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It's a tough day to work as a singing telegram
By KATHRYN WEXLER, Times Staff Writer
TAMPA -- Valentine's Day was still just revving up, but Sherry Johnson already had transformed herself into a singing heart, a singing tuxedo, back into a singing heart and then the Grim Reaper. She'd also gotten a $15 parking ticket, which only made it more aggravating that she was running late for a gig as yet another singing heart. So, of course, her 1992 Honda Civic picks now to blow a hose somewhere on the campus of the University of South Florida. Life as a singing telegram is never more difficult than on Feb. 14. "It's always the busiest day," says Johnson, her sputtering car loaded down with floating balloons, shaggy costumes, spools of ribbons, boxes of mugs and a tank of helium. "(But) I haven't had it like this in years." On Johnson's slender shoulders rests the happiness of dozens of people. Lovers count on her to interrupt the workdays of their paramours with a burst of song. Bosses delightfully conspire to stretch out meetings until she arrives. She is the real deal: a living, breathing Valentine who will set back a lover at least $64 for a five- or 10-minute shtick that is equal parts goofball and humiliation. "It's a kooky job," she says. "People think I'm crazy." Usually, she loves it. Even if it means that on Valentine's Day, she goes without food or even bathroom relief for much of the day. Or that she must pull on the saggy costume of a pink gorilla while standing on a downtown sidewalk. On this particular Valentine's Day, Johnson gets stranded at USF just before 1 p.m. "Oy, yoy, yoy," she moans from behind the wheel. She pulls into a parking lot near Pizzo Elementary School, off Fowler Avenue, smoke curling from the engine. Dressed in a red dress, tights and white shoes as part of her singing heart outfit, she yanks open the hood and uselessly pours more water into the radiator. She grabs her purse and heads for the school office to borrow a phone. "I need help," Johnson says to her fiance, who is on the other end of the line. "I have got to get these delivered." The secretary eyes the fading pink hearts painted on Johnson's cheeks. "Okay, honey, okay. Thanks," Johnson says into the phone. "I love you." She got into the singing telegram business years ago, just for the fun of it. Then came three kids and a divorce. The hours were flexible and the pay okay, even if the work was unsteady. She also found she liked who she became while singing for strangers. All her shyness disappeared. "When you're in a costume," she says, "it's like it's not you." Her fiance, Skip Utegg, rolls up in a flatbed truck at 2:15 p.m. When she met him a year ago after being single for a decade, she told him that Valentine's Day would never be theirs to celebrate. It was a day she is committed to fostering the happiness of others. When they finally reach her next assignment -- a half-hour late -- building security doesn't know what to make of her, with the big stuffed heart on her chest and her handful of balloons. She drums her French-manicured fingernails on the desk until a guard finally takes her through a maze of hallways and into a crowded office. "I have been sent here to torment you, compliments of your lovely Lisa," Johnson says to a man who looks like he'd rather be in Bora Bora. "I thought she was going to strip!" whispers co-worker Maria Torres. Johnson won't strip. But she will morph into 100 different characters with costumes she keeps crammed into a closet at her apartment near USF. She can be a clown, a mermaid, a cop, a workplace inspector, even Cinderella. She loves that her singing telegrams punctuate occasions -- anniversaries, birthdays, promotions, Bosses' Day. In her own house, "We celebrate everything." After she finishes, Utegg hustles her back to their apartment, where she hauls her gear into his brown Dodge Caravan. Her next "victim," as they're called in the business, is delighted to see Johnson appear as a gorilla. Her boyfriend definitely won points. "She was happy," Johnson says afterward, her face damp with perspiration. Not everyone takes kindly to her antics. Johnson has been pushed by a man offended that she was hired to appear as his weeping widow on his 51st birthday. She has had doors slammed in her face when her company, Merry Minstrel, had her perform "Sorry" singing telegrams as an apology to people who still weren't ready to forgive. Sometimes the telegrams are a little mean, she says. She still feels bad about the one she did earlier that morning -- the Grim Reaper. "You'll lose your teeth, you'll lose your hair, your body will sag from here to there!" Johnson sang to a woman on her 50th birthday, before a crowded room. The birthday girl plopped down on a chair, glaring through a tense smile. "Poor lady," Johnson says now. "I wouldn't be surprised if she cries when she goes home." The day's work won't end until 10 p.m., after eight telegrams. Her earnings will be at least $250, but she will be too tired to celebrate Valentine's Day. And there are more gigs lined up for the weekend. "We'll have to celebrate Monday or something," she says. -- Kathryn Wexler can be reached at wexler@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3383.
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