An Actor's Life for Me, Part 4

Posted by Trevor on April 30, 2009

Tags: Big Bad Wolf, Disneyland, Three Little Pigs

The three guys playing the Three Little Pigs were all ex-marching band geeks themselves, fans of the Three Stooges and quite accomplished choral whistlers--a skill that they practiced out on set, in violation of the Disney-ian edict against making noises of any kind in costume. But they did it anyway and had amassed quite a repertory of whistle tunes and would often take requests. My personal favorite was Roger Miller's "Whistle Stop" song from the animated Robin Hood film. The one they did most often was their own rendition of "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho" mixed with the theme from the Bridge on the River Kwai. They'd been working together since the 1970s. James, Carl and Derek all had faces that, although pimple-free due to their advanced age, were probably best left hidden from the public behind thick layers of Fiberglas in those old big-headed costumes. They were lifers, happy to be under huge smiling pig heads, and they took pride in the fact that they would never have to show their actual faces in the park. But they also knew that their days as pigs were numbered, which could account for their current crankiness.

Management had recently issued a memo stating that they were going to "downsize" the pigs. No discussion, no deliberation. Just a matter-of-fact statement pinned to the Zoo Board. That wasn't a cruel corporate euphemism; it actually meant exactly what it sounded like. Fifer, Fiddler and Practical Pigs would all be "downsized." They were going to shrink the costumes. They would be moving down a few levels in height range to around "mouse height". There was no fixed date, but it was just a matter of time. Just as the powers that be had done to the old Seven Dwarves costumes--and that they were currently in the process of doing to the old "hunny-pot" Pooh costume--the Three Little Pig suits were going to be replaced with new ones that had lighter heads, shorter bodies and fully articulated hands. These would more closely resemble the animated characters from their cartoon and, as the pork triplets pointed out, they would also "Have to sign those damn autograph books!" One of the nicest things about animating a character with "stick arms" was that you didn't have to autograph anything. You simply couldn't even if you wanted to because the fingers were fake and arranged in statue-like poses on the end of short wooden poles.

Upper management was well aware that one of their hottest-selling items at the front gate gift shop, at least the ones with one of the highest profit margins, was the character autograph books. Basically they were thick little books emblazoned with the word "Autographs" on the front cover with an illustration of Donald looking like an autograph hound and filled with blank pieces of paper. They were made in China, as attested by that ubiquitous phrase printed on the back cover. These little babies retailed for $3.99 each. The nonunion atmosphere characters were earning minimum wage, which had just been raised to $4.25 at the time. So even I could afford one. The pay, as minuscule as it may have been, was at least an improvement over the previous summer when I had been working as Captain Caveman, a stone-aged super hero, and only making $3.35 per hour.

With regards to autograph books, Jerry said that we "really should try to autograph anything that we were asked to sign, but especially those little golden books." So many sets were spent just going from one book to the next, getting writer's cramp after hours and hours of this behavior. And if you left any unsigned before leaving on a break, guests would rush to City Hall to complain, especially if their children couldn't get a certain character's autograph.

The Three Little Pigs were constantly being accused of snubbing some poor little girl by ignoring her pleas to contribute their signatures to her almost, but not quite, completed cartoon character collection. Even the Big Bad Wolf may have written "Love and kisses, B.B." But the porcine divas would avoid the little autograph hounds like plague-ridden paparazzi. Kids couldn't understand why they would run away; in the cartoon the pigs talked and sang and danced. Little Johnny or Susie didn't understand about "fake hands," they just really had to have Practical Pig's signature in their official autograph book, even if they had spent his whole set calling him Porky Pig. From the point of view of a parent who has just spent a lot of money on gas, tickets, accommodations and food and then further made a promise to their little princess that a certain fairy tale character would write "I love you" in their little book, it was simply unacceptable that they couldn't due to their piggy prosthetic limbs, and management was inclined to agree. So, the ax would fall on an era, and the big pigs' days were numbered and they weren't too happy about it.

They were still making barking noises and pretending to howl at the moon long after Shane had gotten out of earshot to go off to get into his dog suit. Just then, Alex, who was their regularly scheduled Big Bad Wolf and who wouldn't be affected by their costume switch, poked his head into the locker room. He cocked his head sideways, listening to the howls and looked quizzically at me for a second as if to ask what the noise was all about. I just smiled, shrugged and went on tying my shoes. He went over to the small dorm-room refrigerator in the corner, opened it, and grabbed a can before the door swung back shut with a violent slam. He smiled an evil grin, popped the can open and slammed the soda. The guys were still joking around on the other side of the bank of lockers when one of them said, "Who is it? We're not dressed."

Alex said in a loud booming voice "The Big Bad Wolf is in the house! I'm gonna huff and puff and...." He then proceeded to belch out the rest of his catch phrase, the carbonation creating quite a demonic resonance in the confined locker room space. "I'm gonna blooow yoooour hoooouse doooooooooooooooooown." The last word taking the longest to burp out and still reverberating through the air when there was a spontaneous burst of applause from the pigs.

"Nice one, Mister Wolf!"

"Very good tone, Wolfy!"

"That was very life-like. You should apply for face-character, Big Bad."

Alex just sneered and said, "Move over bacon, now there's something meatier."

Though he didn't act like it in the locker room, Alex was the resident ladies' man of the department. Tall, dark and traditionally handsome. I couldn't help but watch, green with envy like many of the younger guys, as he would simply strut around backstage and the beautiful women of the department, princess and parade dancers included, would actually throw themselves at him. He could have been one of the Princes Charming if he'd wanted to, but he said he preferred playing the Wolf because he liked to "scare the kids." Then he would say, grinning wolfishly, after some drop-dead gorgeous bathing suit model had been flirting with him out on set, "the ladies all love the big bad boy" as he flashed a hotel room number written on a paper napkin.

Alex had just been down the hall at the corkboard outside of the lead office, the center of social activity where all the memos were posted. If you waited long enough, everyone eventually came by to pick up their set schedules, check out the memos and trade shifts as well as stories. You could meet a cross-section of the Character Department on any given day. He had just finished successfully chatting up one of the na�ve new hires in the hallway, a Chipmunk-height girl with long blonde hair who had come in with my group. I had managed to get up enough courage to ask Kimberly if she wanted to go into the park a few days ago, and then the day after that, and then yesterday, but she had simply said that she was indeterminately "busy," which as far as I was concerned would be the case for the indefinite future. I had finally received her not-so-subtle hint like a toddler's fist to the groin.

Alex was still collecting the accolades on his impromptu performance from the man-pigs emerging from around the far end of the lockers, when suddenly, his latest conquest pushed open the door and walked into the locker room.

She was young and cute, a portrait of innocence. A future princess in training. She just stood there taking in the scene, wrinkling up her nose because of the stench. I was just glad that I had my shorts on.

The Three Pigs squealed in unison, "Men only!"

"Relax, I told her she could put her lunch in the fridge," Alex cooled at them. Turning back to her, charm on full blast, he snorted, "Male chauvinist pigs, huh? What are you gonna do with 'em?"

He removed a pair of old sneakers from the lowest shelf and helped her stuff her plastic container of celery and raw carrots into the overflowing icebox. As he escorted her out, he held a small piece of paper up behind his back for the rest of us to gaze at in admiration. It had her name, Kimmi, written on it in bright pink ink, with two little hearts where the dots for the "i"s should be. He was tapping it lightly with his middle finger where she had neatly inscribed her phone number. He was saying to her, "Nah, I don't have to have lunch with those jokers, why don't we get together and I can show you around backstage?"

He was followed by "Larry, Curly and Moe" who were each trying unsuccessfully to grab for the coveted piece of paper that Alex had just slipped into his back pocket. As the Zoo door closed behind them, I glanced up at the ubiquitous Mickey-clock glaring down from the wall. I swore it looked like he was giving me the finger at five to the hour, and I realized I couldn't put it off any longer. I had to go put on my cat suit. I closed my locker, picked up my towel and ran upstairs towards the bright light of the heat-stroke-inducing Anaheim sun.

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