D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
April
2009
LIFE IN THE SOUTHWEST
Rollo and the Mountain of Doom
For two high-school boys in 1950s Silver City, one wrong turn could take all the "joy" out of joy riding.
By Phillip Parotti
Editor's note: Fans of Phillip "Pep" Parotti's occasional, er, embellished reminiscences of growing up in Silver City are in luck. The long-awaited tale of Pep, his pal Rollo and their W Mountain adventure has at last been put on paper, debuting to an eager public on this very page. Previous Parotti yarns may be found in our issues of March 2007 ("Diamond in the Rough"), September 2007 ("Some Memories of Mildred's"), May 2008 ("Brick and Mortar Memories") and January 2009 ("Salsa Days"), all of which are available on our Web site at www.desertexposure.com
Western High School's senior play had been announced. A call had gone out, and the Thespians had gathered. Rollo and I were not amongst them. Misty, Muffy, Buffy, Shelley Cream and Ethel Pure affected extreme displeasure and offered immediate threats of turning frigid, so Rollo and I had no choice but to defend ourselves.
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"During Dad's sabbatical in Champaign," I said modestly, "I trod the boards at Urbana High, earning a crown of ivy for work as one of the leads in a Cornelia Otis Skinner classic. A scout from Twentieth Century Fox was said to have commended my performance. I should feel badly if, by taking so much as a bit part, I denied one of my classmates an equal opportunity to shine."
"Pep and I," Rollo said augustly, "hope to lend our talents through managerial and administrative endeavor. Our objective will be to create a public relations campaign which will fill Light Hall to 'standing room only' capacity for at least three consecutive nights."
Misty and Buffy threw us skeptical glances.
"Speculation is the enemy of calm," I warned. "You may rest assured that Rollo and I will take council with a professional."
It was amazing to see that one word's effect, for on the instant, it poured no less than a barrel of oil upon the troubled waters of a fish pond. Rollo then hastened to underscore the point.
"For the Class of '59," he said forcefully, "nothing short of a professional campaign will be tolerated."
Of course I can't be sure, but what I think sold the program and got us out of the soup was the fact that a professional bull rider, with the unlikely name of Slim Buckmeister, had been through town to participate in the previous summer's rodeo. Half the girls in town had fallen in love with Slim and the other half had fallen in love with the slim idea of a professional anything. So we sailed right through this little confrontation to emerge smelling like a couple of roses.
Furthermore, in addition to keeping the girls happy by getting involved with the play, we didn't have to attend rehearsals, put up with a nagging director, or memorize parts. In fact, on the spur of the moment and with only the sleightest of hand, we'd cleverly designed semi-autonomous roles for ourselves. No one whom we could think of would be liable to take the slightest interest in us, which meant that we could go about our "work" doing pretty much what we wanted to do when we wanted to do it. We enthusiastically congratulated ourselves by going down to the Ranchburger and tipping a couple of root beers.
About the time we were starting on our second root beer and without even so much as turning his head, Rollo asked, "Who's the professional?"
"Yes," I said, "well . . . , that would be Dad. But just to make sure, right after we finish here, I think we might be wise to stop by the house and touch base with him."
Rollo registered agreement, but he knew as well as I did that we were in like clams.
So, after we'd polished off the remains of our root beers, we drove over to the house and held an executive committee meeting with Dad.
Professionally, my father was the chairman of the Music Department at New Mexico Western College (today's WNMU). In those days, because he headed a large department with a band, orchestra and chorus, it was a big job, and he was a busy man. But what I knew and what Rollo knew was that, while he had started out playing with the Big Bands during the Thirties, Dad had also supported himself all the way through high school and college as a sign painter.
In the late Twenties and on into the Thirties, the movie studios did not always send out preprinted posters to advertise their films. In small towns all across America, movie houses, grocery stores, department stores and just about everyone else needed hand-painted advertising to go up on their windows in order to announce everything from movie offerings to vegetable prices. Having picked up the art from an older brother, my father had become a master sign painter. Without any preliminary design or layout whatsoever, he could free-hand a perfect poster in a matter of seconds, do it in multiple colors, and add a series of highlights that instantly caught the eye. He knew all the tricks, and even then, he still kept his brushes, expensive camel-hair tools, in a locked box that my sister and I were rarely allowed to see, much less touch.
"Dad," I said, after the preliminaries, "Rollo and I have taken on a public relations assignment for the senior play. We were wondering if you could paint some posters for us."
Dad looked amused. "Public relations?" he said. "Would that be a new term for advertising?"
Rollo and I tried to look amused, too. "That's what they're calling it now, Dad," I said finally.
Dad smiled. "Sounds like educationalese to me," he said, "but nevertheless, I think I can help you. If you boys will bring me some poster paint and some poster boards about two weeks before the play is scheduled to open, I think I can whip out about 20 posters for you in less than an hour. Agreed?"
We agreed.
"And you won't mind if I still call it 'advertising'?"
Rollo and I agreed that we wouldn't mind.
Five weeks later, as work on the play was approaching what Shelley Cream, Misty, Buffy, Muffy and Ethel Pure called "sustained perfection," Rollo and I hit the college bookstore, came away with plenty of poster board and poster paint, and got down to my house in time to catch my father during the quiet hour before my mother had started preparing the evening meal. We then followed Dad to the kitchen table and watched stupefied as he whipped out 20 posters in such a variety of colors and lettering styles that we couldn't imagine where he had thought them up. I'd once watched Ethel Pure labor over a cheerleading poster, and, as I recall, it had taken her pretty close to three hours to produce something that my father could put in the shade in three minutes.
"Always glad to help," Dad said. "Just let me know if you need any more."
After putting the posters away in my room for later distribution, Rollo and I went down to the Ranchburger to congratulate ourselves, over a couple of root beers, on the fruits of our labor.
"This campaign is shaping up nicely," Rollo said, musing over the contents of his mug. "I think our next step is to create a Press Release."
"I think you may be right," I said. "From what I'm told, Miss Sulky Tawdry is the new receptionist down at the paper, and a good press release might be just the way to meet her."
On the following afternoon, after having spent one entire study period composing a carefully crafted press release, Rollo and I reported to the offices of the Silver City Daily Press. As it turned out, we'd been misinformed: Miss Sulky Tawdry had not been hired as the receptionist, nor had she been hired by the paper in any other capacity. Instead, she appeared still to be a student at Cobre High School, where she was still trying to pass senior chemistry. It was a grave disappointment to us when we learned this, but the nice lady who sat behind the reception desk was, indeed, most helpful and promised to give our press release her "close personal attention." So when we finally departed, we felt we had accomplished a lot.
Mr. Mullane, at the Silver City Enterprise, proved equally supportive, so when we left his offices on Bullard and drove up to the Ranchburger for a fortifying root beer, we had good reason to congratulate ourselves on our early success, and began to think we might have a future in public relations. Already, you see, New York had begun to beckon. On the following day, our instant good fortune in arranging for radio station KSIL to broadcast our press release suggested that the sky might be the limit.
"Tomorrow," Rollo said with enthusiasm, "beginning at 9 a.m., I think we should go out to distribute the posters."
"Tomorrow, at 9 a.m.," I said, "we are supposed to be going straight through the door into Miss Vaughan's English class."
"That is exactly what I mean," Rollo confirmed.
"If Stella finds out that we have ditched her class in order to distribute posters for the Senior Play," I objected, "she will make the Furies look like models of restraint and skin the both of us right there in front of the class."