Zero to Hero and Back Again

I have experienced many humiliating moments in my lifetime. So much so that not much embarrassment can penetrate the thick, leathery wall that hides what is left of my soul. One especially mortifying experience is feeling the exuberance of being a hero and to have the moment stripped away leaving only the sting of humiliation as you stand in front of the crowd. I liken it to Superman flying through a window of a burning skyscraper to save a baby that a mother on that street has been screaming is left inside. Moments later he reappears smiling and waving at the crowd until everyone realized that the only thing he rescued was a Baby Wets-a-lot doll. Poor Superman.

Speaking of embarrassment.  Poor high school drop outs.

This is the very ordeal that I endured one day when I was working at Disneyland. As many of you know I worked my way through college by working at “The Happiest Place on Earth” and spend many a day walking around the Park making sure everything was going smoothly. If you have ever visited the Park you know that there are parades that run through the center of it at various times during the day in which thousands of excited people line up with their kids to get a good look. It was during this time, as the masses gathered to watch the Hercules parade, which my rise from zero to hero occurred.

It's the Happiest Place on Earth!

I received a call on my radio that there was a fire in a trashcan. This was a common occurrence because smokers often times forget that a cigarette burns and when you place a burning object into a container full of paper it will start on fire. Difficult concept, I know. By the time I arrived at the trashcan smoke was billowing out of it. I quickly opened the side of the trashcan, pulled out the plastic receptacle and through the smoke I put my leg inside and started stomping. After a few moments the smoke stopped and thunderous applause started. Everyone around praised my quick reaction and I heard, “Nice job!” and “My hero!” all around me. I smiled and nodded as if to say, “All in a day’s work.”

And for the sake of my newly polished shoes don't throw them in poopie diapers.

On a side note I learned to not use a fire extinguisher on trashcan fires a few months before. In that case I pulled out the trash receptacle and blasted the smoke with a full tank of fire retardant only to turn around to a fire fighter holding a Dixie cup of water. He shook his head and walked off muttering something about having to refill the extinguisher.

In case of fire hide in this corner.

Anyway, back to the story. As I was nodding and waving to the crowd I took my leg out of the smoldering bin. It was then I heard the cheers turn to laughter. I quickly looked down to see my finely polished shoe, and stuck to my finely shoe was a half burned poopie Snug-Fit Huggies diaper. Yes, when the cigarette fell into the trashcan it ignited a poopie diaper which I quickly stamped out. The crowd, who just moments ago where chanting my praise, was now pointing and laughing as I desperately tried to shake off the surprisingly sticky diaper.

I'm a hero!  Yes!  Wait... what?

It was then, walking back to the locker room with every other step making a squish sound, I realized that my hero status had disappeared quicker than a Krispy Kreme donut in my hand on Sunday morning. I now realize that short of wetting myself in front of hundreds of people there really isn’t much that will embarrass me. This will really come in handy when I drop my future teenagers off in front of their high school while blaring show tunes.

The Great Storyteller

Let me tell you all a little something about my father on this Father’s Day. During my formative years my father could string together quite a yarn. Here are two of the first stories I remember my father telling me as a young child.

When I was a young lad, around the age of five or so, I was in my parent’s master bedroom walk in closet as my father was changing his shirt. My brother and I noticed a large round scar on the side of my father’s abdomen and inquired about it. My father got a proud look on his face and continued to tell us a remarkable story. During the Vietnam War my father was a machine gunner in both the Huey Bell and the Chinook helicopters. He would be the soldier that would mow down the forest with a hail of lead as the other soldiers loaded and unloaded from the helicopter. During one of these missions my father was pierced through the side by an enemy bullet. He received the Purple Heart for his bravery. A true hero.

This is my dad if he was black and he was on a boat instead of a helicopter

and those were soldiers he was shooting at not planes.

Later, when I was a senior in high school, I was retelling the tale of bravery to my mother and noticed she had a blank look on her face. I asked her what was the matter and she informed me that the scar on my brave father’s side was a mole that had been removed because he spend too much time in the sun surfing. For those of you who have met my father, the thought of him on a surfboard is quite a shock. It would be like Dennis Franz hanging ten. To my disbelief I discovered that he was never shot while manning the big guns. He did, however spend some time in the hospital but it was because he burned his bare feet while running across the tarmac during a bombardment. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t told everyone I know how my father was shot in combat.

This guy spins wonderful tales. 

They are not as believable as my father's stories though.

Another time when I was around the same age I remember the family was driving down the street as I saw an odd light. On the end of the traffic island on the ground was a small cage with a yellow light in it. I asked my father what purpose did the odd light serve and he told me that the light was from the underground tunnel system used by the people who lived underground.  It took a few years for me to figure out why I could never see these people. Apparently they do not exist.

Apparently, according to my father, a race of dwarves live

below the greater Orange County, CA area.

These stories, like many, have become family legend and, of course, my father denies telling any of them. For those of you who know me, you may be thinking, “So that’s where he gets it from!” you would be quite correct. I get my gift of telling a fantastic story from my father. One of the great gifts a father can give their sons is an imagination and all those stories growing up really allowed me to think outside the box. Today that’s where I live. You may say that I live in the different zip code from the box… but I wouldn’t change a thing.

The great storyteller himself.

Thanks dad, I love you!