Charity Fundraising - 2. Chapter 2 - Introductions

I wasn’t exactly sure about the layout of the carnival, but did vaguely recall seeing port-a-johns right next to our booths. “Let’s go find out,” I replied.

Now that I was sure they were really going to be with me for the day I started thinking a little more clearly. “I’m going to drive over to our stand. There’s room for the locker if you put it in the back carefully. I think there’s only room for one of you in the passenger seat, though.”

“Can we drive too?” asked one of the minions.

“Probably better not. Once you park in there you’re stuck until the party’s over. We might want to send someone out for grub or more supplies later. I don’t think it’s a long walk.”

Joe surveyed the minions imperiously, and added “RHIP.”

While the others groaned and protested half-heartedly I faced Joe with an unspoken question. “Rank has its privileges,” he replied. “It’s my project.”

So I opened the back for the boys and unlocked the passenger door for Joe. We were off in 2 minutes and at our destination in 7.

Ben hadn’t skimped on the tank rental. It was square, metal, blue, and larger than those plastic ones everybody is using now. The front of the actual tank was see-through. Behind the target was a large area perfect for one of the YEC banners. The tank had been delivered and leveled by professionals. I parked directly behind that to hopefully protect Ben’s truck from stray throws. The space for both the tank and the other booth were marked with flags - but as they were adjacent we had the option to flex them if we wanted. And indeed, the portables were right next to us. The carnival folks were also smart enough to make sure we were right by a water spigot. A concrete drain in the ground was in the back between the two booths.

Knowing that the setup that would take the longest was filling the tank, I opened the back to look for the hose. The “slaves” pulled out their locker again then stopped to look to me for instructions.

“Umm, since we’re on a project you’re in charge of our uniforms.”

I was liking this. Should I go for Speedos or birthday suits? Hmmm…..-No get real.

“Well, clearly the Speedos are your underwear. Find some shorts and t-shirts and come back in them so you don’t get your nice clothes muddy. You can put them in the seat of the truck to keep them safe.”

“And the beanies? We can’t take them off without special permission.”

This required a moment’s thought. “Well, as long as you are working hard, put them in the truck too. But any slouchers have to put them back on.” Smirks and more half-hearted groaning.

I went back to the task of filling the tank while they went off. The hose had a nozzle attached to it that would spray or trickle. I found a way to rig it to the tank on full blast so that it didn’t spray out onto the grass, then went back to the rest of the supplies.

The pie booth was on the bottom. But it was only painted plywood with two plywood wings on hinges to hold it up. It could wait until last. Several banners were rolled up. We had t-bars designed to drive into the ground for temporary fencing, long metal rods and bailing wire. I think Ben ordered the foam pie plates from a clown supply company online. There were several cases of shaving foam, unscented and unmedicated - not the ideal pie recipe but it stored well overnight. We also had flyers for the YEC, folding tables, two cash drawers with starter cash in them, and various miscellanous items. It’s good we didn’t have to deal with tickets at this carnival. I counted out $150.00 then split it evenly between the two drawers.

By then the boys were back. They had discovered flip-flops and baseball caps underneath the towels. They also found sunscreen but agreed that they could put that on after we set up.

Many hands make light work. And a little rain makes t-bars go into the ground a lot easier. Soon we had a YEC banner up behind the dunk tank target and another behind the pie throwing stand. In-between, just in front of the drain, we had rigged a changing area with the poles, t-bars, and extra banners. It was only 5 feet tall, but covered what it needed to and at the same time provided extra advertising space. These ingenious college students also figured out that the hooks on the pie stand were for tie-downs. It was always blowing down the first time I did this, but not today.

At 6:30 the tank was less than half full. Everything else was ready. The pie board wasn’t one of those silly ones with a little hole for the face, but instead had on-third moons cut out of the top so you just put your chin over it. I started dreamily imagining the guys standing there waiting. Then I realized that I only knew Joe’s name. Well, let’s start this right.

“As you already know, my name is Scott. I graduated from Big State U three years ago with a degree in social work. I had volunteered at YEC while at school so they offered me a job when I graduated. This is my second time to work at the carnival. Ben is my boss. He graduated a few years before I am, and I understand he is an alum of your fraternity. You won’t see him today, though, because he and the rest of the staff are on the coast for training in race sensitivity.” Involuntarily I looked at the one African-American member of our group. He smiled back. “I’m gonna need all of your names a few times before I get them straight. Might as well do the whole major and hometown thing as well.”

The consummate leader started, of course. “You already know I am Joe. For Josephus, but if you call me that I’ll slug you.” Despite his muscular build and strong words, he gave off no vibes that he would ever even think of following up on that threat. “I’m here on an athletic scholarship to the wrestling team.” Called it, didn’t I!!! “I’m thinking of going WWF, but if that doesn’t work out I’ll go to law school. Army brat, so I don’t have a hometown.” He turned and looked at a guy with short, curly black hair.

Reluctantly I turned away from Adonis, but this guy wasn’t all that bad either. Tall, lanky, but well proportioned; small pecs were obvious through the tight t-shirt he had selected. There was one pimple on his relaxed face, but it was located where beauty marks used to be on ladies in black & white movies so the effect wasn’t really negative. I had to force myself to stop thinking about how his hair would look weighed down with water so I could listen.

“I am Mike, and it is short for what you think it is short for.” The other guys snicker - obviously an inside joke. Perhaps about Joe. “Pre-med - despite what my mother says about 20 years of school. Academic scholarship. I’m from around here.” He turns to the token black man.

This guy is slightly shorter, but in a muscle shirt so I can see his chest. Just as thin but noticeably more muscular than Mike. Sort of a milk chocolate skin tone. Hair almost shaved. Already wearing shades: cheap ones with pink temples that he probably picked up free at a party. “Ray, short for Raymond. From Mobile, Alabama. Voice major.” Breaks into a Stevie Wonder imitation, playing air piano. “You are the sunshine of my life, and I will always…..” Ray gets dog piled at this point. Doesn’t look like the first time. I suspect it won’t be the last either.

By now, I’m really getting to think we’ve got a great team for the day ahead. Except possibly for the one guy not on the ground at the moment. Dirty-blond hair, parted in the middle. Picked a shirt way too big, so I’m not sure what his muscles look like, but his legs aren’t scrawny. He looks up at me a little shy, and seeing he is the only one still standing, takes a breath. “John. From Houston. Undecided.” He glances at the dog pile, then lowers his voice. “You know, I really wish there had been a place like YEC where I grew up.” My eyebrows go up in interest, but just then the dog pile starts collapsing.

“Sorry about that,” says Joe. “Okay everybody, ATTENTION!” Everyone lines up, snaps to, and bucks out their chests. Some chuckles mar the effect somewhat. “NO MORE FUNNY BUSINESS!!” More chuckling. Our whole day is going to be about funny business and everybody knows it. “Now, who hasn’t reported in yet? Chuck.”

A toehead blond takes two exaggerated marching steps forward, and resumes his attention stance. He had chosen a green shirt, way too big for him, with the sleeves ripped halfway down his sides. Also muscular but with some baby fat. “Charles, but you can call me Chuck. Football player. I plan to major in girls.” I can see another dog pile in the offing, but so does Joe and he turns his gaze imperiously toward the troops.

“He’s from a small town 50 miles south of here and most definitely the stupidest of the bunch,” adds Joe. Far from being offended, Chuck’s smile gets wider. “I don’t think he can handle a more strenuous major than that. Okay get back in line you idiot. Pete!”

Brown hair and eyes. If he lets his hair grow another week he could guest star on That 70's Show. Streamlined body. Taller than Joe but shorter than everybody else. He mimicks Chuck’s marching moves. “My name is Peter. Call me anything you want, just don’t call me late for dinner.” More chuckles. “Swimming scholarship.” Figures. “All the way from Fargo, North Dakota, and boy am I glad to be out of the cold.”

“I bet you are,” I replied. “Looks like you’ll get to show us some of your skills soon.” Everyone breaks character at this point, but all stay rooted to their spots. When the laughter subsides, Joe is on top of things again.

“Last, and most certainly least, Tiny.”

Pete steps back in line. The largest pledge there seems to forget he is supposed to step forward. His yellow shirt seems to be only a large, and appears to be about to burst its seams. “I’m Thomas. My nickname is Tommy, but everyone else calls me Tiny. I guess you can too. I’m on the wrestling team with Joe, majoring in Business. I’m from LA.” Bald, but sporting a goatee, he looks alot more like to make it into WWF than Joe does.

Joe faces me again and snaps to attention himself. “That’s your team from the pledge class of Pi Iota Alpha. And what are your orders, SIR!”

“At ease, gentlemen.” I’m curious whether they know the difference between that and “fall out.” They do. Apparently their pledge master has taught them how to be in control. Each one slides their right foot to the side and clasps hands behind their back. This is real good. There's more freedom to let everyone have fun if you can call everyone back into control when you need to.

It’s still only 6:50 and the gates don’t open for forty minuters. The tank is three-quarters full, but deep enough we could use it in a pinch.

“Okay ladies. My philosophy on these games is that you should be able to tell the difference between before and after a successful hit. I see you have a good mix of colored and white t-shirts in your locker - and lots of extras. That means the white ones when you are in the tank and the dark ones when you are at the pie throw. The white cream will show up better on darker shirts, and the white t-shirts will show through better when wet.”

I pause to see whether anyone is disgusted, offended, or embarrassed. Only John is looking pensive - the rest have the giggles. I smile at him, and he gives me a tentative smile back. I press on.

“The prices are a dollar for three throws at the tank, and a dollar for one throw at the pie booth. We may need to ration the cream for the pies, I’m not sure yet. Occasionally you will want to change into dry clothes because people love a first dunk or a first pie, but obviously we need to ration the clothing as well. That’s what the changing area behind you is for - so we don’t clog the bathrooms for customers.

“The real money, though, comes from complying with special requests. You can negotiate the cost of allowing someone to push the button or go point blank on a pie. No less than $5 for either, but if you can talk them higher go for it. It’s for the kids at YEC - let them know that. If you are working the table and someone wants to put you in either booth, negotiate for that as well. Make a show of it - it’ll be more fun and more profitable.”

Grins were getting bigger. But in no case was the transformation more pronounced than with John. He starting to warm up to this.

“You can work out a schedule with Joe, but we need at least 2 people working each booth at all times: table and target. If you need a break you probably better check out the other attractions, because if you are within spitting distance you are on call. Unless I get sunstroke I’ll be here the whole time because I’m responsible for the money. Now, fall out and come see how the dunking mechanism works.”

While this wasn’t rocket science it is good to take a look at it beforehand. We set up and triggered the mechanism a couple times, then had each one reset and trigger it again for practice. I also went over the safety checklist clipped to the back of the tank, and admonished them to go all the way under each time they were legitimately dunked. By now, I could adjust the nozzle on the hose to trickle setting. Surprisingly, we still had 30 minutes left. “So, who’s ever been in one of these before.”

They all exchanged glances. To my astonishment, the only who raised a hand was John. Okay. That’s interesting. “So, John, any advice for these virgins?”

That last word only stunned him for a moment. Then he recovered and started. “Well, the first dunk is the scariest. You’re tempted to try to grab the sides on the way down, but don’t do it. Like Scott said, we want a good show, and that messes up the show. Trash talk is essential.” He was really warming up to this. After a pause I was about to take them over to the pie booth. But John spoke up again. “Since we have time, I suggest each of you go up there now for a couple of dunks to get used to it before we have an audience.”

I wouldn’t have suggested that, but had been thinking it real hard. And how much orientation do you need for a pie booth besides, “close your eyes,” anyway. Let’s let this play out.

They guys are looking at each other nervously. John adds, “That will also give us a good idea where to set the throwing lines.” Everyone turns to Joe.

He sees all their eyes and says, “Okay, who’s first.”