Happy Birthday - Now Beat It

The scene: a local church in the town where I went to high school.

The event: the annual Holiday performance by the high school choir.

The choir stood in front of the usual suspects: the elderly looking for something local to do, regular church attendees, parents there to see their offspring perform (as I recall, this was one of the many events where I was asked if I really wanted them to go, which was an attempt at a polite way of saying "Do I have to?", which, as usual, I said no to). I was wearing whatever idiot costume the smaller, elite choir had chosen that year - I don't recall specifics, but I'm reasonably sure that a shiny blue vest and bow tie were involved. I was packed in the middle with the other six guys in the choir of sixty.

The choir was restless. During a break for applause, I leaned forward and launch the first offensive. To no one in particular, I said, "What do you get when you cross Lassie and a pit bull? A dog that will chew your leg off and then run for help.". The effect was not instantaneous, but rather moved across the group in waves. The choir, already getting dirty looks from our director for idle chatter and shifting, began a ripple of giggles, moving outward like a pool of water that has had a stone dropped into it. The more fierce the dirty looks became, the worse the giggles got. Clearly, I had started something I hadn't anticipated.

As we were in a church, administering beatings was out, so all the choir director could do was move on with the next song. She showed us a piece of music, raised her hands, and we began the next song, doing our best not to giggle while we did so. As we proceeded through the song, the giddiness began to die out out, and we became the well oiled, off key machine that was expected.

Then he appeared.

At the back of the church, the double doors opening to the lobby framed a lone figure, wearing the same sartorial nightmare that I was. He moved across the doorway, scoping out the crowd. He made eye contact with several of us currently standing at the front of the group, and those of us who knew better could tell that we were in trouble.

And then he began to dance.

Those of my younger readers may not be familiar with the works of Michael Jackson in the eighties and early nineties, but the people of that choir knew too well what we were seeing. There was moonwalking. There were legs kicked in the air. There were even, and I cannot emphasize enough the effect of this on our fragile teenage minds as we plowed our way through some inane Christmas carol, crotch grabs. In short, it was magnificent.

Of course we were in ruins within moments. The choir director's face reddened until she resembled a larger species of the holly berries that lined the pews. As these things so often go, a concerned citizen happened to turn around during one of the more explicit portions of the impromptu choreography that was going on and felt the need to report it. Nonetheless, for those of us on the stage, another dreaded holiday concert had become something more, something magical that would stay with us long after the last, terribly flat notes had died out.

So here's to you Troy, a man who wasn't afraid to risk yet another trip to the principles office (I'm pretty sure he had his own chair at that point) in the name of spreading a little holiday cheer. The brave men and women who stood before that bored, probably-wishing-they-were-somewhere-else audience will never forget you.