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Home > Archive > Jan 3, 2008

Watching the Spitball Drop on New Year’s Eve
By Sharon May
Managing Editor
If New Year’s Eve is a harbinger of what the year ahead is going to unleash, no wonder my life has been so bizarre. 
Being single, I’ve always consoled myself by taking the less-traveled road to the new year. For example, I spent the last evening of 2005 listening to a grown man talking to a puppet on his hand. And no, he was sober (and so was the man).
The puppet, Nevermore, was a cloth raven whose innards included the entire hand of National Park Service Ranger Clyde.
Far be it from me to besmirch the fine reputation of our park rangers, some of our nation’s finest treasures. In fact, I had opted to spend my solo holiday in one of my favorite places, the Grand Canyon, at the south rim.
But there wasn’t much to do at night, except wander through the dark and possibly stumble over a tree root and plummet over the rim to my death. So I decided it would be safer to attend the nightly ranger talk.
At the auditorium, I found Ranger Clyde setting up for his performance and slid onto a cold metal chair. A few minutes later, he took the microphone, and a freaky thing happened.
His mouth opened, but his eyes remained shut. I wondered if Ranger Clyde was a blind park ranger and was ready to commend the park for its enlightened hiring policy – although ranger-led hikes might be difficult.
I don’t have a clue what he said. I was totally focused on trying to determine why his eyes were shut and if he was blind.
After a few tense minutes of audience fascination, Ranger Clyde finally raised his eyelids and looked around, and the audience relaxed. 
But that was only Act One. His next act was making huge, face-contorting snuffs. His entire face lifted to his hairline and held interminably before dropping to its former contours. My eyes riveted in amazement at his Jim Carey-like talent. Meanwhile, there was some yadda-yadda from him about condors that was far less entertaining.
I don’t like to point out a person’s little flaws, but Ranger Clyde had me intrigued. Especially when the person in front of me leaned back and enthusiastically whispered, “Have you seen this guy before? He’s great! He’s famous, you know. He’s been on PBS and everything.” 
I whispered back, “You mean for his facial contortions?”
The man glowered at me and whispered furiously, “He’s an expert on condors!” His wife gave me a “Behave yourself!” look.
Ranger Clyde turned his talk to the subject of ravens, slipping his hand inside his raven puppet for Nevermore’s grand appearance, and the park ranger went into full theatrical mode.
Those of us in the front regretted leaving our umbrellas in our rooms. You see, Ranger Clyde was one of those spit-hurling actors. Huge gobs of spittle sprayed from his mouth as he excitedly waved Nevermore overhead and narrated his tales about the mischievous and intelligent bird.
I was mesmerized, and not by his stories. At one point, a large globe of spit dropped onto his chin, shimmering under the lights. I held my breath in sick delight, both embarrassed for him and caught in the suspense of what would happen.
Was he aware of the drool on his chin? Would he pretend it wasn’t there and let it dry under the lights? Would it pop and drip onto the floor? Would he slyly swipe at it with his park ranger sleeve – or with Nevermore?
You could cut the tension in the auditorium with a Swiss Army knife.
After a few anxious moments, we discovered Range Clyde was indeed aware of the bubble of slobber on his chin because he reached up in the middle of a sweeping gesture and quickly wiped his bare hand across the offending spittle, leaving us to sit back in our chairs and breathe again.
The program ended soon after, with Nevermore taking a final bow while Ranger Clyde took a final face-warping snuff. 
I don’t think I’ve ever been to such a captivating and dramatic ranger talk. I would have shaken Ranger Clyde’s hand afterward if I hadn’t spotted the wet gleam on it at the last moment.
This New Year’s Eve was entirely different. I went to a First Night party and celebrated like everyone else, so I think 2008 will be fairly routine.
Darn. Just between you and me, watching spitballs drop is more fun than watching any Times Square ball.

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