Best to Laugh: A Novel (25 page)

42

D
URING
THE
FIRST
MEETING
I had with Melanie Breyer, I confessed how I thought my childhood dream of hosting a television talk show was coming true, and how disappointed I’d felt upon learning the show was meant for the stage.

“But now that I’ve thought about it, I’m excited. I think it’ll be a blast.”

“Great,” said Melanie. “That’s what we want it to be.”

Sitting in her office at the Swan Theater, we batted around ideas.

“Certainly we want an element of improv in the show,” said Claire, “but we see it as a scripted show.”

“So it would basically be a play about a talk show?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Melanie. She templed her fingers in front of her chest. “We obviously haven’t exactly thought everything out, but, yes, it’s basically a TV talk show . . . onstage.”

“What we’re thinking,” said Claire, “is a really fun, loose production. We’ll work from a script, but we’ll hire actors who, like you, aren’t afraid to improvise.”

“Speaking of the script,” said Melanie, “I’m assuming you’d like to be a part of writing it?”

I nodded. “Definitely. But I’d need some help.”

“Eric represents lots of writers,” said Claire.

“And I know some,” said Melanie. “We’ll solicit material and then arrange a couple meetings so you can see who you click with and who you don’t. And if there’s a comic you think you might want to work with, bring him or her onboard. Remember, we’d like to open in late March, which gives us over four months. You think that’s enough time?”

“I’ll make sure it is,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

T
WO
DAYS
LATER
at the Comedy Store, I ran into the person I wanted to work with.

“Candy Ohi!” said Mike Trowbridge, approaching me as I was leaving out the side door. “Were you on tonight?”

I nodded.

“Did you kill?”

My shrug was modest. “Some maiming might have occurred.”

Mike laughed. “I’m on in ten minutes. Wanna watch?”

I did.

“
I
LOVED
THAT
BIT
ABOUT
YOUR
GRANDPA
showing you how to dress,” I said afterward, when we had walked next door to the bar at the Hyatt House. “Tell me that first part again.”

Comics are usually not shy about honoring requests.

“Mikey,” he said, making his voice warble with age, “Mikey, of course a man puts on his boxers first—you’ve got to protect your valuables, naturally—but after that, I like to put on my tie. It tells the day you believe it’s worth getting dressed up for.”

“And he really did that?” I asked, wanting to know how much was fact and how much was comic embellishment.

Mike held up his palm. “Honest to God. He’d be standing there in his underwear and a knotted tie—a loose knotted tie—around his neck.”

The waitress served our drinks.

“I liked that song you played for that couple when you found out they were on their honeymoon.”

Sipping his beer, Mike nodded.

“Thanks. Can’t go wrong playing ‘When I Fall in Love,’ to newlyweds.” He paused to slake his thirst again. “I saw you in La Jolla a couple months ago, and I think I just missed you in San Francisco—”

“—you were at the Holy City Zoo?”

“I was booked there the day after you left.” He took a long sip of beer. “So other than that, what have you been up to? What’s new?”

And so I told him.

“Are you kidding me?”

There are a lot of ways a fellow comic could deliver a line like that—with disbelief, with jealousy, with anger—but the only thing I heard in Mike Trowbridge’s delivery was glee.

He slapped the tabletop and laughed.

“Candy, that’s fantastic! An onstage talk show—what a great idea!”

“You mind turning down the volume, pal?” asked half of a hung-over rock and roll couple in the next booth.

Leaning across the table, Mike whispered, “Your own show!” and that was when I asked him if he’d like to write for it.

He sank back in his seat as if I’d pushed him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes! You know how much I like to improvise, but we still haven’t quite figured out the premise and—”

“—of course, I will, Candy. It’ll be a blast!”

I beamed. My sentiments exactly.

A
PAPER
AIRPLANE
SLID
ALONG
the makeshift runway of the conference table.

“Lunch?” was written on one of its wings and on the other I carefully wrote “Sure” and shot it back in the direction from whence it had come.

“Great,” said Mike, standing up at the opposite end of the table. “Let’s go.”

In front of divided piles of material, he and I had spent the morning reading through jokes, essays, monologues, and sketches. Claire and Melanie had given me and Mike carte blanche to select the writers, and it was a laborious task, interrupted occasionally with laughter or groans.

“I’m really not very hungry,” I said, studying the diner’s menu.

“Me neither,” said Mike, “I just thought I should eat something other than those Breyer Bricks.”

Heir to a candy fortune, Melanie stocked glass bowls throughout the small offices of the theater with the family product, including Breyer Bricks (gold-wrapped chocolate squares), Breyer Dazzles (fruit chews), and Breyer Moos (milk chocolate caramels).

“I know,” I said. “Growing up with all that candy, how can Melanie not be a four-hundred-pound diabetic?”

“And still have her own teeth.”

We both ordered chicken noodle soup and after it was served began to talk shop.

“I never knew there were so many bad writers out there,” said Mike.

“Ugh! All those mother-in-law jokes! I thought they went out with Henny Youngman.”

“Some guy once asked me if I was influenced by Henny Youngman.”

“Why? Your jokes aren’t that dumb.”

Mike smirked. “It was the music angle he was referring to. Although I like to think I play trumpet better than he played violin.”

I squeezed a cellophane packet of crackers and dusted my soup with its crumbs.

“So who would you say has influenced you?”

Helping himself to the cracker basket, Mike copied my crushing and dispersal technique.

“As a kid, I loved Red Skelton. And Bob Hope in his movies and TV specials. Now I don’t think there’s anybody better than George Carlin and Richard Pryor. How about you?”

“I loved Red Skelton, too, and I loved Lucy and Carol Burnett . . . but more than anyone, Johnny Carson.”

“And now you’re doing your own talk show!”

As I returned Mike’s smile, a helium gas of happiness rose in my chest.

“I know.”

B
Y
THE
END
OF
THE
AFTERNOON,
we sat back, exhausted from the reams of jokes and anecdotes and stories we had read, discussed, and judged. Agreeing on the list of writers we wanted to interview, we called it a day, and as Mike made some final notes, I fashioned a paper airplane myself and wrote on it “Dinner . . . and?”

My aim was good and the airplane sailed across the room, landing in front of its target. My heart thumped as I watched Mike read its two-word invitation and then thudded when I saw his face. He looked a little seasick, which wasn’t promising, considering we weren’t on a boat.

“Uh, sorry, Candy,” he said, a flush coloring his face. He forced himself to look up at me. “It’s just that . . . well, Kirsten and I have something planned tonight.”

“No problem,” I said, the contagion of his flush spreading to my own face. “Just a suggestion.”

We busied ourselves straightening up already-straight piles of paper and gathering up our pens and notebooks, and the good-byes we said were stiff and awkward.

I called Kirsten all sorts of names on the way home but reserved the biggest name calling for myself:
Dumb shit. Why couldn’t I just have written “Dinner?” Stupid jerk. Why did I have to write the rest? Loser.

L
OWELL
B
ALIN
WAS
A
comic who didn’t believe humor, like testosterone, was manufactured mainly in the scrotum, and we hired him along with my friend PJ Rand.

Melanie didn’t pay us a huge amount of money to write a script, but for all of us, at this stage in our careers, getting paid at all was a bonus. Meeting around performance and work schedules (PJ waited tables and Lowell worked at a book store) we four writers met in the theater’s small conference room, hammering out ideas. We called the show
The Sorta Late Show
(an 8 p.m. curtain time didn’t exactly qualify as late)
with Candy Ohi
and decided that while we would have a cast of characters and several set scenes, it would ultimately be a different show every night. I would play the host as well as a few characters, à la Johnny Carson’s Carnac and Aunt Blabby.

“But remember, I don’t want to do any stereotypical Asian characters—no laundresses or Samurai warriors or stuff like that.”

“Belushi’s already done that Samurai character, anyway,” said Mike. “But how about a Samurai Laundress—”

My look stopped him.

“Kidding,” he said, laughing. “Just kidding.”

Since I was using my real name (well, my real stage name) for my character, we decided we’d use the real first names of the actors who were hired and then figure out a fake last name.

“Okay, so we’ve agreed your sidekick is a big dumb macho guy, right?” said PJ, flipping pages of a yellow legal pad. “And the show’s director is a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution and the wife of the president of CANS?”

CANS—Columbia/American/National Broadcasting System—was the fictional network of our fictional talk show.

“And then we’ve got the stoned cameraman and the depressed makeup girl.”

“The casting sessions are going to be so much fun,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Mike. “Especially now that I don’t have to go through one myself.”

At my suggestion, both Claire and Melanie saw Mike’s act and agreed that he should play the show’s bandleader. Mike had already enlisted his old band mates to make up
The Sorta Late Show
Band.

“I’m almost done writing the show’s theme song,” Mike told me. “I can’t wait to play it for you.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.”

43

T
HE
FLYER
TUCKED
UNDER
MY
DOOR
gave the particulars of the first meeting of Tenants United!

About thirty people were assembled on the east side of the pool, under Billy Gray Green’s apartment windows, and the talk as I entered through the gate ran more to shouting than conversational.

“This place is a landmark!” said Melvin Slyke. “You don’t tear down landmarks!”

“What about the lease I signed?” said Bastien. “I must honor the lease, but you don’t have to?”

“This is our home!” said June, holding up her mangy white dog.

“Yeah!” said Vince Perrogio. “I’ve been here since they built the place! I’ve written my best books here!”

A slight man in a tailored suit stood in front of the group, his hands clasped behind his back, looking no more ruffled than if he were accepting compliments on his alligator shoes.

“People, look. We’re well aware of the attachments people make to their homes. Of course we are. But you, as renters, must also be aware that the owners of a property have a right to do whatever they wish with their property.”

“This isn’t just a property!” said Vince. “It’s Peyton Hall!”

“For the first time,” I said, sidling next to Ed, “I’m thinking I might want to read one of his books.”

“Read Raymond Chandler instead,” whispered Ed. “Perrogio’s a poor imitation.”

“Mr. Delwyn?” said the alligator shoe guy, and Jaz, looking like he was ready to face the gallows, slunk forward.

For a building manager, Jaz had not been much of a presence around the building he managed. When I ran over with my rent check or some homemade cookies, he’d half-open the door, offering a dim, apologetic smile. Where he once was like one of the showy bird of paradise plants
that sprang up around the complex, now he was a withered and colorless houseplant.

“Uhh,” he said, standing next to the man in the suit, but not looking 1 percent as comfortable, “well, you heard what Mr. DelaCruz had to say . . . and um, I think we should all thank him for coming here today, which he . . . um, certainly didn’t need to do. And with that, uh, thank you, and—”

“Wait a minute,” said Ed. “Are you saying this is a done deal? That there’s nothing more we tenants can do?”

“That is correct,” said Mr. DelaCruz. “The wheels are in motion. The complex will be torn down. A new building will be built.”

A chorus of “No’s!” was unleashed by the crowd and with a brisk nod serving as a good-bye, Mr. DelaCruz picked up his alligator briefcase and made his way to the gate, Jaz loping after him like a dog hoping he’d earned a treat.

After they exited, Melvin whistled for quiet.

“If we’re united, we’ll beat this. Now who’s with me?”

There was a unanimous show of hands, and by the time the meeting broke up we had elected Melvin president of our tenants’ union and Sherri as our secretary. Vince Perrogio asked to serve as sergeant at arms/bouncer.

“Because, really,” he said, rubbing his thick hands together, “I’d like nothing more than to throw the bums out on their ears.”

After the meeting disbanded, I decided to take a swim, but not before inviting Ed over to dinner. “Maeve’ll be there, too and we’re going to decorate my Christmas tree. So if you and Sharla don’t have plans—”

“We don’t. She’s on location in Monterey. What time?”

E
VERYONE
TOOK
TURNS
throwing an unbreakable game show dish against the wall (my tried-and-true party trick), and afterwards we sat down to the Yankee pot roast dinner that had been simmering all day in my Crock-Pot.

Ed led off the conversation by telling us of a recent fight he’d had with Sharla.

“She’s convinced she’s going to get an invitation to Reagan’s inaugural ball.”

“So’s my mother,” said Maeve. “She was in a play once with Nancy. Although she voted for that John Anderson guy.”

Ed shook his head.

“Well, not only did Sharla vote for Reagan, she also contributed—a lot—to his campaign. An invitation’s pretty likely.”

“So what was the fight about?” I asked.

“I told her I wouldn’t go with her.”

Maeve stared at Ed. “You told her you wouldn’t go to a presidential inauguration ball? Why not?”

Anger was like a drawstring, pulling tight Ed’s features.

“Because I went to school at Berkeley when Governor Reagan said our campus was, and I quote, ‘a haven for communist sympathizers, protesters, and sex deviants!’ I was there during the People’s Park protest, when he sent in the National Guard. Where I got gassed!” Ed’s pink face deepened in color. “I’m a public school teacher, Maeve, and Mr. Reagan is not a fan of public education. Tit for tat. I’m not a fan of his!”

We sat for a moment in a silence cloudy with his anger.

“And Sharla doesn’t respect how you feel?” I said finally.

Ed sighed before offering a rueful smile. “Sharla respects how I feel when she feels the same way.”

T
HE
TREE
DECORATION
took all of five minutes (it was a three-foot artificial tabletop model I’d gotten at JJ Newberry’s), and as we all stood back to admire our masterpiece I tipped a lamp shade, and the concentrated light that shone on the tree also cast Ed’s shadow on the wall.

“Ed,” I said, seized with artistic inspiration. “Move closer to the wall!”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m going to immortalize you, that’s all.”

“With that?” asked Maeve, looking at the thick black marker I dug out of the end table drawer.

“Yeah. I’m going to trace his silhouette.”

“You can’t draw on the walls with that! You’ll never get your cleaning deposit back.”

“Maeve, this place is going to be torn down,” said Ed.

“Don’t say that!”

“Yeah, Ed,” I said, irritated. “You were at the meeting today; we’re not going to let it be torn down. Besides,” I said, turning to Maeve, “when
I
decide to move out—if I ever do—I can always paint over it.”

Ed sidled up next to the wall. “How do you want me to pose?”

“In profile,” I said. “Pretend you’re walking.”

Ed was a compliant model, freezing into position as I dragged the marker alongside his leg, around his butt, up his back and around his arm and hand, over his shoulder, head, and around the features of his face, and back down the other side of the body.

“Okay, now sign your name on the inside,” I said when I was finished and handed him the marker.

In clear, teacherly handwriting, he wrote
Ed
inside one leg and
Stickley
inside the other.

We all admired the handiwork, and then Ed traced Maeve who stood flexing her biceps.

“Wow,” I said, squinting. “You made her look like Popeye.”

“Well, I do look like Popeye,” said Maeve, nodding her approval. “Okay, Candy, I’ll draw you now.”

I stood in profile, trying to pose like an Egyptian hieroglyph.

“Oh, that’s good,” said Maeve. “But lift your leg up higher.”

Maeve was a slow and methodical tracer, and struggling to keep my balance, I told her to hurry up.

“Maeve,” said Ed, watching from the plaid couch, “you’ve got to have the pen closer to her body. It looks like she’s got elephantiasis in that leg.”

As I began to protest, there was a pounding on the door.

“What the—” I said.

“Hey, don’t move,” said Maeve. “I’m almost done.”

“Candy!” said Frank, bursting through the door Ed opened. “Candy, did you hear?”

My heart pounded as I dropped my pose.

“Hear what?”

“John Lennon’s been shot!”

The phone rang. It was Mike.

“Candy, did you hear? John Lennon’s been shot!”

A minute after that Solange called, and then Claire, and after that I left the phone off the hook.

It was a strange night. We watched TV for a while but were turned off by the reporters whose reverence for the topic was undone by a breathless sort of excitement reserved for big scoops.

I lit several candles, and I told my friends how as a little girl I’d watched the Beatles on
The Ed Sullivan Show
with my grandma.

“Anytime the camera would pan to the audience, I’d stand up and go nuts, copying those screaming teenagers.” I smiled at the memory. “And then my grandma stood up and screamed with me.”

Ed said that after getting the excellent news that he’d flunked his physical (flat feet) and wouldn’t be drafted to Vietnam, he drove around along the Pacific Coast Highway singing “Revolution” at the top of his lungs.

“When I moved back with Pop after he got custody, he bought me
Rubber Soul,
” said Frank. “I think he wanted me to know he was still a hip guy, you know? I remember he said, ‘Norwegian Wood’ was just about the prettiest song he’d ever heard.”

I passed around a box of tissues.

“John was my favorite Beatle!” said Maeve, wiping away tears. “I got in the only fight in my life over him. It was in the eighth grade, and DeAnn Hoffman said he looked like a pointy old lady and that anyone who liked John better than Paul was a moron. So I punched her in the stomach and she punched me back and we wound up rolling around on the gym floor.”

She inhaled a deep sniff.

“You know what Miss Unger, the P.E. teacher, said after she’d pulled us apart? She said, ‘Don’t you know, girls, that all you need is love?’”

After a moment of processing, we laughed, needing the release.

“She didn’t tell you to get back?” asked Ed.

Frank snorted. “Or just let it be?”

This started a tribute, all of us trying to remember titles of Beatles’ songs to memorialize one of their creators.

“Do You Want to Know a Secret?” I said, to which Ed replied, “I Want to Tell You.”

When Frank scolded, “You Can’t Do That!” referring to the newly drawn silhouettes on the wall, I apologized, saying, “I’m a Loser.”

Then picking up the marker, I asked Frank if he’d like to pose, because it could be a really cool wall, “With a Little Help from My Friends.”

He stood facing the wall, one arm crooked and the other held high up at a diagonal, and when I was done tracing him, he took the pen and printed his name down his neck.

We all sat on the plaid couch studying the four silhouettes on the wall.

“You were posing like you were playing the guitar, right, Frank?” said Maeve.

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t really translate,” said Maeve. “Can anyone draw a guitar? I think someone should draw in a guitar.”

“I think it’s a great tribute,” said Ed.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It reminds me of the riderless horse they had at President Kennedy’s funeral processional. The horse with Kennedy’s boots put in the stirrups backwards? So I’m thinking Frank’s holding Lennon’s invisible guitar is kind of like that.”

“Man,” said Frank, “I wish I could say that’s what I was thinking.”

“Maybe you were,” said Maeve. “Just not consciously.”