It Takes A Thief

         I could hear the loud incessant rumble of trailer truck diesel engines well before I parked my own private conveyance in the parking lot of the Center for the Arts Theatre. George, our foreman, had telephoned the day prior and asked if I would entertain the thought of assisting the stage hand crew in set up operations for “Fiddler on the Roof” which would be in for a three day engagement.

          I truly believe that although George referred to me as his personal “painful thorn in his side” for the dilemmas I had put him through over the last nine months, he reasonably liked me. That is, up until this particular chapter in my tenure with the theatre caused me to reconsider my opinion.

          He chewed on his saliva soaked cigar and knitted his eyebrows together as he addressed me. “When the fork lift operator enters the building through the back door, all you have to do Chuckie is help the other guys unload what's on it or the wooden skids,” said George.

         I nodded that I understood and began to assist the stage hands. Like a well precision mechanical instrument, we started to remove and store stage props, lighting and sound equipment and wardrobe as the fork lift operator made numerous trips to and from the four trailer trucks. We were about half way through the third truck, when the Lead Carpenter announced for the stage hands to break for lunch.

          I had just finished the last of a delicious chicken salad sandwich when I heard the Lead Carpenter’s booming amplified voice screaming for someone to “Find Chuckie!
"Get him out here now and in that fork lift." I must admit, I was a bit confused and startled by the instructions. However, seeing I had possessed a hoisting engineers license to operate a fork lift, I hurried outside to operate the piece of equipment. To my dismay, the fork lift was not in the alley where the trucks were. Stage hands were walking around with their hands in their pockets waiting for me to get in the fork lift. I was a bit nervous so I started my search for the missing piece of equipment. After a brief walk around the corner from the theater in front of a furniture warehouse store, there was a yellow fork lift! Rather odd I thought to have it parked over here by the yawning entrance to a furniture store, but I assumed that the previous operator may have gone home early. Possibly he is still at lunch, and just left it parked here temporarily to keep it out of the way from the flow of traffic. As explanations popped up at random in my mind, I just started the machine and drove it back to the alley and began to unload the skids of
mechandise once again.

          Approximately twenty minutes later, the approaching screaming sound of blaring sirens stabbed the air! Screeching tires of numerous police cars, fire trucks, and medical rescue vehicles arrived on scene and surrounded the theatre. With guns drawn, enforcement agency personnel charged down the alley like a scene from Elliot Ness and the Untouchables back in the days of prohibition.

          A balding man hurried down the alley with an outstretched arm. “There he is! That's him! I saw him steal it right out in front of the store, the guy on the forklift!”

          As employees of the theater stopped, everyone's eyes trained directly on me. ( As well as a few police service revolvers.)

         Completely bewildered by what was
transpiring, I removed myself slowly from the forklift with hands over my head as ordered to just as George and the rest of the stage hands came outside. We stood there, surrounded by a menagerie of red and blue flashing lights, and emergency vehicles enveloped within a cacophony of
voices trying to explain what I was doing in possession and operating a “stolen” forklift.

The rightful owner, in his compassion after straightening out matters, saw that it was
just a misunderstanding and did not press charges. However, I think George, would have taken great pleasure had I been hand cuffed and given a ride down to the police station for driving the "stolen" fork lift.

Oh, and as far as our own fork lift, the other operator, also named Chuckie, returned completely oblivious as to the calamity he had started by his absence. George, on the other hand, bit through the end of his cigar, when the original Chuckie explained he did him a favor by taking the fork lift for a joy ride to “blow out the carbon because it was running slow.”