“I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you,” he barked. “The good news is that you dolts are graduating and getting out of here a day early; the bad news is that as soon as you can get your sorry butts in gear you’re all going down to the King Edward Hotel to help with some crowd control. It’s your first assignment so don’t screw up!” Parting words from a crusty old drill sergeant to the class of ‘64 at the Metropolitan Toronto Police Academy.
My classmates and I endured a few more minutes of his begrudging well wishes and veiled threats and then we were hustled onto a waiting bus and whisked away to the centre of the city. This boring sort of assignment didn’t seem like a good way to begin our police careers. We didn’t want to be security guards; we all, in our eager naiveté, saw ourselves instead on the streets catching criminals and suppressing crime.
My classmates and I endured a few more minutes of his begrudging well wishes and veiled threats and then we were hustled onto a waiting bus and whisked away to the centre of the city. This boring sort of assignment didn’t seem like a good way to begin our police careers. We didn’t want to be security guards; we all, in our eager naiveté, saw ourselves instead on the streets catching criminals and suppressing crime.
By the time our bus pulled up in front of the hotel we had all finished moaning and complaining about the assignment and, resigned to our fate, disembarked single file clutching the box lunches we had been given. The class clown, last in line, piped up with “Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to .work we go” but he clammed up immediately when he spotted the officer in charge of our detail waiting for us on the sidewalk. Sergeant Crawford, a burly middle aged cop from the rough and ready 52nd Division, was no man to mess with.
He ordered us to follow him into the hotel lobby, then formed us into a line and gave us a briefing. We were all young men and women but none of us showed any sign of recognition when the sergeant named the group we were there to protect. He did a quick appraisal- there were about thirty of us- twenty-five male constables and five police women. Then he selected the largest most formidable looking guys and sent them out to the street to guard the main entrance. That left just me, smallest man in the class, and the police women. We were assigned to patrol the halls and be on the lookout for unregistered intruders. It was embarrassing for me to be singled out because of my size and even more galling when, periodically, I peered down from second story windows and saw gathering throngs of young women approaching the hotel entrance and chatting with my classmates. I swallowed my pride and continued patrolling the halls and keeping everybody off the private floor that had been designated for the group’s exclusive use.
In the early afternoon, I hadn’t looked out the window for a while so I decided to have another peek to see what I was missing. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The streets were plugged full with people, mostly young women, traffic was at standstill and I could hear, almost feel, an electric pulsating moan of crowd noise vibrating against the window pane. The friendly joking demeanor of my classmates had changed to looks of concern and the pressure of the crowd had backed them into a tight circle around the hotel’s doorway. I spent several minutes peering out the window envious and moping until suddenly I was startled out of my gloom by a slap on my back
“Get down to the front door and help get those buggers inside!” the sergeant bellowed, “Finally!” I thought to myself as I made beeline for the stairs. By the time I got to the main door and made my way out to join my classmates, things had reached a fevered pitch.
Members of the Mounted unit, on excited prancing horses, were parting the crowd for the approach of a long procession of scout cars followed by a paddy wagon. The big beige van backed into the secure area we had held in front of the hotel and its back door flew open. “Form a semicircle in front of the doors and lock arms!” the patrol sergeant yelled over the noise of the crowd.
I only got a quick look at several bodies as they leapt from the back of the wagon and dashed for the hotel lobby. I had other things on my mind. I had placed myself between two of the biggest cops and locked arms with them. When a surge of the crowd hit our line, all one hundred and forty pounds of me was snapped up into the air and left holding on for dear life. Seizing the moment, an enterprising young girl in a white angora sweater attempted to crawl under my dangling legs to get through but I locked them around her and held her in a scissor hold until everybody was safely inside.
At a signal from Sgt. Crawford I broke ranks with the big guys outside and followed a separate group of even bigger men -I’m talking huge, circus huge,-as they escorted their charges through the crowded lobby and over to a bank of elevators. It was pandemonium: the doors to the lifts hadn’t opened as planned and hordes of frantic women were pushing by me and flinging themselves kamikaze style up and over the wall of the behemoths in blue. I caught sight of Sgt. Crawford again: he was standing in front of a separate elevator away from the main bank holding the door open and beckoning to me. I got there as quickly as I could and we pushed the Up button and headed for the Empire Suite on the private floor. The battle in front of the other elevators was still in full swing.
We arrived at our destination, had a quick look around then stood by and waited for the other elevators to arrive. Eventually the doors opened and a curtain of police uniforms parted to reveal four bony young men with long hair and tight pants. They emerged from the elevator, breathless, laughing, fiddling with their hair and straightening their clothes. They looked to be around the same age as I was and I couldn’t help wondering why everybody was making such a fuss over them. I guess I was jealous that they were having fun and I wasn’t.
As the group brushed passed me and hurried down the hall to their suite I checked my watch. My shift was just about over; just enough time to update my memo book, brush some of the white angora hair from the crotch of my blue serge pants and turn my post over to someone else before heading home.
That’s when things got complicated. Sgt. Crawford came marching back down the hall with his band of big cops in tow and I watched as he directed them over to the stairwell and sent them on their way. Then he turned his attention to me. Coming over and putting his arm around my shoulder he said in a low conspiratorial voice, “Listen, son, the band manager has complained about all the big guys guarding the boys. He says that they were feeling intimidated and starting to refer to our boys as the goon squad. Anyway”, he continued, “I’m putting them down in the lobby and you, my little friend, are going to spend the night with me and them.” So there it was, just me, Sgt. Crawford and the group with their entourage. By and by everyone in the suite settled in and relaxed, the young men running in and out of their rooms in their underwear with drinks in their hands. I took up a position in an easy chair in a corner of the living room of the suite while Sgt. Crawford loosened his tie and acted as bartender. I was frequently on my feet answering the door and admitting strange people: show biz types, reporters, hookers, etc. In addition to these invited guests we had visits from all kinds of kids who made incredibly creative attempts to get close to these guys who seemed to be their idols.
One of the better attempts was made by a young man who had looted the laundry chute for a bus boy uniform and picked up a discarded coffee pot and tray from outside of one of the rooms. He was brazenly making his way into the suite. I accidentally touched the coffee pot-it was ice cold and when I took a closer look at him I could see his jeans and sandals underneath the white hotel uniform. I let him have a good look at the guys and then escorted him out of the room.
There were many similar incidents and the people that I turned away, many of whom were staying at the hotel, spread the word that I was staying in the suite. Whenever I went down to the lobby or the restaurant for a break I was mobbed by kids, mostly girls, who would heap me with gifts that they had made for the various members of the group. I took the presents to the suite and added them to the growing heap of unopened offerings already there. When I went back down to the lobby I made up stories about how well the gifts had been received.
At one point I felt particularly imposed upon when the group’s manager recruited me to participate in a little production line he was setting up. He had the boys sitting side by side on a sofa getting ready to add their signatures to small squares of paper and to pass them one to the other until they reached me. I was perched on the arm of the sofa; it would be my job to gather up the slips of paper and arrange them in piles of ten and put an elastic around each bundle. When the first paper was started along and the last fellow in line was signing, I eyeballed the previous signatures over his shoulder. I registered John, Paul and George but when the little guy seated next to me scribbled Ringo, I thought he was kidding so I told him as much. “No, that’s me all right, mate”, he said and then reached over, snatched off my police hat and placed it on his head backwards. I gave a quick glance towards the sergeant behind the bar but he didn’t seem concerned.
The signing process went on for quite a while and when I became bored and started adding my own signature to the last few papers, we all had a laugh and called it quits. The manager tossed me a large pile to keep for myself. I acted grateful but I wasn’t really impressed. “Who the hell did these punks think they were?” I gave most of the autographs away to fans in the lobby. I kept one or two for myself but have long since lost track of them. I don’t know why I had never heard any of their music; it was already out there and available. I guess I was somehow still lodged in the Folk Era.
In the evening, one of the guys, a fellow named George, told the Sgt. that he had relatives in the city that he would like to visit. We devised a plan, kitted him out in a disguise, and created several ruses and diversions that got him out of the hotel and back in again safely. The night following his return was one big party, people coming and going, flash bulbs going off, squeals of laughter, champagne corks popping, twenty-four hours of nonstop excitement. I don’t know when anyone slept, I have to admit that I was starting to enjoy myself and I kind of missed the boys the next day when they went off to perform at Maple Leaf Gardens. After all the time I had spent cooped up with them I was in sore need of a shave and a change of clothes. Although they offered, I didn’t think that any of their gear would fit me but I did accept a disposable razor and some toothpaste from the guitar player they called John.
By the time they were scheduled to leave the city, the crowds of admirers had grown to such huge proportions that the Chief of Police, James Mackey, decided to take personal charge of the special operation to remove them from the hotel. Since Sgt. Crawford and I were most familiar with the boys we were included as an integral part of his plan.
When the time for the band’s departure arrived, the Chief called eight of the biggest men on the force into a huddle beside the elevators in the hall of the private floor. “Here’s how it’s going to work: the wagon is standing by outside the front doors and I’ve got enough men on foot and on horses to keep the crowd back while we load these buggers back into the paddy wagon. Our job is to get them through lobby and over to the doors. The trouble is,” he continued, “I just came up from there and the place is crammed with crazy teenagers; so here’s what we’re going to do. You eight men will take the elevator on the left down to the lobby”, he said addressing the goon squad. “I‘ll wait with the band, Sgt. Crawford and the little guy for precisely two minutes and then we will take the elevator beside you down to join you. In the meantime, I want you boys to move over and form a V in front of our elevator so that when we get down there, we can get in behind while you push your way to the doors. Has everybody got that? Good. Now synchronize your watches.”
By the time he had finished his instructions the boys in the band had joined us and he set the plan in motion. Down went the heavies in elevator number one. Then we entered elevator number two and I held the doors from closing while watching my watch. When exactly two minutes had passed the Chief gave me the nod. I released the doors and we were off.
In a matter of seconds we reached the lobby and the doors opened but instead of the protective wall of blue backs we expected we found ourselves all alone facing an enormous crowd of fans. The big cops had been delayed somehow. It was too late- we couldn’t turn back now. At first I thought we would be mobbed but for some reason nobody was reacting to our presence. I think they may have been confused because of all the imitators that had been hanging around the hotel or maybe they simply couldn’t believe their eyes.
It looked like we might get away without too much fuss and the Chief said, “Let’s ease our way over to the door.” Everything was going smoothly, too smoothly! I noticed an older woman halfway across the lobby staring wide eyed with her mouth open. She was looking directly at the little drummer and I don’t think at that point that she was sure it was really him. If he had left well enough alone we might have made it to the door unscathed. Instead, the little bugger started shaking his tie at her and making lewd gestures. That was it. She responded by launching herself across the lobby, leaping on his back and wrapping her legs around his waist and holding his tie like a set of reins. I tried, but couldn’t dislodge her so I pushed them both towards the door. The Chief had already ushered the rest of the group to safety in a space between the hotels double doors where more policemen waited. The cops on the other side of the door grabbed Ringo and dragged him through it while I put a Half Nelson on the excited lady and gradually got her to dismount. She was down but she wasn’t out because even though the door had closed between them, she still held Ringo’s tie in a death grip; it was stuck between the doors and Ringo’s face was flattened against the glass and turning colour. Before I could react, a quick thinking policeman on the other side of the glass produced a jackknife and cut the tie off. The lady fell backwards into the crowd with her memento and I never saw her again.
The paddy wagon departed but the crowd stayed on. Something very special and exciting had been happening and they didn’t want it to end. I felt the same way.
I noticed a girl sitting on the curb with her portable radio. I recognized the white Angora sweater she wore from a previous encounter. She was red eyed and sobbing so I thought I better ask her what was wrong. As I approached her the music she was listening to gradually became discernable above the crowd noise. “She loves you, ya ya ya. She loves you, ya ya ya”. I stayed close to her while the song finished and two others were played. “Well whata’ ya know?” I thought to myself. “Those buggers don’t sound half bad.” On the way home I stopped and bought my first Beatles album.
