Dream It! Do It! (Disney Editions Deluxe) by Martin Sklar Page A

assembled my team from my Public Relations division compatriots. Dressed as Indian braves (courtesy of Disneyland wardrobe), my mighty war party consisted of Marty, Lee [Cake], Walter Scott, and Milt Albright, our group sales manager and one of the first employees on the Disneyland payroll. I also prevailed upon wardrobe to provide me with the top hat and tails.
    On the night of the parade, we were on the job ready and willing after a quick stop at a local bar to fortify ourselves against the brisk fall night. As I met the other division captains, I noticed that I was the only one dressed in top hat and tails.
    Score: one for Ed Ettinger!
    Later, he insisted he only did it to make me look good, not to stand out. He thought I should represent Disneyland with class. I never bought his line of bull. I felt like Fred Astaire looking for Ginger.
    Anyway, back to the parade where everything went well: my Indian escorts, whooping and hollering all the way, thrilled the kids. I rode in the back of a convertible, waving and saying hi to everybody, though nobody had the slightest idea who I was.
    When we finally reached the end, the parade disbanded, and that’s when my Indian friends turned on me because they were cold and thirsty. They complained that I got to wear a top hat and tails and ride on a convertible while they had to wear loincloths and headdresses and dance barefoot along the whole parade route. I suggested we all go over to the Disneyland Hotel and discuss the matter civilly.
    I drove the motley crew to the hotel in my car, but when we settled in the bar, we made a devastating discovery: the Indians’ money, keys, and identification remained in their cars at the park. I only had $20 with me; obviously, our charming little victory party wasn’t going to get far. Then, Fred Werther, owner of the Little Gourmet Restaurant at the Disneyland Hotel, came over to our table, and after a few rather snide remarks about the inappropriateness of our dress in a fine dining establishment such as his, he lamented that a small convention group dining in a private room upstairs had booked some entertainment, but the entertainment failed to show up.
    “Oh, what to do?” Fred sighed.
    “This is your lucky day,” I told him.
    “Maybe we can help,” Marty chimed in, before he looked at me and nodded.
    “Fred,” I said, “tell your group that in just five minutes Jack Lindquist and his authentic Traveling Troop of Indian Dancers will be ready to perform. Rain dances, chants, magic—the works!”
    Fred agreed and thanked us.
    “We’ll appear,” I told him, “but we want five steak dinners before we go on.”
    While Fred went upstairs to tell the client the “good” news, our little group of parade-performers-turned-nightclub entertainers enjoyed a delicious T-bone steak dinner. By 11 P.M. , the convention people had become unruly, so Fred finally announced us: “Direct from Oklahoma, the Fantastic Lindquist Indian Show!”
    After our introduction, we started out with some soothing chants and dances to mild applause. I then introduced our “famous authentic rain dance.” Marty, Lee, Scott, [and] Milt performed magnificently. I half expected it to rain! We performed completely fake Native American dances and chants, all recalled from old Gene Autry and John Wayne films. We jumped around with lots of whooping and hollering. Hearty applause followed the closing number.
    Marty then unexpectedly announced that now I, as their Great White Chief, would pull that tablecloth off the head table without upsetting any of the dishes, glasses, or silverware on the table. The audience was silent in anticipation.
    Lee, Scott, and Milt grabbed one end of the tablecloth while I held the other end. Marty stood in the middle and started the countdown. A drum started beating faster and faster for the crescendo.
    One…two…three.
    I pulled as hard as a I could. Dishes, glasses, wine bottles, entrees, rolls, butter flew in every direction.