Curator Corner: My 3 1/2 hour career as a scare actor

Minimum wage, maximum pain and medium gain all result in likely the shortest scare actor employment in haunted attraction history.

An animatronic representation of my short-lived scare-actor character

Some years back as part of my career-expanding acting repertoire, combined with an insatiable Halloween appetite, I dared to join the ranks of America's hardest-working team: professional scare actors. Sure, you might think coal miners, or those people who work 14-hour shifts on oil rigs would be at the top of that list, but I can assure you scare actors, or scaretors, as we like to be called, earn their paychecks...not to mention a fair amount of maze-created bruises.

I won't name the professional haunt where I spent my roughly 210-minute scaretor career, but it was right here in Los Angeles- and was (and still is) considered one of the most successful of the lot, even if its been corporatized. I'll put a few less-than-subtle Easter eggs in here to give you clues where it was, but hay, let me get to the story behind my abridged venture into professional scare-dom.

A few weeks before joining the ranks, I'd auditioned for a large performing role for the creative team behind the outdoor haunt. When I didn't land the juicy role I wanted in their production-heavy scripted main event (my appearances on Seinfeld and a shlocky but inexplicably popular Troma horror film that won't be named because they still owe me lots of dough were no help), the very nice organizers floated the idea of me joining their maze actors. They promised improv galore, a chance to create my own unique roving character, and a Halloween season to remember.

Sure, sign me up!

But, ultimately not for long.

Being a maze actor, or mactor as we liked to be called, means standing on your feet for hours, screaming, howling or acting insane at a never-ending flow of customers who are mostly great but sometimes miserable and/or drunk - sometimes both. It means running around in the semi-darkness, over uneven terrain and never letting your character slip. You might be thinking, I'm barely getting minimum wage here, it's freezing (hey, I thought it stayed warm in L.A - turns out not so much in Griffith Park in October), what could be the long-term result of all this oily stage fog blowing in my face, and most importantly, where can I go to the bathroom undetected out here in these urban woods.

I arrived for my foray into haunting debut and final performance shortly before sunset and was whisked through wardrobe and make-up (not much left as they save the good stuff for the main-show performers and the veterans who return year after year.) Clothed in some well-used overalls and with a bit of chalk-white makeup and some stage blood dabbed around my eyes, I decided I was supposed to be some sort of a zombie....farmer...creature....thing though no one really seemed to be offering direction. My character clearly wasn't Shakespearean, but it was mine to form.

Script? Not in the maze. Make it up rook!

Minutes before we opened for business, the bosses did a test run through our maze - one of several at this sprawling event. While most of the other zombie mactors, screamed, yelled and threatened the testers, I decided to be a thoughtful zombie: sad, confused and lost - much like I was already feeling....and it was only 5:45, only eight more hours to go, As one of the bosses passed by, I dragged my leg as if it had been run over by a tractor and whispered (in my best zombie voice) "Whereeeeee am I? Helppppp me." The boss looked me square in the eye, smiled and said "Good."

Yes, I had this gig for life! Or, until 9:45, but we'll get to that.

Anyway, I was immediately hooked and couldn't wait to show my now boss-approved character to the paying public. Things started off well as it grew darker. The early-evening customers weren't buzzed or rude and seemed to play along. One or two were dude-snarky, but I went with it and zombie-creature-farmer-thing snarked them right back. This was gonna be great. The only hard part was finding a hay stack that I could deem my own "zone" from which to make my drag-legging appearance. Easier said than done when you're working a maze populated with a couple dozen other mactors all jockeying for prime scare turf. Once I found my spot and my mojo, I added character traits and fresh dialogue, got more adventurous, and finally invented some schtick where I broke through hay bales on unsuspecting customers as they rounded a blind curve.

I wasn't missing being in the main show at all. The maze is where you are with the people, creating a role that isn't on paper but only of your invention - a truly immersive experience. This was going to be a memorable spooky season, not just as a fan of Halloween but a creator of content. Call my agent and book me out until Thanksgiving, for I have found my home for an extended run.

But then something went terribly wrong.

Just over three hours in I tripped on an unseen wire, prop or acorn - no one really knows - and fell hard to the ground. The customers loved it, figuring it was part of the act. It wasn't. Nor was the obviously sprained index finger on my left hand. And I also realized I couldn't see. One of my contact lenses had fallen out when I hit the dirt.

Disheartened, I was sent to the medic tent, and after treatment it was mutually agreed upon that my career as a scare actor was over. My boss, who had loved my creation, was unmoved by my plight as she had a pressing ATM issue or absent alien or wily witch issue nearby. Too many issues going on to be spending time with an ex zombie...creature...farmer...thing. Damn the life of an entertainer! Thank goodness my unemployment checks still had a month left.

Driving home with my good hand on the wheel, and my bad, splinted hand covering my eye missing a contact lens, I was miserable. And lost. I was somewhere deep in the valley, had taken a wrong turn and this being before GPS. I fumbled around one unfamiliar neighborhood after another until I recognized downtown approaching. I'd survived.

There on a dark street, stood a long line of excited people awaiting entry to a warehouse, reimagined as a haunted attraction. I pulled over and parked. Maybe they could use a recently fired zombie/farmer/creature/thing with one good hand and eye? The pain in my hand returned. Maybe a hamburger at Tomy's would be a better idea.

Props to the thousands of seasonal scare actors who do this night after night, year after year. They should have a statue in Griffith Park.

Thom the Curator