We were contracted to work for five weeks at EXPO, including one week on an indoor stage in the Canadian Pavilion. During the negotiations, coordinator Jane Howard Baker had told us that she was booking acts with ".. .good audience rapport, originality and portability." The EXPO site was small and cramped and most of the pavilions had very small capacities, so the organizers had been anticipating line-up hassles.

 

The theme of the exposition was "Transportation and Communication." Most participating countries were reluctant to risk much money on their exhibits - at times they were no more than glorified Toys-R-Us window displays - and people quickly tired of waiting to see what insignia Bosnia-Hertzgovina flew on their ships these days. Adding to that the high prices and frequently spavined monorail system... people were ready to be amused.

 

We'd arrived in early June. The fair had been in operation for just over a month. In that time the street program had exploded to become the highlight of the event. The performers who'd been there from the start were being profiled in two-page spreads in the newspapers and steeped in TV coverage.

 

Intriguingly, most of the performers had created this huge success by breaking the contracted rules. Derek Scott was doing 55-minute shows nowhere near a line, jamming his huge crowds into the main streets and plazas. Fred Garbo was doing his show from the inside of a park garbage can, becoming one of the most sought-out features of the fair. Baker, who was supposed to be in charge of all this, was being hailed as a genius. The secret, she said, was "you get good people and let them work."

 

The EXPO site, shaped much like an appendix, was divided into six color-coded  zones. Each zone contained a small entertainer's office outfitted with dressing rooms, showers, lockers and lounge areas. The lounge areas contained the two things dearest to a juggler's heart - coffee and gaffer's tape.

 

Street entertainment was scheduled from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. in three four-hour shifts. The zones were marshaled by Production Liaisons. The PL' s main responsibilities were to keep the acts organized and happy. They'd help with equipment problems, arrange to have props built, suggest show locations and even sign your daily report when you forgot to show up. On your first day in any of the color zones the PL would take you on a walking tour of the site. They'd have useful information like, "This looks like a nice spot but I wouldn't recommend it, the tour helicopters land here."

 

Most of them had neat little tidbits of advice that they'd picked up watching other acts. They recognized that lines moved too much to be good audiences, so they suggested that we find a spot where the lines could see us - or to use the line as a backdrop. Some of the pavilions had anticipated their long lines and had hired their own entertainment, showing a horrifying predilection for tone-deaf country and western bands. The PLs would steer us away from them and try to warn us when Motorhead was scheduled for a sound check in the EXPO outdoor theatre.

 

With some of the acts, such as Britain's 'Arry Pavarotti', the PL would tag along to ensure that he didn't get hauled away by security. ' Arry, a plump little character in a tuxedo and flight goggles, like to gather a crowd by climbing things that were clearly labeled" Stay Off!"  Garbo, performing as "EXPO's smallest pavilion" inside his garbage can, was assigned a volunteer to keep people from stuffing him with trash and mostly to thwart the groups of young kids who thought it was a riot to try to tip him over.

 

A daily entertainment guide was distributed free to visitors. Because no one ever knew just where any of us would be, the guide simply listed the names of the acts and what times they would be in their zones. With only a few permanent stages in the whole park, Fred and I discovered that the best way to see an act was to go to their dressing room and follow them out.

 

Because the site was packed with visitors, getting a crowd was usually quite easy. Sometimes it was so easy you'd get a crowd when you didn't want one. New Jersey's Charles Senack, who dressed like a cop and roared around the site on a unicycle handing out spurious citations to innocent people in wheelchairs, got a crowd every time he stopped someone. He'd blow his whistle indignantly and motion for the onlookers to break it up.

 

When we were working in the same zone as Garbo we'd call him over, hand him a prop like a devil stick or diabolo and ask innocently, "Gee, do you know how to do this?" When the crowd formed we'd remind him that he should probably be looking after his can.

 

On days when the sun had gotten to us, I'd go about 100 feet from where we were going to do a show, put on a blindfold, juggle three clubs and start walking. Fred would attempt to guide me in with a duck call. People would stop, mostly to see if I killed anyone. Paul Wildbaum and Derek Scott mimicked people's walks. Garbo squirted water at folks from inside the safety of his can. A crowd would form because the victims wanted to see someone else get nailed, and then people would stop to see why people were crowded around a garbage can.

 

EXPO audiences were very attentive and happy to stay put for the average 30-minute show. Unfortunately, there seems to be a new generation of tourist who never knows just what they've seen until they get home to watch the video. A wishy-washy memo arrived from the EXPO brass asking the acts to put up with being videotaped. Several of the acts, having requested of a visitor that he put away the machinery and enjoy the show, simply packed up and abandoned the area. The worst abusers were the local TV camera jockeys who like to waltz into your circle and take over.

 

Fred's got a neat little trick he uses to dissuade these guys. He spots a tiny speck of dust on the camera lens, spits on a finger and helpfully wipes it off. That usually induced a primal scream from the crew, and off they'd go somewhere else.