“Christmas Eve Cat Food”
by Johnny Walker
From the book, Nightmare Gig From Hell
I got a last-minute call on Christmas Eve to do an A/V gig for a club manager in the city, and since I'd worked for him several times in the past, I knew he’d pay that night. Perfect. I’m in.
The job involved running lights and sound for a private cabaret performance, and the performer was a well-known TV and stage personality, whom we will call Ms. M. Rumor had it she’d been paid some big moola to make an exclusive appearance for the big wigs at a major television network, so the job required some velvet gloves.
Can do.
The event was held at a high-dollar, Russian-themed cabaret room—carpets and chandeliers type of place in the theater district of New York City. The showroom was hourglass shaped with a tiny stage in the center, leaving room for only a few miniscule tables in front. The majority of the crowd, dressed in dark suits and flashy evening gowns, had been crammed into the tiny tables to the left and right of the stage.
The A/V booth was in a back corner of the skinny room, and through a window the size of a microwave it provided a right-sided view of the stage. Not the best placement of a sound booth, but I’ve definitely seen worse conditions, so we’re good. As usual, the booth was smaller than a broom closet and camouflaged by a flimsy, black curtain.
If there’s one thing I know well, it’s the routine of a substitute techie. Customers are seated by the time you arrive and the sound check is done on the fly, if not during the first song, and before you can say Milly Vanilli the show is up and running. I’d barely cracked my knuckles and examined the gear when Ms. M approached the stage.
When Ms. M. walked into the spotlight, I have to say she was nothing short of stunning. She had long black hair and a killer body that was nicely wrapped in a silky cream gown. With looks like that, she’d no doubt make my job easier. The stage was only a curbs height off the floor, so up close and personal is a definite understatement.
She starts singing. I make a few adjustments.
In no time at all Ms. M is rocking the cabaret world.
The gig couldn’t have been any smoother.
Right around third-quarter of the show, the piano player starts tickling the ivories to a tune called, Send in the Clowns. Okay... not the cheeriest Christmas song in the catalogue, but the lights are dramatic and the sound is stellar. We’re good.
Somewhere around mid song, a patron at stage right lets out a puking heave that rattles the walls.
“Oh no,” Ms. M gently whispers, and casually turns to the left to continue her song.
A closer look reveals the cat food has landed on a monitor in front of the stage. Fancy Feast is not only covering the black speaker, but captured in spillage from the stage lights. I had no idea cat food was so shiny.
The Maître D quickly unfurls a white tablecloth in front of the stage, blinding everyone in the room for about two beats, and proceeds to cover the cat food as elegantly as possible. But since the merry spectacle has sailed across the stage, well yeah... there’s no way to hide every chunk of Purina.
The doused speaker on the floor will soon squeal—I know it will, but as any veteran in the world of live sound has at one time discovered, a soundboard can shock the living be-jiggers out of you. I’m weary of using the volume sliders to adjust the technical victim, so I scan the booth for a pair of gloves, and of course, there are none. I wrap my hand in curtain, grab a pencil, and lower the volume on the monitor. Ms. M is on a wireless mic, so she’s safe from getting shocked and sprouting an instant Afro.
Crisis resolved. The A/V Gods are truly on my side.
I can’t do much about the white tablecloth on the floor, which is casting a Godzilla-sized shadow of Ms. M’s rump on the back wall, so I lower the light that’s beaming down on the cat food. Ms. M’s rump, which is all we can see from the right side, is now beautifully cast in a teal silhouette. Considering the circumstances, we’re good.
I attentively stare at Ms. M’s tucos, waiting… anticipating her next move, which could happen any moment. With my fingers harmonically resting on the light faders, I’m eager to place a world-class silhouette on her lovely hair... if she would only turn my way. I have no idea what her facial expressions are, and since it’s all about drayma in Cabaret, that’s a deadly recipe for an A/V technician.
I was suddenly distracted by the patrons at stage right—the ones with an awesome view of her blue butt—as they began stirring in their seats. They’re mumbling and moving about. I see white napkins rise and cover their faces.
What? People fussing at a high-dollar cabaret show? That’s just taboo. Utterly unheard of.
Then it hit me. Holy black magic marker... did someone order rotten broccoli? No, wait: it’s Muenster cheese, the finest in the city. Sweet Apollo, I am so trapped.
I pull out my trusty Halls cough drops—Black Cherry is my favorite—and I rub the sticky junk under my nose. It was one terrific measure of relief, but I was quickly overcome by the unpleasant stench of cat food. The panicking voice in my head tells me this is a redline situation; tells me to shove the Halls up my nostrils. Says that’ll help for sure.
I listen, and obey.
Are my eyes burning, or just watering? Yep, they’re burning. I can feel them swelling. Is there a eucalyptus tree nearby? Ouch. No really … ouch.
Oh yeah, the show.
My eyes are blinking like strobe lights at this point, but between the spastic flutters I can still see Ms. M’s blue butt. Can’t breathe and my fingers are sticky, but I think we’re good.
Low and behold Ms. M decides to come see us at stage right, but in an unheard of stage move, she faces the back wall to make her sluggish turn. Her shoulders are drooped and she doesn’t seem too thrilled about greeting this side of the room.
Whoa. Did someone throw a bucket of water on the floor! Nah, it can’t be.
Oh, but it is.
More cat food.
Really?
Ms. M’s gentle turn comes to a screeching halt, and there she stands, facing the back wall. She seems kinda shaky, but alas, continues to sing.
It’s true : the show must go on. What a trooper!
I wish I could see her face.
“But where are the clowns… please send in the…”
“Raaaalph!!”
That’s it. Somebody call 911; this is outta’ control.
Ms. M finally completes her dramatic turn and faces us at stage right. Now I’m really confused because I never use green lights. If transforming into the Grim Reaper weren’t bad enough, I can’t raise the volume on her breathless vocals without causing feedback.
Man-oh-man... am I gonna’ hear about this one.
Through my gushing tears, I can vaguely see her saggy eyes. She doesn’t look the same—not as beautiful as I had first thought. But with an astonishing display of showmanship, Ms. M bravely raised her head and faced the fire.
Are you kidding me? Is she really gonna’ keep singing? I’m in awe. She is truly a professional.
Wait. She’s not singing, she’s slinging, as in bringing the microphone to her backside. What the...
The gowns in front pressed their backs to the brick wall. They knew what was coming, and I couldn’t decide what to focus on—the time-lapsed scattering, or a singer about to heave.
The microphone hit the floor just as Ms. M covered her mouth and joined the rest of the gowns in a mad rush for the front door.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
The upscale club either ran out of tablecloths, or just gave up, ‘cause cat food was suddenly everywhere, even on the walls. I saw the shine. It was distracting.
Was that a woman sliding across the floor? I can’t tell. My pupils are on fire and my blinking eyes have gone into overdrive.
As if on cue, the remaining customers leapt from their chairs and bolted for the front door, most puking on the way out. Never in my life have I seen a private event wrap up like this one.
There must have been bottlenecking at the front door because the next thing I saw was a herd of suits and gowns running towards the back—straight towards me. Their faces were panic-stricken as they desperately searched for another exit.
I ducked inside the tiny booth, where the little voice in my head once again spoke to me. This time it was clear as day when it said, “This show is toast.”
As I turned to leave, the cloth curtain came alive and attacked me. Truth be told, the sticky Halls had become a gluey magnet and the smelly black curtain had merely seized my face, although I was certain a force from beyond was assaulting me, determined to hold me hostage.
Like a prayer had been answered, the curtain rod snapped and fell from the doorframe, dropping the black curtain on my head and covering most of my body. I tried to remove it—I did, but the more I struggled, the more it embraced me. I morphed into Keanu Reaves and flew from the tiny booth like a shadowed banshee, but the Matrix maneuver only put me face to face with a ticket-holder.
She screamed.
I’ve never scared the teeth out of someone, but her dentures literally came flying at me.
I dodged the choppers, ripped the curtain from my body, and ran to the front door, where I crawled through the traffic jam on my hands and knees. Then I ran—fast—peeling fabric from my face and bouncing off parked cars until I was far away from the demonic assault.
I don’t remember much after that, but I’m sure I went for a shot of whiskey somewhere. I was never called back to the upscale establishment, and come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever got paid for that gig.
