By
“Disco Inferno, the hottest show on television,” intoned a velvety-voiced announcer, disembodied behind a darkened scene cluttered by a group of 50 or so dancing teenagers and young adults. Soon, the studio lights turn on, slowly, and John Gage and Roy DeSoto discovered that those youngsters wore clothes that neither could afford. To Roy , some of their outfits were a little too outlandish for public view.
“Trying to be John Travolta, huh,” cried Roy , as he shook his head at a fat guy wearing a white polyester suit and a black shirt buttoned down to his protruding belly, doing the bump with his grossly overweight female partner in the middle of the stage. The song that played was I Won't Go with No Big Fat Mama.
“It looks like you are, fatso,” cried Johnny, as he accepted a plate of Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, gravy and corn from Mike Stoker. Then, cutting into his lunch, he commented, “For a cardiac case like that fat guy on TV, he dances really well.”
“Maybe that guy was born into a family that's genetically predisposed to being fat,” said Roy, who didn't always believe that people got fat through any fault of their own. “He's pretty agile for a fat guy.”
“He probably works for the Eskimo's Choice Ice Cream Company on the side,” commented Chet Kelly, who just joined Johnny and Roy. He cradled a carton of Eskimo's Choice neopolitan ice cream in his left arm. “He must have gained weight from eating all the ice cream and goodies in the freezer.” With his spoon, he dipped into his ice cream.
Johnny noticed the ice cream in Chet's arm. “You'll get fat yourself if you keep up,” he admonished. He snatched the ice cream from Chet and helped himself with its contents.
“Gage,” said Chet, “you'll get fat yourself, eating that junk.”
“Not in my family,” reminded Johnny. “I binged at that Chinese buffet the other day, and I actually lost weight.”
“Did that niece of yours dare you to eat everything from the kids' table?”
“It was Sally's 10 th birthday,” remembered Johnny, “and I took her and a group of other kids to the Szechuan Chinese Emporium – Sally loves Chinese food. Those little Chinese desserts were good.”
“So, what did the fortune cookie tell you,” blurted Mike Stoker, who washed dishes at the sink. “‘You will meet a tall, slim, good-looking blonde at a disco'?”
“I'm not telling.” The song now playing on Disco Inferno was Donna Summer's Last Dance .
Hank Stanley, who finished his lunch at the table, cried, “Would you turn down that set? I hate that kind of music kids listen to now.” Hank grew up in the 1950s, and preferred Elvis, Buddy Holly, Fats Domino and Bobby Darin over The Bee Gees, The Village People and Donna Summer. Even The Beatles and the early Rolling Stones were major improvements over the “racket” that populated the airwaves by the late 1970s, though Hank was a father of two sons and two daughters who'd likely listen to Alice Cooper or The Bee Gees. He wasn't even remotely interested in the latest music crazes, merely how to pay the bills, save for his kids' college educations and stay out of Pat McConnikee's wrath.
Henry Nolan, or Hank, Stanley was born on September 11, 1939, in Winnipeg , Manitoba , Canada . He came to Los Angeles when he was not yet a year old because his mother, a librarian, needed to live in a warmer climate for medical reasons. Hank grew up quickly: he married 16-year-old Emily Armstrong in 1957, two weeks after his 18 th birthday, but continued high school until graduation. Hank had neither the aptitude nor the interest to attend college, but heard about openings at the Los Angeles County Fire Department during a careers assembly in the winter of 1958. Hank didn't want to work nights at the kitchen appliances factory for the rest of his life, so he applied for the firefighter trainee program on the spot. Soon, he discovered that Emily was pregnant and had to drop out of high school, so Hank worked harder to pass probationary fireman status than the other young men. That August, Emily gave birth to Eric Michael, who would attend Northwestern University in Chicago in September 1978. A year after giving birth to Devon James in October 1959, Emily resumed high school, from which she earned her diploma in 1961. She and Hank postponed having other children until December 1967, the month Lindsay Anne was born, and May 1970, when Angela Marie completed the family. Hank had no time to have fun, unlike many other young men born during World War II, but he enjoyed being a father to four young people with distinct personalities.
One of them was Devon , who stood at the doorway between the canteen and the apparatus bay. Unlike Hank, he had eyebrows of moderate thickness and light brown hair worn longish and full. He wore a T-shirt reading, “I'm with stupid,” and slim fitting blue jeans with well-worn running shoes. Devon looked friendly, if somewhat mischievous, and held three tickets in his hand.
“I've got three tickets for that TV show, Disco Inferno ,” he announced. “I originally got them for myself and two of my friends, but Ronnie's mom got killed in that car crash and we have to attend her funeral on the day of the taping.”
Johnny, Roy and Chet clamored around the young man at the door. Hank remained at the table, looking over his Saturday newspaper: “ Devon , you didn't need to spend money to listen to that musical earthquake.”
“They were free tickets, pop,” smiled his son. “Last week, some 80-year-old man danced on that show. The week before that, four-eyed freak Sally and her friends snuck on and did the Latin Hustle to that Barry Manilow song. I think it was At the Copacabana. Anybody can go on, as long as they want to get down and boogie.”
“Not me,” said Hank. “You know I hate disco. Even our cat O.J. runs off and hisses every time your sisters listen to that crap.”
“I think Elvis was overrated, Buddy Holly and Bobby Darin are dead and Fats Domino is old stuff.” Devon 's argument was good-natured but direct.
“Have it your way, Dev,” conceded his father. “By the time you start having teenagers around your house, they'll say the same things about the stuff you listen to right now. I thought my dad was a square for keeping Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney and Peggy Lee LPs and 75's around the house.”
“And, now, you love Sinatra and Peggy Lee, like all the other old men out there.” Devon turned to John Gage, who received the three tickets. “Taping is at the KIBO-TV studios next Friday night at 8. Make sure you arrive an hour early, and dress cool. There's a dress code in effect.”
“I'm off next Friday,” smiled Johnny. He turned to Roy . “ Roy , are Joanne and the kids out of town next weekend?”
“I promised to take Chris and Jenny out camping that weekend,” said Roy . “Joanne's going to Bakersfield to see her mother. I hope it won't rain this time, like it did on our last camping trip. The tent leaked and we had a lousy time.”
“You just don't like that kind of music, like the Cap over there,” John said, pointing to Captain Stanley. Then, he turned to Chet. “Have plans for Friday night?”
“I was planning to watch The Rockford Files and a movie that night – The Blob, the one with Steve McQueen, will be on at nine.”
“No wonder why you're still single,” said John Gage. “ Disco Inferno is an interracial version of Soul Train , as you know. You'll meet the right chick there.”
“Oh, alright,” conceded Chet Kelly. “I'm going on that lousy show – unless they kick me out for looking like a reject. Or, kick you out for looking like a retard.”
Johnny chased Chet into the apparatus bay: “Why, you dirty bum!”
The klaxon blared through the station. “Squad 51, man injured, Ann Miller Dance Studio, 780 Washington Street ,” spoke the dispatcher. “ Cross street Dakota. Time out: 12:22.”
As Johnny and Roy raced into their squad truck, Captain Stanley answered the dispatcher: “Squad 51, KMG-365.”
The garage door opened, letting the squad truck race along the street, about four blocks to a storefront establishment reading “Ann Miller Dance Studio.” A folding sign posted in front of the main entrance read, “Learn the latest dance craze, DISCO, here.” But the paramedics had no time to notice the sign. Instead, they carried their dispatch unit and IV case behind the glass door.
Inside, Johnny and Roy heard loud music from the studio. It was likely from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack; the Tavares version of the Bee Gees hit More than a Woman . At the studio door, an auburn-haired woman wearing a royal blue leotard and dancer's legs greeted them: “One of my students sprained himself while doing the hustle. Please hurry.”
The dance instructor turned off the cassette deck as Johnny and Roy strode to a middle-aged man sitting on an orange plastic stacking chair near the corner. This man was obviously of no shape to do the hustle, let alone ballet, tap or jazz, and he looked uncomfortable but not in danger of losing his life. The other students surrounded the man, asking questions such as “what's the matter with him.” One woman, a light-skinned African-American wearing an Afro and, except for her full lips, mostly European facial features said sarcastically, “That man won't pass the door at Studio 54. Look at him.”
“And, why don't you look at yourself at the mirror,” cried the man on the chair. “You're too ugly to enter anything except a low-rent disco that still plays the Philadelphia Sound and thinks it's the latest thing.”
“Shut your mouth, man!” Then, the woman walked out of the studio. “I hope you're suffering from a heart attack.”
Johnny and Roy ignored the argument, preferring to focus on their patient instead. Roy touched the man's leg, trying to find the source of the pain. “So, where does it hurt,” he asked.
“I think it's my Charlie Horse,” the patient replied. “I haven't danced since the Twist went out of fashion 15 years ago. My kids talked me into taking disco classes, and now this happens.” He felt pain after Roy pressed on his knee. “That's the spot, buddy.” His eyes squinted, but Johnny noticed that he was fine otherwise.
“I remember the Twist – did it at my high school graduation and sprained my ankle,” related Roy .
Johnny said, after checking the man's vital signs, “Other than that Charlie Horse, you're in good shape. Just lose a few pounds and try something less strenuous for the time being, like walking or swimming.”
“Check that knee out with your doctor,” recommended Roy . “He'll prescribe something for it. Could you stand up?”
The man stood up and limped a few paces. “The doctor's office is closed today,” he said, feeling some pain in his right knee, “so I'll go to Rampart's outpatient department to get it checked out.”
Roy noticed that the man limped painfully. “Are you sure you could go to the outpatient unit on your own,” he asked.
The man sat on the chair again. “No,” he replied.
Roy opened the dispatch unit. “Rampart, this is Rescue 51,” he spoke.
Dixie McCall was on the other end of the line. Behind her, Joe Early spoke to Kelly Brackett: “My daughter's been taking me to disco classes lately. She wants me to get into the latest fads so I'd relate to her twins better. They're only seven years old, and they know about disco, John Travolta, The Bee Gees, Disco Inferno and the whole bit.”
“Jeannie's been pressuring you to find another Mrs. Early, too,” chided Dr. Brackett.
“I haven't been seeing anybody since Wilma died,” said Dr. Early. Wilma Davenport was a BOAC/British Airways airline stewardess from England who married Dr. Early when he was a Medical Corps Marine stationed there during World War II. She died days before Christmas 1954, when she and their only child Jean were out Christmas shopping and a speeding car hit her. She was only 33 years old, and left Joe Early a widower with a growing daughter and a thriving medical practice. He never remarried.
Through the speaker, Roy spoke, “Rampart, we have a male victim, approximately 40 years old, 5 foot 9, 200 lbs. He is complaining of acute pain in his right knee and has difficulty walking on it. He has been taking disco classes, but was physically inactive for a long period. Pulse is 80, BP is 132 over 70, respiration is 15 and normal. He is conscious, Rampart.”
Dixie replied, “Give him an IV, D5W. Transport as soon as possible.”
“10-4, Rampart.” The ambulance attendants arrived with a gurney, and helped Johnny and Roy ease the man onto a lying position. Johnny placed a small pillow underneath his right knee when a middle-aged woman raced into the dance studio: “George, George. What in the world has happened to you?”
“I sprained my knee while doing dance lessons,” cheerfully explained her husband.
“You know you're too old to be doing the hustle with these young things,” cried the woman. “What are you trying to prove here?”
“I did this because David and Susan talked me into it,” said the man, as he wheeled out of the dance studio. “Just because I'm middle-aged doesn't mean I'm dead.”
“You're still too old to be running around a disco. It only makes you look silly.”
As George entered the ambulance, he commented, “Your walking around K-mart in hair curlers and a housedress makes you look even sillier, you frumpy old cow.”
“Fat slob, trying to be John Travolta,” argued his wife. “Check your driver's license. Your date of birth is March 2, 1938, not March 2, 1958. And, I'm no frumpy old cow.”
Both Johnny and Roy shook their heads at the scene. Johnny joined George in the ambulance, which sped away to Rampart General Hospital .
At Rampart General Hospital , Johnny and Roy replenished their supplies at the paramedic station. Dixie McCall and Joe Early staffed that station for the afternoon.
“Your Charlie Horse case is out of hospital and resting at home,” reported Dixie . “He's on medication to treat his bad leg.”
Roy had to make his announcement. “Captain Stanley's kid gave us three tickets to dance on that disco show on TV,” he said. “I can't dance and my kids want me to take them camping next weekend.”
“I'd go on the disco show if I were you,” recommended Joe Early. “I hate camping – the mosquitoes, those uncomfortable sleeping bags, the bears and raccoons, you name it.”
Dixie told the paramedics, “Joe's been taking disco lessons.”
“Is it one of Meanie Jeannie's bright ideas,” laughed John Gage. Meanie Jeannie was one of Dixie 's nurses, notorious for her poor bedside manner. She was extremely competent on the job, but brusque and too direct with her patients and had little time for small talk. Many wondered whether Joe Early was really her father, for their personalities were so different: Joe was as friendly, calm and comforting as Meanie Jeannie was aloof, frazzled at times and told people exactly what they needed to know, even if it hurt emotionally. After that hit-and-run, a doctor told Jeannie that her mother had a good chance of recovery. Complications developed, and her mother died from her injuries overnight. That early experience reminded Jeannie that little white lies were only big black lies in disguise, and she became blunt to a fault to others.
Meanie Jeannie approached the desk. “Nurse,” she barked, “who allowed a bunch of kids into a room holding a cardiac patient?”
“They're boys from the 200 th Webelo Scout Troop,” smiled Joe Early. “Their scoutmaster survived a heart attack.”
“Hospital policies prohibit kids under age 12 from visiting our patients,” his daughter cried. “Kids make noise and disrupt things around here.”
“I gave them special permission to visit. The scoutmaster wanted them here to make him feel better, and it's working. Have a heart, Jean.”
Dr. Early knew this nurse was his daughter, but maintained a professional relationship with her while on duty. It was hard considering that he raised her for 18 years before she attended nursing school, moved into her own apartment, married and gave birth to twin girls. Sure Jeannie was as hard as a boiled egg, but Dr. Early never raised his voice at her. It was unprofessional, and it had the potential to upset Jeannie or make her even harder on others. Besides, Dr. Early was an even-tempered man whose father raised him to treat people the way he wanted to be treated. His father died a year earlier, at age 99, having practiced the Golden Rule himself despite years of hardship, the loss of one of his sons during World War II, and his wife's death in 1963, the same day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated. His strong Episcopalian faith and belief in hard work pulled him through a long life.
As Meanie Jeannie strode into the elevator, feeling defeated once more, Johnny commented, “What a woman. How does Dr. Packard deal with her?”
“The same way I've been dealing with her since 1947.” Then, Joe Early remembered what he wanted to say earlier. “I've been taking disco lessons for over a month now, and I could now do the bump and the hustle and all those other dances that kids do now. It's a lot of fun, and I like the music. They keep me young, and they made me a better doctor with the kids.”
“Well, I don't like disco,” said Roy . “I stopped listening to Top 40 radio around '68. Call me an old fogy, but I hate their dances, the lyrics don't make much sense, and the singers aren't all that talented. But you can't stop your kids from listening to that stuff.”
Dixie McCall slid a box containing syringes, D5W and saline in front of Johnny. Johnny cradled the box in his right arm. Through the speaker, Craig Brice's voice boomed: “Rampart, this is Squad 18. Could you read me?” Dixie excused herself to answer his call.
“Well, I guess we must get going,” said Roy . “See you later.”
“Bye,” greeted Joe Early. “Good luck on that TV show.”
During the following week, Johnny tried to find a third person to accompany him to the TV studio that Friday night. Chet promised to come along, although it wasn't with much enthusiasm; after all, he'd miss his cult movies and hated appearing in front of a camera. Roy continued saying no. He argued that disco was a passing fad for kids and trendy pill-poppers or cocaine addicts. Roy didn't want Joanne to think this way about him.
That Thursday, Roy broke his arms during a run and had to cancel that long-awaited camping trip with Christopher and Jennifer. Fortunately, Mike Stoker agreed to take his place and, the next day, piled the DeSoto kids into his car, with his daughters Lisa and Susan. They drove into the rural valley that day, happy that the weather forecasters predicted a warm, sunny week – ideal from charring marshmallows and hot dogs and sleeping under the stars. On the other hand, Joanne cancelled her visit to her mother, thinking that Roy 's well-being was more important than hearing her mother's constant gossip about her neighbors, the dogs and kids in her neighborhood, and the teenagers who made out on people's front yards each night.
Friday night came quickly and, outside KIBO-TV studios, a queue of 200 or so people filed outside the studio door. Most were young people who wore the latest fashions – and not all the clothes were particularly expensive, as John Gage and Chet Kelly discovered. Many wore low- or medium-priced versions of the more expensive designer originals that one could buy in Beverly Hills – which made both firefighters feel inadequate. Both wore polyester double knit sports jackets and slacks with print shirts and white shoes.
“This place reminds me of the Roxbury,” said Johnny, referring to a trendy Hollywood disco that he, Roy and Craig Brice checked out a few months earlier. “Why did the Cap's kid talk us into this?”
“Relax, Gage,” said Chet, following the crowd through the studio door. “You see yourself as a ladies' man. You're at your element here.”
“Oh, Chet, won't you shut up.” Johnny gave two tickets to the studio page, who tore them into two, giving one half to him and Chet.
The page was a short but friendly young woman in her mid- to late-teens. She spoke, “The Disco Inferno taping is first door to your right.”
At the DeSoto household, Roy sat on his reclining armchair, still feeling uncomfortable in two casts that enveloped his broken arms. Joanne received a phone call in the kitchen.
“I'm glad that you and Jenny are having fun,” she said over the phone. “How was the canoeing trip?”
Nine-year-old Christopher reported that he enjoyed canoeing with Mike and Hannah Stoker, but Jennifer and her friends tried to talk them into squeezing into the tiny boat. Mike didn't allow that: three years before, his cousin allowed far too many people into his speedboat, and without lifejackets at that. The boat capsized, and his cousin and most of the people on board that boat drowned. One of the victims was a five-year-old girl, the daughter of one of his cousin's best friends. The three survivors of that accident eventually recovered fully, but feared boating trips like many relatives of plane crash victims feared planes. It would take many years – the mid-1990s for one of them – before they felt safe enough to ride another boat.
“I'm glad that Mike didn't let too many people into that boat, like his cousin did,” said Joanne. “Well, have fun and see you on Thursday. Bye.”
Joanne hung up and strode into the living room. Perry Mason had just ended on KIBO-TV, and the announcer spoke that the live version of Disco Inferno was coming up next on that station. “Why do you want to watch that silly show,” she inquired. “I thought you hate that kind of music.”
“Well, I do,” spoke Roy , “but two guys I know from the fire department are going to be on TV as I speak. This is one of those times when I want to be on TV – to save Johnny from himself.”
“Johnny,” smiled Joanne, shaking her head, “always getting into fixes.” She sat on the sofa, her eyes glued to the set, waiting for Johnny to make a fool of himself once again.
After station identification, with a slide showing Hollywood Hills, Disco Inferno faded on. The set was dark, with silhouettes of dancing people, but instead of a common theme song, the show signed on with the disco version of the I Love Lucy theme. Then, the set slowly brightened, and both Roy and Joanne saw on the stage – JOHN GAGE! He was dancing with one of the show's featured dancers, a slender brunette wearing a long white dress with a full skirt and stacked heels. He danced as if he had been on the show many times before.
“What were those producers thinking,” cried Roy . “They allowed Johnny to dance with one of their featured dancers. What's next? Johnny will moonlight as a Disco Inferno dancer.”
“And date every female dancer on the show,” added his wife.
After a few minutes of focusing on Johnny and the other stage dancers, the camera lingered on the audience dancing on the floor below them. Chet Kelly was there, doing the funky chicken on his own – who'd want to dance with a guy whose dance steps were out-of-date even for 1978. Then, the camera faded onto another familiar face: Craig Brice. As it turned out, Johnny gave the last ticket to Brice after Roy broke his arms.
Brice's dubious dancing and nondescript looks also gained Captain Stanley's attention at home.
“What a disgrace to the fire department,” snapped Captain Stanley, as he sipped his Tab on his living room chair.
Emily, who glanced at the TV set briefly, consoled, “Those firemen are having fun, blowing off steam.”
“Blowing off hot air is more like it. The show is called Disco Inferno . Put a show referring to a fire together with The Three Stooges, and the public will think that Gage is a big sex symbol. Nobody will take what we do at the fire department seriously.”
“People will forget this by your next shift, Hank.” Emily returned to her knitting. Her sister lived in Boston , and Emily wanted to make her a sweater for Christmas, which was five months away.
Lindsay and Angela lay on their stomachs in front of the TV set. “Johnny looks like a disco king on TV,” commented Lindsay.
“He looks like a twit,” complained her father, “and so does Kelly. I'll let Captain Belliveau deal with that Walking Rulebook of his. He's not my responsibility.”
After the dancers stopped dancing to Chic's latest hit, The Freak , the curly-haired blond host interviewed Johnny, Chet and Craig on a riser. He asked questions about their occupations, why they're on Disco Inferno , and complemented Johnny on his dance moves. Johnny accepted the complements: “I'd like to say ‘hi' to my partner and friend Roy DeSoto, who is recovering from two broken arms he sustained on the job. I'd like to say ‘hi' to Captain Stanley, who is really a great guy to work for but not crazy about the music you guys play here, and to my niece Sally, who appeared as one of the kid dancers on the show a few weeks ago and had a really good time.”
The audience clapped and cheered Johnny Gage. The host invited him to come back on the show, which Gage graciously accepted: “Next time, though, I'd like to bring along my friend, Roy DeSoto. By then, his arms will be back in service and he'd want to get down and boogie to celebrate.”
Roy DeSoto said to the TV set, “I'd rather be dead than do the boogie, Johnny. But, thanks, anyway.”
John Gage returned to work the following Monday. Captain Stanley approached him as he dressed for his next 24-hour shift. Johnny thought he'd get into trouble, so he spoke nervously, “Did I do something wrong? Is it my being on that disco show?”
Captain Stanley stared at his young firefighter/paramedic for a moment. Then, he smiled, “Yes and no. Yes, because I still hate that kind of music. No, because you danced really well on it, and you didn't make a fool of yourself or the fire department. In fact, Chief McConnikee phoned me this morning, saying your public relations for the fire department only humanized firefighters and paramedics everywhere. I heard that Joe Early appeared on Disco Inferno , too, and his partner was Dixie McCall.”
“So, who'll replace Roy as my partner for the next six weeks,” asked Johnny.
A young, slender, brunette woman stood at the doorway, wearing the standard-issue Los Angeles County Fire Department uniform with a paramedic badge on her left arm. To Johnny, this woman looked familiar.
“This is Deborah, your partner,” said Stanley . “She's a paramedic from Station 127, but she moonlights as a dancer on Disco Inferno . Chief McConnikee and I thought you two would make a great team, and it's nice to have a lady around for the next few weeks.”
“Hi, stranger,” greeted Deborah. “The producers wanted to ask you whether you want to be on the show full-time. It would be great if you were my featured male partner on the show as well as here at the fire department.”
For the first time, Johnny didn't know what to say or do.
THE END