Tracey Jackson » ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS SWELL

Tracey Jackson » ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS SWELL.

Change of Address.

This is the last post I’ll be making to the TuffyPants blog. I’m shutting ‘er down. According to the experts, it’s important for writers to maintain brand consistency. McDonald’s golden arches are consistently depicted in all their building signage. The Walt Disney Company’s Disney script is the same basic shape everywhere you see it. So, I guess it stands to reason that the Clay Rivers brand should have the same consistency in name and appearance across whatever it is I’m doing.

But fear not, I’m taking all my posts to the new digs and hope you’ll join me. I invite you to —

1. Cancel your previous email subscription to TuffyPants.wordpress.com.

2. Check out ClayRivers.wordpress.com.

3. Sign-up for an email subscription over there, just like you did here. (You know how it’s done. Enter your email address in the open field under Email Subscription once you get to ClayRivers.wordpress.com.)

Thanks and see you there.

An Invitation to the Big Dance (also known as Querying Lit Agents).

A few published writers forewarned me that the querying — Is that a word? It is now — of literary agents for representation is the worst part of writing. And you know what? They’re right.

In some respects, it’s similar to what actors go through when they’re looking for a talent agent. You get some headshots, cobble together a resumé, write a cover letter, and you’re off and running. If talent agents are interested, they call you in for an interview. If not . . . well, you just keep sending those packets out till someone calls and invites you in for an interview.

I won’t bore you with the details of exactly how many query letters I’ve sent out, but it’s been encouraging. A few nibbles here and there. But I’m still waiting to get the call.

I worked for years as an art director and let me tell you, I’ve got a keen sense of design. Everybody rambles on about how your query letter has to be immaculate. I can understand that, but it curls my toes back how many lit agents have poorly designed websites.

If a typo says a lot about a writer, a poor web presence tells me a lot about an agency.

One agency’s splash page had the nerve to use the phrase “state of the art” in reference to their website. I’m sure HTML Neanderthal coded the thing as a science project three years before the internet went public.

So much for being on the cutting edge of design. I can only imagine their take on the 21st century shift in publishing.

— exhaling —

But there’s a couple of agencies out there that have impeccable websites riddled with thought, centered on a concept, and the covers of their published books make me drool because —

1. the design is banging
2. people are buying those books
3. the authors are getting paid.

Now that’s cutting edge.

One agency out there is in receipt of my manuscript, a freakin’ hot website, and killer book covers. And I’m waiting. Patiently.

Okay.

I’m not waiting patiently.

You know it and I know it.

Last night I chatted with a friend on Twitter, a published writer in New Zealand with several published books under his belt, and I was rattling on about being Donald Duck at Walt Disney World, working at Imagineering, having done a film and some TV, the whole Radio City Christmas Spectacular thing, blah, blah, blah. And he went on about how I should cull pictures to show agents, kinda like proof that I’m not making this stuff up.

Brilliant idea! I’ve got all sorts of pictures from back in the day to yesterday. I’ll make a nice little digital presentation for them to pursue after we talk. They’ll love it. I’ll love it. And you’ll love it when you hear me  talk about this very post on my book tour.

I think my uniqueness, and that of my story, is the thing this country hasn’t seen the likes of before. It’s a no-brainer to me. It’s probably a risk for a typical self-professed state of the art agency. But for an agency that’s freakin’ smart enough to see I’m a goldmine with a substantive story to boot, it’s a game changer.

Getting back to that one agency . . .

I so want to change the rules and write the contact at that agency and say/write, “Look, I like you guys. You have style, you’re savvy, and you seem like you’re smart enough to understand the humor, wit, charm, and message in my manuscript. Let’s just cut to the chase: I pick you.”

But no-o-o, protocol dictates that I must wait to be invited to the big dance. After all, who wants a desperate date? Who wants what they can easily get?

Yeah, yeah . . . I know how it works. I went to prom. Twice.

Are you listening Agency X?

Well, I’m not that the garden variety wallflower kind of date. I’m the kind of date your parents adore because I’m smart, funny, responsible, dress well, and a perceived safe date. But at the same time, I never promise to be a good date.

I don’t make promises.

What I do is deliver.

I’m the date that’ll deliver the time of your life — which is something totally different that putting out, capisce? — and at no time will anyone wake up in a tub of cold water missing a kidney. No car chases. And no cops.

So get off your butt, get your head out of the slush pile, and stop wondering how the heck you’re going to find a platform to sell my book or if you’re going to be able to sell the concept to a publisher. Call me up and we’ll talk about it.

I am the platform.

In the meantime, I’m going to go hit these ribs and slather on some homemade chimichurri sauce.

Boo yah!

Sign, Sign, Everywhere A Sign.

Navigating New York City subway trains is a challenge for any newbie. Figuring out late-night train protocol is Russian Roulette amped up to a whole new level. And God be with you if your need for a train coincides with MTA train repairs, the resulting chaos can send the most well-travelled commuter into the streets weeping for a cab. The stories are innumerable.

This is one such story.

On my first few subway rides, I rode with friends who were well-acquainted with the MTA trains and passenger protocol. In a very real sense, they were my chaperones. Buying a MetroCard, swiping the card, and moving through the turnstile in one smooth move were all new to me. I mastered the skill in no time as I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself or give anyone cause to give me a beatdown. If such a thing happened, I knew what the news report would sound like:

“In the news tonight, a small African-American man was found unconscious at the Times Square subway station earlier today. Witnesses say diminutive man was beaten down because he could not swipe his MetroCard and move through the turnstile in a timely manner. One onlooker is quoted as saying, ‘He should have known better. This is New York.’ And in other news . . .”

No, I chose to learn how to swipe my card and work the turnstile so that I could forego that fifteen seconds of evening news infamy, tempting as it was.

For the last four years, I’ve worked October, November, and December in New York as an elf in the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. (More on that later.) One night after rehearsals, several cast members and I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday. The revelry — that’s code for “intake of adult beverages” — ran high. And very late.

Instead of taking a cab home, a fellow elf in the show talked me into taking the train. His stop was much further away, and I didn’t want him to take the train alone. Besides, my stop was ten minutes away, at the most. What could go wrong?

I accompanied my elf-mate downstairs in the Columbus Circle station. Signs warning that many normally scheduled trains were not running wallpapered the station walls. I agreed to take the subway because I figured my elf-mate could interpret the MTA change of service notices so that both of us would reach our destination.

The signs also listed alternate trains to take but despite their number and legibility, the MTA signs held one major flaw: the signs were subject to interpretation. Not mention the fact you had to know exactly where the trains were going or you could wind up anywhere.

When we reached the platform two trains were available: an A train and a D train. I was about to hop on the C and Josh screamed, “No, not the D! The A is local, it’ll stop by your stop.” Well, in my own state of inebriation I doubted my own hunch, and followed his lead and boarded the A train. The train’s door slammed shut and we were spirited away to what I thought was eventually going be my stop. And it was. Eventually.

My elf-mate and I talked about the night’s events as the train approached and sped past the next stop which I thought was a normal stop on its route. Terror washed over me as I turned to my elf-mate.

“Oops, I guess this is an express train,” and laughed. I wanted to wring his neck.

Zoom!

The train continued to pass the next few stops, including mine.

Then in a gravelly voice the conductor announced that for those going to my stop, we had to get off at 125th Street and take the A train in the opposite direction.

Zoom!

A few more stops passed. It felt like I was on a bullet train to Maine.

At around 1:45 in the morning, the train got to 125th Street. I was fit to be tied. I hurriedly exchanged good byes with my elf-mate and hopped off the train and trudged down the uptown platform towards the exit. I noticed that I was only one of about a dozen people heading up the staircase. I hurried to catch up to them — you know, safety in numbers — but all of them quickly exited the station. I didn’t know people could disappear so fast. I took refuge in the thought that a train would be coming any minute to spirit me home as I headed down the staircase to the downtown train platform.

I was still seething about having taken a train for what seemed thousand miles out of my way when I could have spent less than $20 and been at home, showered, updated my Facebook page, and well on the way to Dreamland.

I looked around the platform. I had fallen down a rabbit hole and landed in the Land That Sanitation Forgot. No White Rabbit came to greet me. Instead, a rat the size of a Buick foraged in the shadows for a late night snack.

In the light of day, subways stations don’t look nearly as menacing as they do late at night. At that hour, the place looked like it was covered in the kind bio-hazardous grit and grim that gives the CDC a hard-on.

The platform was peppered with three people: one poor guy in tattered clothes asleep in the fetal position on a bench; a guy who looked like a crusty crack addict out for a nightly kill; and me, a four feet tall Black guy (I’ve already talked about what an attention getter that is in its own right) in a navy blue pea coat, trendy jeans, black Dansko clogs, with a baby blue scarf the size of a parachute tied around my neck.

Two words came to mind to describe me: easy victim.

One word came to mind to describe my situation: dire.

I summoned my deflector shields and secured my don’t-even-think-of-fucking-with-me-because-I-will-tie-you-up-with-this-lovely-scarf-and-beat-you-about-the-head-with-these-clogs mask in place. It seemed to work. The tattered man continued to sleep on the bench and Mr. Crusty Crack Addict kept a safe distance.

And then I noticed a fourth person on the platform, a white guy in his twenties clutching a pristine Banana Republic shopping bag. Hope welled up. With that shopping bag in his hands, surely his appearance signified that he had money on his person and would prove to be a more profitable victim.

(Yeah, yeah . . . I know that was a terrible thing to think, but everything’s fair game when talking self-preservation.)

I prayed earnestly and fervently to Jesus for some immediate and divine intervention on my behalf.

Twenty minutes later . . .

With my skull about to explode from the frustration of not having followed my intuition and taken a cab home, I stopped pacing as I heard the sound of a train approaching.

Victory, sweet victory!

Thank you, Jesus!

I imagined the train’s arrival and delivering me at my stop. Facebook and a bottle of Orangina were soon to be at hand. I listened to the train, but it sounded a bit different. It wasn’t quite as loud as it usually sounded and there I didn’t see any headlights.

My heart sank as a garbage scow motored towards me. It looked like a flatbed on the train tracks bound for Hades loaded down with piles of rusted pieces, parts, and beams from disemboweled trains, but no ferryman helmed the flatbed that night. Charon the ferryman didn’t brave that journey. He had better things to do, like maybe update his Facebook page while enjoying a glass of Orangina.

Another twenty minutes later . . .

I resigned myself to the notion that I might not see the light of day again and my Christmas adventure would end horribly. My body would be found stripped of my wallet, and without my Radio City ID, I’d be a nameless, faceless entity. A mere blip on the evening news: the body of a small black man in a navy pea coat and a bright baby blue scarf was found on the tracks at the 125 Street station, a pair of black Dansko clogs were also found nearby.

Ten minutes later still . . .

A downtown A train arrived. I wasn’t sure it was going to stop at my Upper West Side station, but I knew it was taking me away from where I was.

I boarded the train and fifteen minutes later I finally got that hot shower, had a cold bottle of Orangina, and updated my Facebook page.

As a rule, I do not take the subway anywhere after 10:00 p.m. Ever.

Pruning and Purging … It’s Not Just For Gardeners Anymore.

A week ago I received an email from a very successful children’s book illustrator, whom I hired some twenty years when I worked as an art director at Disney, by the name of Ethan Long. The email announced the sale of origami stars made by his eight year-old son.

I checked out the pictures of sample stars. They were cute and looked well-made. Besides, I couldn’t resist supporting an enterprising young artist.

Bam!

I was onboard and emailed Ethan an order for two stars to be delivered in two to three weeks. Since Ethan and his son live here in Orlando, I figured Ethan and I could get caught up over our favorite caffeinated drinks and I could pick up my handmade stars from him at that time.

Less than a week later, the stars were ready and Ethan and I set up a lunch date for today.

Yesterday was not a good day. For reasons I will not go into, I felt drained of any creative energy and got little, if anything, accomplished. The feeling pretty much bled over into this morning and left me with a sense of dread about my lunch appointment.

Mind you, over the years Ethan and I have gotten together and plumbed the deep waters of each other’s psyches a number of times, so I had no cause to expect anything other than another enriching experience time for both of us. But for some reason (probably my state of mind at the time), I anticipated Ethan prattling on with vainglory about the publishing of his umpteenth book, the cadre of publishers waiting run to the presses with his latest creation, his new animated series, and/or the stresses of having a series nominated for an Emmy. (No, really. One of his series has been nominated for an Emmy.)  Let me be clear, this is not to imply Ethan’s ever done that in the past. Any time he’s talked about his career, the conversation has been generously tempered with a sense of modesty. Besides, he’s worked hard for every success that has come his way.

Okay, so…

I seriously thought of canceling the appointment, but didn’t. And I’m glad I didn’t.

Today’s lunch turned out to be one of those serendipitous appointments — for both of us.

The first words out of his Ethan’s mouth were, “How are you? What have you been up to?” I trotted out my intentionally non-committal “nothing.” But it wasn’t until he poked a little further for a more transparent answer that I realized his inquiry was in earnest.

Confession: Yes, I have a tendency to withdraw and not engage people on occasion. Sue me.

Today’s lunch gave me three major take-aways —

1. The practice of writing morning pages is a must. That’s not to say that I didn’t see the value in doing them before today, I did. But it was nice to hear the benefits of someone else clearing their mind of cobwebs and creating a bit more freely in the here and now.

2. Pruning is an essential part of the creative process. The concept is as old as man. Jesus spoke of the benefits of trimming off dead branches to make way for new growth on more than one occasion. Ask any farmer, home gardener, or horticulturist about pruning, and they’ll all tell you that if you want to see new growth, pruning is the way to go. Granted, we’re not talking about ripping up stuff by the roots, but trimming off the parts that done produce.

3. Purging is equally as important as pruning. The dead branches, the old stuff that doesn’t work, the baggage, the creative clutter, everything that’s not productive has got to go. What’s the purpose in holding onto a bunch of useless stuff? In Jesus parables, the dead branches weren’t tucked into a box and stored for another day. The fruitless limbs were tossed into the fire, irretrievably discarded, because they served no purpose.

Frankly, I found today’s lunch — and the take-aways — freeing. Who knew that kind of inspiration came with a two origami stars?

For more info on the origami stars, contact ethan at ethanlong dot com.

Amy in Addiction Land.

A few minutes ago I read tweet stating that singer-songwriter Amy Winehouse died. Other tweets implied that it might be due to a drug and/or alcohol overdose as that’s the way Miss Winehouse lived her life.

I’m no fan of Winehouse. I couldn’t tell you the name of one of her well-known songs. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard one of her songs. Indifference with a wee bit of sadness kicked in. Over the next few minutes tweets breezed through my timeline ranging from the sarcastic, the sardonic, and the cryptic—all the while a cauldron of feelings began to stir within me.

Then this tweet from actress Marlee Matlin popped up.

Her tweet resonated with me. My cauldron of emotion came to an immediate rolling boil and it all made sense. I’ve had a lot of experience with addictions. I’ve been spared the horrors of having an addiction, but I’ve seen what addictions can do to people.

I’ve had a number of close friends and acquaintances who gleefully walked climbed up the seductively beautiful and flowered side of that hill only to find themselves plummeting down the well-oiled bluff on other side. I have a friend now I suspect is on her way into the gully of addiction.

I’ve seen people lose it all. For some the process was overnight. And for others it was a slow leaching of their lives. In each and every one of those instances the process was painful for them to endure. And painful to watch.

Every once in a while they were strong enough to make it to recovery. But in some instances, like that of my own father whose addiction was alcohol, life with the numbness of substance abuse was more attractive than life without it. So when I hear stories of people who’ve been able to make it to recovery/sobriety, I give them a pat on the back as I know it was no small feat.

So for those who are unable or unwilling to seek help, my heart goes out to you.

To those whose lives have not been touched by addiction and see the matter as one whose remedy is as simple as tying your shoes, a modicum of compassion and a walk in the addict’s shoes would serve you well. Heaven help you should you find yourself in the Land of Addiction.

And to those who’ve made it to sobriety island, like Ms. Matlin, well done. And keep up the good work.

All life is sacred. Even if the one who ends their own doesn’t think so.

An Affair to Remember (Redux).

The summer of ’09 was a bleak period for me . . . having spent a year and a half working with my contact at Village Road Show Pictures only for him to lose his job and all interest in my script, cooking became a solace for me.

Breakfast foods became my focus.

I mastered the basics: espresso drinks, quiches, pain perdu (French toast), mesclun salads with homemade vinaigrette dressings, et cetera.  All these foods and the New York Times joined my weekly trips to church as part of my Sunday ritual.

Back in February, friends took me to the Ritz-Carlton in Orlando for my birthday for high tea.  It was a great experience that sparked a love of scones.  I tasted scones before, but didn’t take a sufficient liking to them.  They were always too dry and crumbly, but the scones served at the Ritz were moist, flavorful, and in a word “unbelievable.”

I set out to add scones to my cooking repertoire.

About the same time, I was also becoming acquainted with Twitter and around mid-April I came across a New York Times article about a woman in Ireland who tweeted recipes.  The idea of complete recipes condensed to 140 character intrigued me, so I “followed” her and began deciphering her tweets and actually tried a recipe or two.

I asked my new Twitter-friend if she had an authentic European scone recipe.  Maureen tweeted that she was more than happy to aid me in my quest, but that it would take a while as she swamped with another project.

In my mind, the longer it took Maureen to find just the right recipe the more time I had to better my scone-making technique.

I went through dozens of Food Network chefs’ recipes for scones.  I learned of the value of a pastry cutter, the scone pan, and cold unsalted butter.  One only has to use salted butter in scones once instead of the required unsalted butter and it’ll never happen again.  Salted butter gives scones a nasty, briny taste.

My process was hit or miss at best for quite a while.

A month or so later Maureen tweeted that making scones were not as easy she originally thought. I agreed. She also said that she was inundated with work and family demands and that the search for the perfect scone recipe would have to be put on hold.

On September 11, I received the tweeted recipe. I made a batch that day, and the results were heavenly. I added dried cranberries and orange zest and made the recipe my own. Even my mom, who suffered through months of good and bad scones, noticed a big difference and deemed the batch made from Maureen’s recipe to be the best ever.

I tweeted Maureen that her recipe was perfect! She was delighted!

Somewhere during that six month period, I tweeted Maureen that I would be in New York City performing in the Christmas Spectacular and if by chance she was in New York it’d be great to meet. As it turned out, she was going to be in New York and she’d see if we could get together.

After tweeting back and forth and to my delight, Maureen told me she and her partner had purchased tickets to see me in one of my shows. We made tentative plans for me to give her a backstage tour at the Music Hall and we’d chat about other things afterwards.

But Maureen had a big secret, one that she’d share with me when we met.

The day came and unfortunately for me, the reason for Maureen’s visit ate up her schedule and she was unable to attend the show. But she was most charming as she broke the news to me over the telephone. I could tell she was genuinely sorry she couldn’t make it to the show, but offered instead to meet after the show for a few minutes. We made plans to meet underneath the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.

The show ended and I scurried in the rain over to the designated spot: between the tree and 30 Rock (the skyscraper behind the tree).  I felt like I was living a scene in a movie waiting at a landmark for a clandestine rendez-vous.

Ten minutes later the sky was darker and the rain fell a little harder. And no sign of  Maureen or her partner Blaine. But that was cool, I figured either the trains were running late or they were caught in traffic.

Twenty minutes later I was getting nervous, still no Maureen, but I had my iPod to keep me company. Maybe I wasn’t clear as to the exact location. I walked around the perimeter of the tree. No petite Irish woman with dark brown hair or tall man with long blond hair in sight.

Had I been naive about the whole thing? I felt like a boob. Once again, New York had gotten the best of me and my optimism.  t happened the previous week when I tried to give away two tickets to our dress rehearsal. When would I learn?

Thirty minutes later . . . I was done. I trudged back to the theater. I hadn’t had lunch so I cut through the bank to my favorite multi-culty restaurant for some take-out.

And my phone rang.

It was Maureen. Her meeting ran late. She woefully apologized and wanted to know if there was any way to salvage a meeting or if she had botched everything. Being one of those people who believes in second chances, I agreed to give it another go. Plus, I’m a sucker for accents. We agreed on the same place. She said she’d be there in ten to fifteen minutes. So I dropped my dinner off at my dressing room, and headed back to the tree for a second time with my iPod cranking my favorite Christmas tunes.

I put that downloaded version of Scrabble to use while I waited and hummed something to myself under the shelter of 30 Rock.

I faintly heard someone say “Clay?” And there was the tap on the shoulder. It was Maureen!

She and her partner Blaine made it. They both were soaked and he had the makings of a fine cold.

I knew they were short on time, as they had another meeting after mine, and were catching a flight out that night for Belfast. I ushered them downstairs out of the rain to a courtyard where there were normally tons of chairs.

Maureen, Blaine, and me.

I can’t put it any other way, Maureen and Blaine were delightful. As you can see in the picture, she’s petite. What you can’t see in the picture is her genuine modesty and gentleness. There was no guile in her style.

The conversation flowed freely. It was like meeting a new old friend. We talked about scones, food, life in Belfast, life in New York, and the validity of Twitter as a tool for not just communicating news and ideas, but its use as a tool for enabling face to face relationships.

It was more than I could have ever hoped for.

Then she dropped the bomb: her reason for being in New York. She had a book deal for a compilation of her tweeted recipes and had a meeting with her publisher.

Then she dropped another bombshell: she brought a gift for me. A bundle of Irish candies. Once again, I was stunned. And I had nothing in my hands to offer her. Usually, I’m up on that sort of thing, but that time I completely dropped the ball.

And then she dropped a third bombshell: Maureen pleaded with me to allow her to include my cranberry-orange scones recipe in her book! I was floored! I told her the recipe was hers, I simply made a slight change here and there. The situation was quite funny, but I told her of course she include the recipe in her book.

I felt honored!

Does that count as being published?

Anyway, time drew nigh for Maureen and Blaine to head off to their next appointment. I walked them over to 51st Street to find a cab. After not even two minutes, a cab pulled up, we hugged and I put them in. Well, they put themselves into the cab, but you know what I mean. They sped off into the city’s myriad of cars, buses, cabs, and pedi-cabs.

Click here to follow Maureen at Twitter.

My Shortest Post Ever.

No news to speak of, really. I’m sending out query letters and getting a nibble here and there. It’s looking good though.

281 Pages Later …

My manuscript has been successfully written, proofread, edited, re-written, re-proofed, and re-edited. And it’s done. The only thing left to do is write a suitably pithy epilogue.

Today is a great day!

Hallelujah!

Every Party Has a Pooper.

I bet many of you didn’t know that June 9 marks the birthday of one of America’s most enduring icons: Donald Duck. I bet even more of you didn’t know that Donald Duck was my alter-ego for a number years at Walt Disney World near Orlando. Yes, I was a costumed character. And I loved it! In honor of the Billed One’s birthday, here’s one of my favorite anecdotes from those lost past Disney days. As you’ll see, Donald wasn’t the only one with a temper. Enjoy!

[cue: "When You Wish Upon A Star" loop]

__________

© Disney

Two years into my tenure as Donald Duck, I realized that I didn’t want to be a costumed character for the rest of my life, so I decided to return to college and complete my Bachelor’s degree at the expense of missing a show or two a week. There was only one other understudy trained when the Show Biz Is opened, but there were plenty of people waiting in line who wanted to perform as Donald in the show. Granted, they were a little taller than the ideal four feet for the Donald Duck costume, but hey, we don’t live in a perfect world, right?

I knew that supervision couldn’t just go to the pantry and open up a can of Donald Duck subs to cover me in the show. It would take time to teach another sub the intricacies of  the show. Two months before classes began (more than enough time to rehearse a whole flock of Donald Duck subs), I told Character Supervision of my decision to return to school, and that I needed to be replaced for the last show on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but was still available to do the other twenty-three shows each week.

A couple days later a few hours before the parade, one of my supervisors informed me that they were unable to accommodate my request and that I’d have to put my matriculation on hold. Instantly, I felt the veins in my neck swell in size and begin to throb uncontrollably.

“Okay,” I said, and calmly left the office.

I was outraged at their unwillingness to work with me. What added insult to injury was the fact that I had been overlooked for leadership positions within the department. When I expressed an interest in those positions, I was told that I was more valuable as a Duck. Working in Characters was something I never wanted to do to begin with, but I did it, and did it well. Apparently, too well for my own good. I saw myself as much more than a Duck. I had other talents they didn’t know about. The idea that they saw me in such a narrow-minded way infuriated me.

The daily Magic Kingdom parade was advertised in hundreds of thousands pieces of literature all over Walt Disney World and around central Florida. The parade that year was Donald Duck’s 50th Birthday parade. It so happened that the same day Character Supervision chose to deny my request, I was scheduled as the birthday duck who rode on the finale float. I was not going to be denied the opportunity to finish my degree. I knew exactly how to handle the situation and it would be handled before I clocked out that day.

At three o’clock, the parade rolled into the park and I leisurely began to put on my costume pieces, same as any other day. I talked to co-workers as the float motored to within a few yards of being seen by the public and then, at the last possible minute before my float rounded the corner and I would have been seen by tourists, I announced, “I don’t have any duck gloves!”

The float lurched to a stop and chaos ensued.

I stood atop the float completely dressed as Donald Duck with my own brown head and arms exposed, with a Donald head in my hands waiting for a pair of duck gloves to magically appear. As the seconds turned into minutes, I gave serious thought to my situation. If a pair of gloves didn’t appear right away, I might not have a job to conflict with my classes.

Wardrobe scrambled like mad to find a pair of duck gloves, but there were none in sight. All of the parade crept along Main Street USA, waiting for the finale float I was standing on to join the party. Sully, the park’s Operations Vice President, a man who had a hard-core, old school, military background, was livid about the disruption.

Miraculously, someone ran up to the top of the float with a pair of gloves and helped me into them, slammed the Donald Duck head onto me, and stuffed neck cloth into sailor shirt. The float raced around Town Square to catch up with rest of the parade. I was wobbling around like I was surfing. Midpoint during the parade on the Liberty Square bridge, someone yelled to me that Mike, the director of Magic Kingdom Entertainment, wanted to see me in his office immediately after the parade. I knew my goose was cooked.

During the brief meeting, I never mentioned returning to college. Mike never called my guilt or innocence into question; he simply delivered a single message from Sully: people have been fired for less.

I did, however, enroll for classes at Rollins College just outside Orlando.