Coverage of the Leaky Bucket Awards Ceremony

The awards ceremony was held last night at an undisclosed location. I was allowed to attend, provided that I agree first to a pad-down and wand sweep. I was to be taken blindfolded to the awards site. Even my Blackberry was confiscated from me for the duration of the event. I had been willing to risk almost everything to live blog the action, but because of the intense security surrounding the event, and possible violations of the Mann act, you will have to settle with my report of festivities as clearly as I can recall them.

A recorded fanfare comes from overhead…… Da! Dadadada Daaaa…..

As the house lights dim and everyone's eyes adjust, a spotlight irises open on the left side of the stage. Behind the podium, a slight man with horn rim glasses and a bow tie clears his throat, causing the sound system to emit a dull howl which peaks out with a scream as the sound man adjusts the levels.

"Good Evening! And welcome to the first annual LEAKY BUCKET AWARDS!"

There was polite applause from the crowd, with just a couple of whistles.
"As you know this non-prestigious honor is bestowed upon candidates who squander as many public resources for as little in return as possible. This year’s dishonorees will be brought up on stage, whether willing or not, to receive their Awards, along with the ceremonial beating. We would like to recognize and thank this year's Sergeants at Arms whose mission it was to round up this year’s recipients using any means at their disposal and bring them here with as little damage as practical to receive their awards.”

There was semi-enthusiastic applause from the audience, as a second, larger spotlight fills the center of the stage on a group of men standing at parade rest. Each raised a hand and waved to the crowd when recognized, followed by friendly applause.

“Mr. Fernando Ruiz!”

“Mr. Alex Resendez!”

“Mr. Francisco Sifuentes !”

“Mr. Robert Uresti!”

“And the esteemed, the loud, the animated…… Mr…. Dagoberto….. Barrera!”

There was wild applause as Mr. Barrera lifted his trademark hat deftly with his right hand in a salute to the audience. The audience responded with a positive increase in applause volume. The gentlemen filed off the stage as smartly as their years allowed.

“Mr. Roman Perez is keeping watch at the front door.” , the MC continued,” And we wish to thank him for his continued vigilance.”

“We would also like to recognize an honored guest in the audience, so everyone please give a warm welcome to ……..Dr. Jerry McHale!”

The crowd rose to its feet in groups…loud applause…whistles and various calls of good wishes. McHale simply raised a bottled beer in high above his head in acknowledgement, while motioning with his other for another bucket of Indio. The attendees took their seats and decorum returned.

“So without further fanfare and hoopla, let’s start the first annual LEAKY BUCKET AWARDS!”

The audience applauds, as at center stage the curtains parted.

There standing was undoubtedly a woman poised regally with a black hood over her head and face down to her shoulders, covering what may have been a wide brimmed hat. The effect was somewhat like a black shrouded beekeeper. She stood: feet slightly apart with her hand folded over a common, thick handled, commercial kitchen broom propped vertically before her with the brush end squarely against the floor. There was no question as to her purpose in tonight’s agenda.

“Our first recipient ,the ever popular ……….City of Brownsville Public Works!

A ripple of applause cascaded through the room as the announcer continued, “Accepting on behalf of the department is Mr. Santana Torres.”

Mr. Torres was prodded toward the podium by those seated as he passed tables on his way to the podium. He was handed his award and took his place at center stage and smiled at the crowd.

Three thunderous blows fell in rapid succession, as the MC glanced in horror and raced across the stage to stay the broom before it fell again. In a tone probably louder than he intended, I could faintly hear from the stage: “THE BRUSH END, THE BRUSH END!”

A muffled voice from under the hood said “Sorrryyyy” in a sing-songy voice. She didn’t really convince me that she was. As the MC walked smartly to his podium, I heard someone say from the direction of McHale’s table, “That’s GOTTA hurt!”

As the dazed recipient was led staggering from the stage, the MC darted a glance toward the broom wielding woman who had attempted to resume her stance, but the effect was lost due to her shoulders shuddering and an occasional snicker being heard. The MC turned to the microphone and said, “We didn’t have time to rehearse the show, so please bear with us.”, then quickly glanced again at the woman who had still not regained her composure.

Clearing his throat, he went on to say, “Our next recipient is in the category of multi-agency funded boondoggle is…….. Cameron Works ! Accepting for Cameron Works is Francisco Castellanos !”

“Do you have a few words for the people? Castellanos started what looked to be a glare that was interrupted by the unmistakable snick-snack of a 12 gauge round being chambered in a pump action shotgun from backstage. It sounded to me like a Remington, but I was pretty far back in the crowd. Wide eyed and pale Castellanos stumbled zombie-like to the podium, and stammered out, “I won’t do it again?” The crowd clapped appreciatively, then Castellanos was guided to center stage for the ceremonial beating. The MC caught the eye of the woman I began to think of as the ”Minister of Punishment “ and firmly held up one finger. The woman shrugged her shoulders upward while holding the broom diagonally across her chest, brush end upwards this time as if to ask, ”Que Onda?”. The MC firmly repeated his indication of “one” with his index finger. She nodded affirmation, then turning the broom 90 degrees, flat edge on, she took one step backwards and let fly with a mighty swing that would have impressed Barry Bonds. The MC turned away and winced as the edge of the broom, right where the bristles were cross stitched for strength, caught Francisco Castellanos squarely across his jaw.

He pivoted like a floppy, fleshy pinwheel with his head contacting the floor a mere fraction of a second before his feet came crashing down. The MC gave the woman what can only be described as “The Hairy Eyeball” and again she said “Sorrryyy” in the same, unconvincing singsong. The observers in the crowd however, nodded their approval. McHale waved for another bucket of beer.

While the stage was being cleared, and quickly mopped I might add, the MC and a couple of stage hands forcefully relieved the woman of her broom and replaced it with a rolled up newspaper. She looked none too happy at this change of fortune and resumed her stance, occasionally lowering her head to look at the newspaper with what can only be described as contempt as she rolled it over and over in her hands.
“Our next recipient is in the category of public education...BISD for being a dropout factory with rising TAKS scores that still doesn’t prepare kids for a decent chance once they’ve finished. Accepting on behalf of BISD will be….. Mr. Otis Powers! “

After the applause died down the MC cupped his hand over the mic and addressed the Sergeants at Arms. “This is it?” Mr. Ruiz answered back, “He was all we could find. I called his office, said I had a problem, he said “Come over to my office and let’s talk about it.” so we went over and bagged him.” The MC shrugged and removed his hand from the microphone as a large green military equipment bag was unzipped and a disheveled Otis Powers was extracted and led up to receive his due.

Powers made a break for it when he reached the stairs leading up to the stage. Someone in the crowd let fly with an expertly thrown chankla, which had to have been brought for the purpose, as this was a strictly black tie affair, catching Mr. Powers squarely in the back of the head, as flying chanklas tend to do. The dazed Powers was snatched up as quickly as a misbehaving kid in the grocery store and pulled by his ear up to the podium to receive his honor. The MC reached over and pulled open Powers’ jacket front and shoved the award packet in. As Mr. Powers was led to center stage, the MC with an air of smug satisfaction rolled his left arm outward, palm upturned, toward the newspaper wielding woman as if to say, ”All yours!” She looked at her target, then back at the paper. She repeated these actions once more, and then with a huge back-handed uppercut, the now hard rolled paper came to a dead stop in an area that made every man in the room involuntarily jerk in sympathy, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth. The now mercifully unconscious Powers was carried from the stage accompanied by a scattering of applause from the ladies and the few men who had recovered from what they had witnessed.

Another brief conference was held with the woman at center stage with even more stage hands involved; her newspaper was grudgingly exchanged for a pillow. Although it was impossible to see through the hood, her body language was that of sheer exasperation at this turn of events.

“Our last major award recipient for the evening is UTB/TSC! Receiving on behalf of this institution of higher learning and lowered expectations is ……..Dr. Juliette Garcia!”

She made a dash toward the stage. It appeared that she was drawn to the spotlight on the microphone. Fate seems to have played a part in this, for at the same moment as she was running toward her goal; Jerry McHale turned half way around in his seat, with a beer still pressed to his lips as his feet nonchalantly entered the aisle leading toward the front of the stage. Juliette’s forward sliding motion was only stopped by her head contacting the bottom stair step. Jerry didn’t spill a drop. Amazing!

The crowd rose to its feet. There was electricity in the air that you could almost touch. Even Dr. McHale had put down his beer to rise and join in the applause as a stunned Garcia was led forth to receive her due.

She quickly gave that pillow three twists and folded it in half, and before the MC could get one step from the podium, she had bent halfway backwards with that pillow-brick extended as far over her right shoulder as humanly possible, and she came down with a blow that would have felled Paul Bunyan’s ox.

Skidding to a stop, the announcer returned to his microphone, as it was too late to do anything about it and it was the last public award.

“Sergeants at arms!”, he called. They rose in unison and answered as one, “Yes Sir!”. “I believe that you have a remaining duty to the dishonorable mentions?” he asked in a knowing voice. Mr. Sifuentes answered for the group, “Very good, Sir! Gentlemen?” The platoon filed toward the door on the right where a push cart stacked high with cartons of eggs and a second cart with two large Charmain boxes waited. They disappeared through the door into the night with the unmistakable look of men on a serious mission.

This years ceremony was over and I was blindfolded and taken back to where we met up. As the sedan pulled to a stop, I was unceremoniously pushed out of the back seat onto the pavement. The broom was tossed out after me, as were my other personal belongings “It’s already been wiped for prints, my ‘host’ hollered at me through the rolled down window. “Keep it for next year!”

And that I shall.

“Of course I know. It is my business to know.” -The Merovingian