Becoming a Freedom Trail Player
“Let’s go!” I announce, but don’t add: … before I lose my nerve. I stand and Jones gapes: “No one ever takes me up on the suggestion to do your audition at the actual site you’re going to talk about–cool! Where are we headed?”
“Congress and State,” I tell him.
“The Boston Massacre!” he says. “Extra cool!”
Bolstered by Jones’s 21st-century flattery, my ego quickly deflates when we arrive at the base of the Old State House, which will serve as my impromptu stage. A player in colonial costume is already encamped on the tiny traffic circle, his voice straining above the rush-hour din.
“That’s a rival group started by someone I trained,” Jones remarks. While we wait for the competition to pass, a second gaggle arrives, shepherded by a woman in modern dress. We listen to her mechanically scripted spiel as she describes a nearby site: “The building that once sat here was the Custom House, a formal name for the place where all the money collected from the colonists was packaged and shipped back to England. It was about the most hated place in America at the time …”
Jones shrugs: “In Boston you don’t need a formal license to become a tour guide operator. Any Tom, Dick, or Harry can do it.”
“Or James Otis Jr.,” I respond when I spot the man who launched my urge to become a player as he leads a third group toward my tiny stage.
“Sam! You and your rabble!” Otis shouts out to us. “You’re not dominating my turf, are you?” We politely step aside as he bellows–a stagy, revolutionary lilt in his voice: “This is the Old State House, built in 1712-1713. Look up top–you see the lion and the unicorn? Those are British symbols. The wooden originals were torn down on July 18, 1776, and burned in a bonfire. That’s when the Declaration of Independence was first read from the balcony. We’re also standing at the site of the Boston Massacre …”
In my own competitive stirring, I watch the crowd for signs of boredom, listening for choice one-liners to pilfer. “Lobsterback! Go back to England!” Otis quotes an epithet yelled out by a member of an angry pack of colonists. Hmm … I think I can use that one someday. Otis continues setting the stage: “The Boston Massacre began when locals started flinging snowballs laced with oyster shells at the Brits …” As if reading my line-stealing mind, Jones whispers, “Don’t feel as though you’ve got to get every single fact in.”
Finally, it’s my turn before a professionally critical audience of one. I take a last peek at my script and heave a hopeful breath: “It was March 5th, 1770. There was tension … everywhere,” I try in a darkly dramatic voice. “Out in front of our Custom House where our customs–a fancy word for money–were being bagged and shipped, a soldier with a musket was posted ’24/7,’ as we say these days. A nice young lad named Edward Garrick, an upstart barber’s apprentice, did what we all wanted to do as he walked past the soldier. ‘You’re a bloody-backed scoundrel!’ he barked at the soldier. That’s an 18th-century version of ‘Get lost, ya skank!'”