From the depths of my sleep, I snapped awake so violently Purrsia the cat leaped off the bed and retreated to the safety of the hall.

“Winter Carnival!” I gasped.

I looked at the clock — 0315. What had just happened?

My subconscious had just given me a wake-up call, reminding time me was on the wing and I’d better get my tuchis in gear or the Brothers of the Bush might miss this year’s Carnival parade.

To the unknowing, the Brothers may look as chaotic as Napoleon’s army on its retreat from Moscow, but achieving even that level of rabbleosity requires more work than outsiders can imagine. Fortunately, it’s fairly easy to do, provided it’s handled the right way.

In my case, “the right way” is to have a bunch of responsible peeps in the group, each of whom knows his role. After that, when it comes to getting chores done, it’s just the Ole Dopey Boy Three Step — Delegate, Delegate, and Delegate.

Here’s a partial list of the delegatees:

¯ Br. Russ Defonce. Br. Russ is the group’s fabricator. If we want something made of wood, Russ the master woodworker can make it. And better yet, given his delightful disposition, he’s actually glad to help. Of course he can work with materials other than wood, as he did with our fabulous marshmallow guns.

¯ Br. Hugh McGill. Hugh is the Pharaoh of Float Design. If we need a flying saucer, a dinosaur, a giant hamburger, Hugh will design and build it.

¯ Br. Bruce Young, our graphic artist: He letters all our signs, as well as paints our props to make sure they have that certain je ne sais quoi our adoring fans have come to expect.

¯ Br. Mike Cochran is the Master of the Mint. He’s the guy who designs and draws our much-treasured bubkes bucks — the fake money we hand out by the thousands. Oh yeah, just FYI, all his work is hand-drawn.

¯ Br. Peter MacIntyre is a townie and childhood friend who comes up for Carnival and always marches with us. Since he’s lived in Myrtle Beach for the past 40 years, he’s tasked with bringing up sunshine and warm weather on parade day. His success rate is nonexistent, but he never gives up, bless his little heart.

¯ Finally there’s Br. Ron Burdick. He’s the Prime Mover, since it was his idea to be in the parade in the first place, back in 2007. He also does all sorts of vital behind-the-scenes work. As for on-the-scene work, he always drives his truck in the parade, usually pulling a trailer on which are sprawled our lamest and most lethargic members.

I said he always drives his truck, but I need to amend that to “he always HAS driven his truck.” For after our last convo, that status seems to be in jeopardy.

—

On the horns of a dilemma

—

It started when I ran into him on New Year’s Eve day. After our initial greetings and blah-blah, he said, “Have you seen Cathy lately?”

Cathy is Cathy Moore, publisher of the Adirondack Daily Enterprise and our mutual boss.

My normal resting state is The Two P’s — Pessimism and Paranoia — so when someone lays a question like that on me, my first reaction is panic, thinking I’m about to hear a horror story.

“No. Why? Is something wrong with her?”

“No,” he said.

“So what about her?”

“The Enterprise is gonna have a float in this year’s parade,” he said.

“Yeah? “ I said. “So … ?”

“So she asked me if I could be in with them, with my truck and trailer.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Well, I told her I’m always with the Brothers.”

“And she said?”

He paused, obviously uncomfortable.

“Uh … she said the Brothers could join them,” he said.

“Oh she did, did she?” I said, feeling my blood pressure spike. “Well, ain’t that mighty big of her.”

Then for emphasis, I turned and spit. And it wasn’t one of those thorax-cleaning, half-pound loogie spits. Uh-uh. It was a dry spit, a symbolic spit, a perfect Gallic-gesture-of-contempt spit.

I glared at him.

“This is our, what? — our 14th year in a row. And how many in a row is it for the Enterprise?”

He shrugged.

“I dunno,” he said.

“Well, I do,” I said. “It’s year zero in a row. The last time the Enterprise was in Carnival parade, Howard Riley was one of their paper boys.” (Editor’s note: Actually, the last time was 2005.)

Driving the point home, I spit again, twice — once to my left, once to my right.

He shifted nervously.

“Yeah,” he said. “But Cathy’s a great boss.”

He was right — she is. And I should know, having had great bosses, good bosses, crappy bosses and a few who were so droolingly nuts they made Captain Queeg look like the poster boy for enlightened leadership. Still, the issue wasn’t how good a boss she is — it was who Ron would be in the parade with. I was not about to get distracted.

“This whole country’s going to hell in a handcart,” I said. “And you know why?”

He shook his head but said nothing, not wanting to wake the sleeping giant, as it were.

“Loyalty. Or more exactly, LACK of loyalty,” I said. “You, as Brother Number One, should know this, but I’m beginning to doubt it.”

“Yeah, but — “ he started.

“Yeah, but nothing,” I snapped. “Besides, she wants a truck and trailer, not specifically YOUR truck and trailer. And how hard do ya think it’d be to find one here?”

“I dunno, I — “

I cut him off again.

“I’ll tell you,” I said. “About as hard as finding a Tupper Laker nicknamed Frenchie.”

“Ya know,” he said, “I haven’t given her my answer yet.”

When dealing with things that people complicate but which are actually simple, Ron’s favorite saying is, “Well, it’s not rocket science.” I decided to needle him some more, in his own fashion.

“I know,” I said. “And givin’ her your answer’s not rocket science, since the only answer is either yes or no.”

—

Perspective

—

This went on in the same fashion, and then, because we both had places to go, we said our goodbyes and went on our way.

Of course, even though I gave Ron a hard time about his lack of loyalty, he’s exactly the opposite. His “problem” is he’s TOO loyal. He had to choose between either Cathy or me, and didn’t want to tell either of us no.

So if he goes with the Enterprise, will it be a big disappointment to me? Of course not.

Whether he’s with us or the Enterprise doesn’t matter. What matters — and the ONLY thing that matters — is him being in the parade, having fun and doing his bit to add to the spirit of Carnival.

It’s all a matter of perspective: If he’s with the Enterprise, they’ll have fun with him; if he’s with us, we’ll have fun with him. It’s a win-win all around, and it’s exactly what The World’s Greatest Winter Carnival is all about.

Keeping that perspective isn’t rocket science, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a lot more important.