered, it was not) , when Katrina fluttered “her” baby blues up at a crooning Ichabod and when the skinny, knock-kneed schoolmaster dropped his scaredy-pants down and slithered offstage at the sight of the HORSEMEN- sans head… we won the Blue And Gold Cup going away.
Here endeth the acting career. Thank God!
David LaDuke says
Editor
I was there that nite..we had just moved back from Nevada and I had to finish up my Arrow of light to advance to Boy Scouts…that was my last meeting as a cub scout….hope the writer is well
Patrick Bushby says
Author Response.
Hey, David. Thanks for the response. The writer is well and hopes you and your family are well also. Fifty-two years later, I’m shocked and pleased that anyone else retains a memory of, what was for me, a significant cultural event. Thanks so much for taking the time to respond.