The Great Pretender

Suppose you could design the perfect job: one that was vital to the mission, so as to make you indispensable; one that required a fair set of skills, which you possess; and finally, one which required no actual work on your part, which could prove to be convenient.

Such turned out to be the case during ROTR, 2017, though it must also be said that in another year, in a different galaxy far away, it could have backfired, and turned into a disaster. Allow me to elaborate, if I may.

The whole caper had its origins last summer at ROTR, early on Friday morning of the four-day gig, when an emissary from the kitchen stormed into our camp, without glancing left or right.

Heading straight at me, he snapped, “I need to talk to Bull.”

“My, you are brave," I observed. "It happens to be,” I added, glancing at my phone, “5:52 in the morning.” I paused, expectantly. “You do know that Bull was up late last night?” I left the question dangling, waving carelessly at the detritus on the picnic table, multiple dead soldiers giving mute testimony to the amount of alcohol consumed. It probably need not be mentioned, that none of the dead soldiers owed his demise to me. I do not indulge.

“I know what time it is,” the dude snapped at me. “Which tent is Bull’s? I need to talk to him.” 

He had my undivided attention. “Yes, so you have indicated. And I asked, what was up. Is there a fire? Are you out of propane? Does Melody need her coffee heated up? Is it possible that I could help you so that Bull can get his beauty sleep? We, here in camp, have taken a poll, and feel Bull needs his beauty sleep. Therefore, I ask again, what the fuck is going on?”

Mel, is that you?

Somehow, I got through to him. “Well, nothing right now, but Mel is paranoid that the shit is going to hit the fan, and no one will be there to handle it. She’s wound up like a top and I need to make sure that Bull is around, but I guess I don’t actually have to talk to him…not if you can give him a message,” he finished lamely.

“Gosh, I don’t know. That’s a pretty tough assignment,” I said, giving him my best Eddie Haskell impression.

He looked properly admonished and backed the truck up. “OK, look, I’m sorry I burst in here, but she's on my case, and I just wanted to make sure…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes, that someone is here to hold Melody’s hand, should it need holding. I think I have grasped the essentials, thank you so much for your time and attention. Not only that, but I think I am up for the job, no pun intended, should the need arise. And if I can’t handle it, I will find someone who can,” and with that, was born my scheme to be indispensable.

Mollified, the dude not only went back to the kitchen happy, he sent over a box of sandwiches, for anyone to partake of, as a peace token. “I don’t know, Bull,” I said later as we sampled some Sour Strawberry, just to get the cobwebs reestablished in our heads. 

“It’s as if the kitchen has anxiety issues,” I continued, “and all we have to do is have a warm body available, to pacify Mel. Should a problem arise, said dead body can either fix the problem, or at least find Lennon or A.J. All we have to do is find some poor schmuck who is willing to drag his ass out of bed at 5:30, so he can be at the kitchen by six, and maybe again at eight,” I finished, looking down at my sandals.

Bull and Nan-Cy

Bull was smiling broadly. It may have been early but the Sour Strawberry was working just fine. Having detailed my unorthodox sleep-cycle in earlier posts, multiple times, the reader might already have gleaned that I was that vital cog in the machine, to which I had been alluding.

A cog so vital that every morning of ROTR, 2017, I presented myself to the person in charge of the kitchen. It was Kerry on Friday morning, Galen, on Saturday morning and a woman named Sariah, on Sunday morning. Ironically, each of the mornings I had to introduce myself, and explain my mission.

Nowhere was Mel to be seen. Later, I found out that she didn’t even get up until eight this year. Meanwhile, each morning I was [secretly] thrilled to hear that there were no issues. 

Mission accomplished! I had based my credentials on this component that everyone agreed was necessary; I had carried out my responsibilities to perfection, not only presenting myself at the kitchen at six, but at eight as well; and finally, I had kept Mel happy. A sleeping Mel is a happy Mel.

Of course, the caper could have backfired, had the kitchen actually encountered serious technical difficulties, but that was what distinguished this gig from the beginning. It was a risk, freely taken, that cost nothing but paid off like a slot machine. 

After all, it was simply about communication and I had provided the vehicle. Everyone was stoked because communication was continuous throughout the festival, between kitchen and site crew, now that the morning gap had been plugged. 

Plugged by The Great Pretender.