Holiday Sorbet 1

            There comes a time when a young man has to take leave of his pet emu and venture into the city, to seek his fortune, or perhaps, as it was in this case, simply money for medicine. Mother needed help with the co-pay on her blood pressure medication. So, Saturday afternoon, Blake swung past the ‘barn’, which was actually a heated garage that led out to a paddock, and fed ‘Baxter’ some oats from his hand. Then he got into his hand-me-down Ford F 150 and headed into the city.

            As Blake entered the tiny suburbs, he felt himself being swallowed by the city, which really wasn’t that big at all. He’d been to Chicago a few times. Now he was just concerned about all the traffic. He didn’t want people plowing into his truck. It was in bad enough shape already.

            It would be his second day as a concession ‘food runner’ at the arena, a job arranged through a temp company. Another hustle nineteen-year-old Blake had was firewood, but the pickings, towed to the farm on a fifth-wheeler, had been thin that summer, and, although a lot of wood was chopped and split, much of it had to sit for a while. There were piles of it. Tons.

            A holiday-on-ice show was scheduled at the arena for a one-night-stand. He would be working at one of the three ‘Grilles’ there, running food to the cashier slots. Burgers, popcorn, and whatnot. He went through the service entrance in the back and made his way to the concourse level. As he did, he felt what he’d felt at his first shift there during a hockey game. Excitement loosely mixed with ennui.

            The show that night was called ‘Holiday Sorbet’, and it was a general revue by a small, regional, privately-owned concern. It was a show for families to watch during the late fall and early winter. The show had a good start as a solid entity was formed, but then it all fell apart in pre-production, starting with the writing stage.

            The story of ‘Holiday Sorbet’ is thus: Roughly, things have come to a head with the conflict between Gladly Village and Mister Mean. He wants to foreclose on their sugarless candy factory. Then, an immense vein of saccharine is found, and the Gladlys of Gladly Village think the day is saved. But, it turns out that the strike straddles the border between Gladly Village and Mean Swamp, and Mister Mean wants it all. Sylvia Sprite then flies down from the rafters, calmer heads prevail, and they all join in with a Song Of Resolution. The End. That’s how it played in Dubuque Thursday night.

            Blake made his way down the concourse to the ‘Grille’. The stand was forty feet up on the second level, and it was encased in immense concrete buttresses and slabs. The ‘Grille’ was set within all of that concrete, with holes only where necessary. Brutalist. The place had had the name ‘The Bowl-Shaped Arena’ for years. The edifice was so ugly that even Piggly Wiggly wouldn’t sponsor it. With so many temporary structures in our lives, the ‘Grille’ will remain even to the sad time when there are androids serving cyborgs.

            Blake entered the ‘Grille’, and began to help with the prep work. He put the huge condiment squirt-tubs, four in a row, onto two islands which the attendees could go to tend to their sandwiches. Everything was being prepared for the customer onslaught in a rapid and orderly manner. He thought he knew a young woman he saw in the supply hallway which stretched behind the back wall of the ‘Grille’.

            Everything was coming to order. Burgers were being grilled, fries and nuggets and patties were being fried. There wasn’t a problem at the ‘Grille’ yet, but there would certainly be problems later, Blake knew, through the sheer number of hungry holiday viewers. But, the production itself, ‘Holiday Sorbet’, was a constant problem on tour.

            One problem was with promotion. The promoters had tried to get the word out, but the media needed to be reminded how to pronounce the word ‘sorbet’. Despite the promoter’s best efforts, a mispronunciation went out on Channel Seven’s ‘Community Calendar’, which they showed in empty ad slots, along with 1980’s graphics. Local star Ralph Nolan’s mellifluous tones could be heard in the voice-over:

            “Holiday ‘Sorbett’, December Tenth, 7pm at the Bowl-Shaped Arena…”

            There were more problems with the show itself. ‘Holiday Sorbet’ was pretty boring. Usually, what with the consolidation of the media, reviews in small cities amount to advertisements. So, it is especially notable that many reviews of ‘Holiday Sorbet’ led off with ‘Bring a pillow’, or ‘I found myself rooting for ‘Mister Mean’. One well-known regional internet publication stated that “The show has no redeeming features. This debacle will play at the ‘Bowl-Shaped’, then slink on to Peoria on the thirteenth.” And, then there were the blogs. One, with a more scientific bent, panned the show thus:        

            “If you’ve ever heard about the wonder of nature which is a black hole, and have wanted to see one in action, ‘Holiday Sorbet’ is playing at the ‘Bowl Shaped’ this Saturday, although I don’t know why. I never thought I’d see a show go through an event horizon until last night in Dubuque. I think I saw the book, music and show turn to less than dust, but that still has to be confirmed by scientists.”

            …which I think was harsh.

            But, never mind, hundreds had bought tickets, and, at the ‘Grille’, the workers weren’t so concerned about was how the show was being received. As they wrapped up their pre-show preparation, the cashier, Roberta, was telling people that she had been at the show in Dubuque, and that it had been ‘okay’, with skating and recorded dialogue and music. And Roberta was right. The show was a bit boring and disorganized, but the reviewers were just as snobby and jaded.

            Most of the workers at the ‘Grille’ were temps, and that was through necessity. Few positions in catering at that arena went past part-time hours. The investment was in machines. There were the displays facing the customers, the cash registers, grills, fryers, warmers, refrigerators, not to mention all the food and cups and dishes.

            The air that night was especially thick with the oil smoke used to enhance the lighting in the arena. Blake glanced at the young woman he thought he knew, knowing that she was probably a ‘temp’ like him, as all the workers stood at their posts and the grate above the counter lifted, exposing them fully to the concourse. The manager briefed the crew. The pulled-pork for sandwiches was on its way over from the kitchen, and was thus ‘eighty-sixed’ until further notice, and there was no Neapolitan Ice Cream available. A moan came up from the end of the line, and there were laughs. It was Roberta.

            “You wanted one?” someone asked.

            Now a few actual ticketholders, entire families, mostly, were sauntering along the concourse, some decked in holiday finery. Soon there would be about a thousand. Many wore Santa caps and springy candy-cane headbands. Some settled before the ‘Grille’, looking at the item and price display. A hum of people could be heard now, and that would be heard, loud or muted, for the rest of the show.

            But, what was happening at the ‘Grille’ was only part of this story. Let’s look at those workers who, mostly, had read the reviews from the Dubuque show.

            First, there's the Gladlys of Gladly Village, about thirty of them. They wear bright yellow sweaters with burgundy stripes and burgundy tights, and either knit caps or decorated headbands with decorated springs on tops. They also sport pointy elf-shoe-skates. At the start of the show, they introduce themselves to the audience with a ‘We’re The Gladlys Of Gladly Village’ song. Then, there’s Sylvia Sprite, played by Kaelynn, who skates very well. Sylvia Sprite is usually found working her magic on the other side of the rink while it’s lit in lavender, like she’s in some other dimension. Her costume is knee-length, mostly tulle, with little blue rhinestone decals and cherry trim. Sylvia Sprite intervenes during the story at times, and you know when she’s doing that, because she swings her arm and hand out over the scene like she’s giving a friend a slow backhand to the chops.

            Then, there’s the character of ‘Mister Mean’, which Butch plays. There’s a problem with Mister Mean, and it’s there in the name. He is the bank that carries the mortgage for the sugarless lolly factory that the Gladlys, all thirty of them, run. The Gladlys are very happy and self-fulfilled, and that’s because they seem to have cornered the market on sugarless candy throughout the world out there. Mister Mean knows that if they bring in tons of refined sugar, they could make a ton of dough, and he despises the Gladlys for their ethics. Of course, later, he learns some life-lessons.

            Back at the ‘Grille’, Blake was trying to recall the name of his mystery colleague. He had placed her; she was from the consolidated school system south of the one he went to, but was a year above him.

            The line of pre-show customers snaked through the line-barriers forever, and cashiers, runners and cooks picked up the pace. Running food about, Blake caught, from the corner of his eye, another runner trying to grab a box of popcorn from a warming cabinet. Instead, the box tipped over, and all that popcorn fell onto the burgers and fries below. Blake found himself pouring the wrong drink for a customer, and he had to empty and refill it. All talk behind the counter went from tones urgent, to specific, to explanatory, to cautionary, and to despondent. There was a rare moment of silence, where the customer hum died down a bit, and the overture in the arena proper finished, and Blake, well, heck, everyone heard someone near the grill say:

            “I try and I try…”

            From the expression of some of the audience members in line and at the counter, they seemed to be anticipating a show that was ‘so bad it’s good’. And, if that was what they were anticipating, this might help- There was more of a problem with Mister Mean, and it wasn’t part of the plot. And that was the problem!