Best to Laugh: A Novel (22 page)

36

F
ROM
THE
CONSCIENTIOUS
BOOKKEEPER’S
LEDGER:

I had introduced myself to the audience as being Korwegianish.

“Half-Korean, a quarter-Norwegian, and a quarter-Finn. Yes, I’m descended from those considered the funniest people on earth, those laugh-riots—the Asianavians. Who hasn’t rolled in the aisles listening to comics like Thor Kim or Yoo Suk Peterson? We’ve even got our own Three Stooges—Ole, Lars, and Dong.”

“Kiss my ass!” shouted a man from the back of the room.

“My mistake,” I said. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a fourth Stooge.”

It was rare, in the mild-mannered herbal-tea-drinking atmosphere that was the Natural Fudge, to have belligerent hecklers, but beer and wine were also served, apparently too much of it to this guy, as again, he yelled, “Kiss my ass!”

“Sir,” I said slowly, “Do you really think the more you shout that, the more willing I’ll be to do it?” Tapping my chin with my fingers, I looked upward, as if seriously pondering his words and in a dreamy voice, mused, “Hmm . . . maybe he’s not really being crude and obnoxious. Maybe he’s making me an offer I shouldn’t refuse—maybe his butt’s got magical powers like the Blarney Stone.” I looked back at the heckler. “Does your butt have magical powers?”

“I’m here to see Freddie, not you!”

I had no idea who Freddie was but nodded.

“Oh, well that explains things.” To the rest of the audience, I explained, “Freddie’s an improvisational contortionist. He bends his body into weird positions based on audience suggestion.” I cast a pitying look at the heckler. “But when Freddie comes out, you should ask him to kiss his own ass, because that would be the real act of contortionism, not kissing yours. Unless you and he have made previous arrangements?”

“All right!” he said, both agreeably and nonsensically, and he was silent for the rest of my act, which included a bit on my tenuous dating life (“I’ve had to lower my standards a bit . . . ‘my type’ no longer means ‘handsome and witty’ but ‘conscious and speaks English at least as a third language’”), a couple of impressions (my Beverly Hills panhandler getting the biggest laughs), and an exchange with Mindy, a waitress who wore a tank top accessorized by tufts of underarm hair and who, I had discovered, was always up for some good-natured ribbing. She provided me an opening when she dropped a plate.

“Oops, another customer review of the Eggplant and Okra Surprise,” I said.

“I wish we served an Eggplant and Okra Surprise,” Mindy said. “It sounds yummy.”

“She’s high,” I said to the audience.

“High on life. And maybe a little Maui Wowie.”

I looked at the audience. “This is a good time to remind you to tip your waitresses. Especially Mindy. She’s saving up to buy a razor.”

A
FTERWARD,
I joined Terry, Francis, Frank, and Mayhem at a table.

“Candy!” said Mayhem. “That was radical!”

“Bravo!” said Terry.

“Way to deal with that ‘kiss my ass’ asshole,” said Frank.

“‘Krugerrands,’” said Mayhem, reciting a line my Beverly Hills panhandler used, ‘Spare Kruggerands?’”

“If I still had my club,” said Francis, “I’d book you. For the weekend.”

As far as compliments go, I could ride on that one for a while.

“Excuse me, Candy?” A woman with a corona of springy brown curls and a face dotted with moles approached the table, hand out.

As I shook it, she said, “Claire Hellman—yes, just like the playwright and the mayonnaise. But I’m not related to either. Listen, I just wanted to tell you, I thought you were wonderful.”

After I asked her to repeat herself, I thanked her and introduced her to my tablemates. Her warm smile froze when I got to the man seated next to me.

“Oh, my God,” she said, “you’re Francis Flover?”

Looking slightly perplexed, Francis said, “Yes . . . unless you’re delivering a summons.”

Grinning, Claire Hellman squatted next to the table and took Francis’s hand.

“My mother told me all about the Bel Mondo—she said she practically lived there.”

Sitting up a little straighter, Francis asked, “And who was your mother?”

“Winifred Hellman. Well, back then she was Winifred Jarret.”

“No. Winnie Jarret is your mother?”

The woman’s curls trembled as she nodded.

Francis turned to illuminate the rest of us.

“Winnie Jarret worked in publicity for one of the studios, which meant she was often at my club, babysitting movie stars who found it hard to monitor their excesses.”

Claire laughed. “She loved it. She said where but Hollywood would they pay you to dress up, see great entertainment, and share a table with people like Peter Lawford and Mitzi Gaynor?”

“And how is your lovely mother?” asked Francis.

“Oh, fine. Living in the Valley with my dad. She quit working when she got married and had me and my brother, but she passed on her love of showbiz to both of us. Eric’s an agent, and I’m a filmmaker.”

“Isn’t that wonderful!” said Francis.

“Well, here’s the wonderful—or maybe synergistic—part,” said Claire, and seeing a chair at the next table, she got up from her squat and pulled it over.

“You guys don’t mind, do you?”

We all shook our heads, everyone wanting to hear the wonderful and synergistic part.

“Okay, obviously, I didn’t know you were sitting here, Mr. Flover—”

“—please, call me Francis.”

Nodding, Claire continued. “I just wanted to congratulate Candy here on a great act.” She gave me a little salute, which I returned. “But meeting you, I’m reminded of all the stories my mother told me about the Bel Mondo, and by the way, I’m sorry for your later troubles, Mr. . . . uh, Francis, but what I’m thinking is—wow! I’d love to interview you and get your own reminiscences on film! It’d make a great documentary—a real look back at the old, glamorous Hollywood, and I could intersperse interviews with stars and use archival photographs, but you’d really be the centerpiece, because my mother always said, ‘Francis Flover wasn’t a studio head, but he ran Hollywood after hours.’” Claire brushed back a handful of curls. “Whew! Sorry, when these ideas come to me, I tend to get a little excited.”

“I can see why,” said Frank. “A documentary about my father is a great idea.”

“This is so wild,” said Terry. “When my date picked me up for prom, well, we were both sort of hippies and I guess our clothes reflected that, because my dad looks at my mom and says, ‘Can you imagine those two at the Bel Mondo?’”

At that moment, Mindy the waitress stopped at our table.

“Can I get you guys anything?” she said and looking at me, she smirked. “Or do you prefer to be served by someone with a little less body hair?”

“Oh,” I said, swiveling my head as I looked around the restaurant. “Is Bigfoot working tonight?”

“I hope you know how many people spend years getting to where you got in a couple months,” Gary Arnstein said one evening in the Improv green room. “Especially when you don’t even really have an act.”

“I have an act,” I said. “It’s just fluid.”

“Fluid’s not gonna get you on Carson,” said a comic named Jim Clausen.

I had heard this from comics and club owners: “You’ve got to hone your act—do it over and over and over.” That was my intention every time I stepped onstage, but it seemed I could never stick to the script.

“Take me, for instance,” said Gary. “I was doing Amateur Nights for three years before I moved up.”

“Shoulda done them for a couple years more,” said another comic.

“Should still be doing them,” said Jim. “Although with you, Arnstein, practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect.”

“You should talk, Clausen. I saw your act last Saturday.” Gary shook his head and in a deep news-anchor voice said, “Bomb rocks L.A. comedy club.”

Jim twirled his middle finger.

It was typical, I had learned, that anytime comedians got together there was a constant jockeying for position, a top-this mentality. Everyone was constantly “on,” which was exhilarating until it became tiring. There was as much testosterone-fueled swagger as on a battlefield, and as testosterone wasn’t my dominant hormone, I tended to stay in the demilitarized Zone of Estrogenia, throwing an occasional grenade mainly for my
own amusement. Comics were wary of the women—and there weren’t many of us—who invaded their turf, and for me it wasn’t important to compete with them offstage. If we’d all been onstage together, it would be an entirely different matter.

A
CALENDAEIUM
ENTRY
in October read, “Last day at Rogue Mansion—how will they survive without me?” Underneath that I had scrawled, “small party—nice,” and it had been, with the Rogue Meister himself accepting a piece of cake and thanking me for my good work.

“A piece of you shall be forever entombed in my video library,” he said, to which I replied, in a muffled voice, “Help, let me out!”

Terry fretted on the drive home, wondering aloud who she was going to make fun of the Rascalettes with.

I reminded her that our friendship wasn’t over and that we were scheduled to have brunch that Saturday.

“Yeah, but who am I supposed to get on-site relief with? I mean, just today Jackie Vining—she’s next month’s Rascalette—told me she’s changing the spelling of her name to J-a-q-u-e-e because ‘it’s more classy.’”

“Is that classy spelled ‘q-u-l-a-s-s-y?” I said.

“See! That’s what I mean.” She turned onto Sunset Boulevard and more to herself than me she said, “Geez—what am I doing with my life? I should be tagging endangered species in the rain forest or running with the bulls in Pamplona. How did I wind up at the Rogue Mansion?”

37

I
SIGNED
WITH
THE
TALENT
AGENCY
the Starlight Group, and my agent was Eric Hellman, who had, on the recommendation of his sister, Claire, come to see me perform. During our very first meeting, Eric was surprised when I told him I didn’t want to do TV commercials.

“You mind telling me why?”

“I figure if I wanted to be a salesperson, I would have applied at Dayton’s.”

Now his face (fairly handsome and, like Claire’s, fairly mole ridden) registered blankness.

“It’s the best department store in America. It’s based in Minneapolis.”

“Candy, surely you’re aware,” said Eric, no doubt filing the information I’d just given him in the useless trivia drawer of his brain, “that commercials are a stepping stone? I have a client who was seen in a rug shampoo commercial, and now he’s shooting a romantic comedy with Goldie Hawn! And what about sitcoms? Please tell me you don’t have anything against sitcoms.”

“I just don’t want to do anything dumb,” I said, not liking how small my voice sounded. “Or that feeds into stupid stereotypes.”

Eric nodded. “Duly noted.”

He booked me on my first college tour, in which I traveled with four other comics in a minivan as far south as San Diego and as far north as Santa Rosa. This was exciting in itself, but what set the Thrill-O-Meter’s needle to sway was that one of those four other comics was Mike Trowbridge.

“Well, look who’s here,” he said, as we loaded our bags in the back of the van. “Miss Candy Ohi.”

“None other,” I said casually, giving my suitcase a shove.

E
VERYONE
ON
THE
TOUR
WAS
funny, although Lance Gill’s ability to make me laugh diminished the more I got to know him; he had one of those
egos that demanded the modifier
insufferable.
In the van or restaurant booths, he liked to lecture us on the art of comedy, offering unsolicited tips as to how we could improve our act.

“You, Boris,” he said to the guy who had emigrated from Russia five years earlier. “You’ve got a good thing going—people feel sophisticated laughing at a guy who’s from behind the Iron Curtain—but your jokes need to be updated. That bit about Khrushchev is tired, man.”

“What he mean, tired?” asked Boris, slathering his accent on extra thick. “If people are laughing, this means they are sleepy?”

“Yeah, Lance,” said Solly Berg, who’d given up a career as a science teacher to go into comedy. “Boris’s act kills. There’s nothing tired about it.”

“I’m only trying to help,” said Lance.

“If that’s help,” said Mike, “I’ll wait for the next ambulance.”

“Yeah,” I added. “If that’s help, throw me a rope that’s not frayed.”

“Da,” said Boris, chuckling. “If that’s help, I’ll take life-preserver not made of cement.”

W
E
DECIDED
TO
TAKE
TURNS
EMCEEING,
and Mike had the honors during our show at UC–Santa Barbara.

“You’re in for a real treat,” he said and, before introducing Boris, lifted his trumpet to his lips.

“Those Volga boatmen are real partyers,” said Mike, after playing the song’s slow “Yo-oh, hee, hoe,” refrain. “And so’s the next comic, live from Russia—it wouldn’t be so good, of course, if he was dead from Russia—ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Boris Yvanovitch!”

When it was time to introduce me, his trumpet accompaniment was “My Funny Valentine.”

“Now Candy Ohi’s not really my valentine,” he said, “but she is funny, and she does have a beautiful heart-shaped . . . ass.”

After the show, we gathered in Solly’s room, giving each other notes, and if stares were lasers, mine would have cauterized Mike’s retinas and blinded him.

“About that ‘heart-shaped ass’ bit,” I said. “It’s a wee bit sexist, wouldn’t you say? I don’t hear you mentioning anyone else’s body parts.”

“You’re right,” he said, accepting the joint Solly passed to him. “I just thought it would be funny because everyone thought I was going to say ‘face’ and then I said ‘ass.’ But okay, it’s the first—and last—time I’ll use it.”

“I thought you girls liked guys noticing your bodies,” said Lance. “I mean, isn’t that why you dress the way you do?”

“Lance,” I said, holding up my palms. “Take a look. Aren’t I wearing the same thing as you?”

“Well, actually, his shirt is gray and yours is black,” said Boris. “And you of course are not wearing a tie.”

I waved off the joint Mike held out to me.

“What I mean is most girls like guys noticing their bodies,” said Lance. Taking the joint, he took a deep inhale. He held his breath but continued talking in a clenched voice. “You can’t tell me you dress like a guy when you’re not onstage.”

“I didn’t know wearing a black shirt and black pants constituted ‘dressing like a guy,’” I said. “Next time I’ll make sure I have your wardrobe approval before I go onstage.”

Lance shrugged and let loose a cloud of smoke.

“Why wait?—I’ll tell you now: you’d probably do a lot better if you wore a skirt, or something that showed a little skin.”

“Jesus, Lance,” said Mike.

“Yeah,” said Solly, mid-toke, “you’re sounding like one of those sexist pigs all the cute little gals are talking about.”

Solly winked at me, in case I hadn’t caught that he was joking. Lance just smirked.

“All I’m saying is Candy should make it easy for all the people who’d rather be looking at her than listening to her.”

“By
people,
” I said, keeping my voice neutral, “do you mean
men
?”

“Well, yeah. At least half our audience. Because unfortunately, as hard as you might try, most guys probably aren’t going to think you’re funny.”

“If I weren’t so stoned,” said Mike, “I’d ask you to step outside.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” I said, and deciding I’d be better entertained watching the late show in my room, I stood up.

“Candy, Candy,” said Mike, his hand outstretched. “Don’t go. Lance’s views are not representational of the views at large.”

He rendered this announcement in a I’m-a-serious-newscaster voice.

“Da,” said Boris. “Just because Lance has got a problem appreciating funny women does not mean we do also.”

“Amen,” said Solly. “My girlfriend’s hilarious. Especially without her clothes on.”

“Ha ha,” I said, but smiled, knowing that even while sticking up for me, jokes must be told. I sat down.

“Hey, Solly, don’t bogie that,” said Lance, holding out his fingers, and he gulped in what was left to be gulped of the joint that had burned down to a glowing ember.

“And my mother,” said Mike, “my mom’s the person who made me want to get into comedy. Wit’s her middle name.”

“And my mother!” said Boris. “My mother’s middle name meant same!” He spoke a word in Russian that sounded a little bit like “octopus.”

As the men in the room laughed, trying to pronounce the Russian word for wit, I got up again, leaving the room foggy with marijuana smoke, repeating silently and with just a touch of weariness my power mantra.

M
IKE
INTRODUCED
ME
DIFFERENTLY
in Santa Cruz, playing on his trumpet several bars of “Doin’ What Comes Naturally” from the musical
Annie Get Your Gun.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what Candy Ohi does naturally is make people laugh. At least that’s some of what she does naturally. The other stuff is frankly none of your business.”

Our shows were very well received, although the audience in San Jose seemed to tacitly agree to make it Student Heckler Night, and while Mike and I flourished in these circumstances, it threw off the others, in particular Lance, who was proud that he was the show’s closer and was nearly apoplectic when a couple of audience members kept shouting, “I want Candy!”

Having entertained ourselves in the bar afterwards by repeating some of Lance’s clunky insults (“You know what a moron looks like? Get a mirror!”), Mike and I giggled our way down a motel hallway that smelled of cigarettes and Fritos, and when we got to my door, he wrapped his arms around me and confessed, “I want Candy, too.”

Floored and excited, I answered, “I want Mike,” and after I jammed my key in the lock, we pushed the door open and tumbled into the room and onto the stiff, flammable bedspread covering the concave mattress.

We were inhaling one another with kisses, our hands frisking one another like thorough arresting officers, and I would like to report here that some wild, tawdry sex ensued, but ensue it did not.

“Oh, Candy,” groaned Mike, pulling himself away from me. “Oh God, Candy, I’m so sorry. I can’t do this to Kirsten.”

He rolled off the bed.

“Sorry!” he said, lunging for the door as if he’d heard a fire alarm.

It was shocking to go from being in the throes of lust to being so suddenly abandoned, but what was worse was to be abandoned by a nice guy who didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend.

I was thankful that our make-out-and-nothing-more session happened near the end of the tour rather than the beginning; at least the awkwardness wouldn’t be prolonged. Nervous when we all met in the motel restaurant for breakfast the next morning, I saw Mike feeding pennies into the Lions Club gumball machine but pretended I didn’t.

He was braver than I. “Look, Candy, I was a jerk and I’m sorry. I hope—”

“—at least you have hope,” I said dramatically. “Now that you’ve dashed mine.”

Mike looked at me warily and then seeing something in my eyes, smiled.

“So we’re friends?” he said, offering me a cherry gumball.

“Since we can’t be anything else,” I said, holding up my palm.

“Guys,” said Boris, slapping a folded copy of the
San Jose Mercury
newspaper against his thigh. “Guys, we got reviewed, and it’s good!”

M
ELVIN
HAD
COLLECTED
MY
MAIL
while I was on tour, and I took a nice big stack down to the pool, happy to see Ed on a chaise longue. It had been a long time since we’d been together poolside.

“What is it this time?” I asked, noticing the book splayed open on his stomach. “Secret alien landings or a government run amok?”

“Neither,” said Ed, and as I settled into the lawn chair next to him, he passed me the book.

“
Love, Trust, and Who Takes Out the Garbage?
”

The long look I gave him asked, “Are you kidding me?” and Ed’s flush darkened his already pink skin.

“I know, I know. I can’t believe I’m reading it—let alone bringing it to a public place.”

“Are you and Sharla having problems?”

“Don’t mince words, Candy. And no, we’re not. Well, not many. Some.” He opened the cooler. “Good news—the YaZoo’s officially gone.” He handed me a can of Orange Crush. “To tell you the truth, Candy, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with her. She just seems . . . well, she’s sure not like you.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Definitely,” said Ed, opening his can. “What I mean is—you don’t have any of those feminine wiles . . . you’re just a regular person. She’s like, I don’t know, I just can’t figure her out. She spends so much time on how she looks; wouldn’t you think a person who looks like Sharla would be fairly confident in herself? Once I waited for two hours while she got ready, and she winds up crying because she ‘doesn’t have anything to wear’! Still, as much as she drives me crazy, I’m crazy about her.”

Nodding at the book on his lap, I asked, “So who does take out the garbage?”

“Usually not the person who brings it in, but I didn’t have to read a book to figure that out.” He shook his head, leaned back in the chaise longue, and shut his eyes.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” I said as I rifled through my mail. “You’re still going to have to explain that feminine wiles stuff . . . oh!”

Ed opened one eye.

“It’s from Terry,” I said, waving a postcard. “My friend from the Rogue Mansion?”

Opening his other eye, Ed nodded, having met her at one of my comedy performances.

“She’s in Nepal!”

“Nepal, cool.”

“I haven’t seen her since before my tour, and I was going to call her today!”

“So what does she say?”

I stared at her neat handwriting for a moment before I read the card.

“’It took me a while, but you leaving the R.M. finally inspired me to do the same. What do I need benefits for? I’m young! So here I am looking up at Mt. Everest—I don’t have the urge to climb it, but I always wanted to see it!’”

Ed and I laughed the way you will over a good surprise.

“That’s great,” he said, shutting his eyes again.

Thumbing through bills and bank statements, I came across a tissue-thin blue airmail envelope.

My gasp sounded like a little huuh.

“What now?” said Ed. “Did she fall in love with a sherpa?”

“No,” I said, tearing open the envelope. “It’s from my grandmother.” I unfolded the letter and with greedy eyes scanned the first few lines. “Oh, my God!”

Ed sat up. “Candy, is everything all right?”

“She . . . she, well, oh my God, she got married! At the courthouse, before they left for Tahiti! She says they wanted the trip to be a real honeymoon!”

I turned to Ed, feeling the prickle of tears in my eyes.

“My grandma got married!”

“So it seems.”

I read on, each sentence inciting from me a sigh or an exclamation.

“That must be some letter,” said Ed.

“It is. Listen to this last paragraph.” I cleared my throat and began to read.