Best to Laugh: A Novel (27 page)

46

“
D
ID
I
TELL
YOU
how fantastic you look?” Mike whispered.

“A couple times,” I said. “But don’t let that stop you.”

Finally, I was attending a special-enough occasion to wear the black dress Madame Pepper had bought for me.

“He’s right,” said Ed, overhearing. “You look great, Candy.”

“Amen,” said Taryn. “A dress like that’s an investment, and you invested well.”

“If everyone can stop talking about Candy’s dress long enough to remember it’s
my
party—” here Maeve winked at me—“I’d like to make a toast.”

Maeve cleared her throat and held out her glass. “To the man I always dreamed of!”

“To the woman far better than my dreams!” said the man next to her.

“To grandchildren—eventually!” said Taryn.

We were at Marconi’s, an ornate-bordering-on-kitschy Italian restaurant, to celebrate the news of Maeve and Egon’s engagement.

“Maeve’s father used to take me here when we were dating,” confessed Taryn, the party’s host. “And I thought since Maeve’s getting married—”

“—Ma,” said Maeve as her mother’s voice broke.

“It’s just that I’m so happy for you!” said Taryn. “Despite my crappy influence, it seems you’ve found true love!”

“To true love,” offered Sharla. “To true, supportive love.”

The last part of her toast was directed at Ed, with a smile that veered more southward than north.

“So you’ve set the date?” I asked Maeve.

“We’re not sure.” She was nestled—not easy for a big woman like Maeve—under the arm of her betrothed, with a permanent grin plastered across her face. “But we’re thinking late fall.”

“And she plans to live in Munich!” said Taryn. “What am I supposed to do with my baby so far away?”

“It’s just for a couple of months, until Egon finishes his studies,” said
Maeve. “You can come and visit anytime you like.” She looked at the rest of us. “She’ll love the attention:
Summit Hill
—or should I say,
Die Spitze Summit
—is huge in Germany.”

“Yes, very popular,” said Egon. “My mother—it is her favorite program.”

“My future son-in-law comes from a woman of taste!” said Taryn.

“So, Mike,” said Sharla, aiming at him a full-wattage smile, “tell us all about your show!”

“It’s not my show,” said Mike, taking my hand. “It’s Candy’s—”

“—he’s the bandleader,” I explained. “He plays trumpet, and he’s our top writer.”

Mike laughed. “When did I get that promotion?”

“Top in quality. The pay grade remains the same.”

“Maeve has said it is about a chat show, ja?” said Egon. “I am finding this very interesting, a theatrical play about a television chat show.”

“We hope others’ll share your opinion,” I said. “But we’re pretty excited.”

“What are you going to do about guests?” asked Taryn.

“We’ve got a regular cast who’ll play different—”

“—because I’d come on the show. I’d be one of your guests.”

“You would?”

“That would be great,” said Mike.

“I’d come on, too,” said Sharla. “I love the stage. In fact, I just did a staged reading at the Westview Playhouse last month. Ed saw it, didn’t you, honey?”

Ed nodded. “She was incredible.”

“Not to change the subject,” said Taryn, looking at Egon’s plate, “but I just realized my future son-in-law ordered exactly the same cheese manicotti dish that Maeve’s father always ordered!”

After our plates, smeary with sauce, were taken away, Joanie Welles took the microphone off its stand at the front of the restaurant.

Our fellow Peyton Hall tenant wasn’t our waitress but had come to the table earlier to say hello, and Ed had explained to everyone that he had heard her sing at the restaurant several years earlier. He didn’t elaborate as to what he had thought about her performance or her desire to be bigger than Streisand.

Joanie took a deep breath, and the tops of her breasts puffed out over her peasant blouse.

“First, might I say it’s an honor to sing to a group that includes Taryn
Powell and Sharla West—” here the other forty or so diners in the restaurant, who’d been sneaking looks at our table all evening, applauded, and the
Summit
Hill
stars modestly dipped their coiffed heads—“and it’s also a pleasure to sing to my friends—one just got engaged! So here goes.”

A guy I’d earlier seen carting bus tubs sat down at the piano and played a glissando and a few chords, and as Joanie Welles raised the mike to her mouth, Ed pressed the side of his knee to mine.

“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks it’ll be a Streisand song,” he whispered.

“Pee-pul,” sang Joanie, and if Ed and I pressed our legs together any harder, someone’s femur was going to snap.

Maeve shot us a knowing look as we steeled ourselves not to laugh, but as Joanie continued the song, it was apparent she could not only carry a tune but caress it.

Her voice was sweet and true, and because she seemed to believe the words she sang, you believed them, too.

The diners gave her a hearty ovation, and when she approached us, hat sheepishly in hand (singing for her supper, indeed), she looked as if she were going to cry.

“I was so nervous singing in front of all you!”

“You shouldn’t have been,” said Taryn, taking a crisp fifty-dollar bill out of her leopard-skin wallet and dropping it into the hat. “You were wonderful!”

“Joanie,” said Ed. “I . . . I don’t remember you singing like that.”

The waitress made a face. “You saw me when I was just starting out. When I might have taken my Streisand worship a little far.”

“I loved your version of ‘People,’” said Maeve.

“That was what I had to figure out,” said Joanie. “My version. When I tried to sing like Barbra . . . well, I’d just get so intimidated. And when I’m not comfortable singing, I tend to go a little flat.”

Sharla opened her zebra-striped wallet, and when Ed took out his, she said, “Don’t worry about it,” dropping three twenties in the hat, casually glancing at Taryn to make sure her costar noticed whose big tip was bigger.

A
N
AFTER-DINNER
INVITATION
to soak in Taryn’s hot tub was extended, but its only takers were Maeve, Egon, and Sharla.

“If you don’t mind driving yourself,” said Ed to Sharla, “I’ll just get a ride home from Candy and Mike. I’ve got to teach tomorrow.”

“Mr. Excitement can only take so much,” said Sharla.

Ed smiled, the way a beleaguered parent smiles at yet another smart-ass and not-so-funny wisecrack his bratty kid makes.

H
E
WAS
QUIET
ON
THE
SHORT
DRIVE
HOME,
and when Mike pulled up in front of Peyton Hall, Ed thanked us for the ride, practically jumping out of the backseat.

“Do you mind if I don’t go with you?” I asked Mike, whose late set at the Comedy Store I’d planned on watching.

“Not at all,” said Mike. “Find out what’s bugging him. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It was dangerous to kiss him good-bye—it was easy to forget everything when my mouth met Mike’s—but I forced myself away after a good fifteen seconds and opened the car door.

“I love you,” I said, and gasped, hit by the surprise and the truth of my announcement.

“I love you, too,” said Mike and we stared at each other, like two spies who’ve finally exchanged the right code words, and then I tumbled out of the car and ran after Ed.

When I caught up to him by his apartment steps, he seemed agitated, even angry, but when I told him I just thought he could use some company, all the air went out of him in a great sigh, and he said I was right—he could.

“I know you have to get up early tomorrow,” I said, “but it’s such a nice night out, why don’t we go sit by the pool?”

“Good idea. Especially since I don’t have to get up early tomorrow.”

Following the path, we made our way to the back of the complex.

“Did you hear Billy Gray Green’s going out with Siri Kenner?” said Ed quietly, looking up at the bartender’s apartment.

“The weather girl?”

Ed nodded as he took off his shoes and rolled up his pants legs. “I guess she comes into the Toy Tiger a lot. The TV station’s right down the street.” Taking off his sports jacket, he draped it over my shoulders. “It’s a little cool. And it’ll protect that snazzy dress of yours.”

I took off my sandals and we sat on the pool’s edge, dangling our legs in the water.

“I wonder how you get to be a weather girl,” I said. “Do you have to have a real interest in the weather, or is it mostly about being in front of a television camera?”

“I’d say the latter. But for all I know, Siri Kenner has a Ph.D. in meteorology and has had a lifelong interest in weather patterns since she saw a twister take down the local post office. “‘There were letters,’” he said in a falsetto voice, “‘and packages flying everywhere!’” He shrugged. “Then again, what do I know?”

The water rippled softly as I swung my legs in a slow circle.

“If you really don’t have to work tomorrow,” I said, “why did you tell Sharla that you did?”

“Because it’s over.”

Ed’s cheeks puffed up as he expelled a long sigh.

“I knew it was, a long time ago, but I just couldn’t give myself permission to believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, because she’s Sharla West? Because there’s no way a woman like Sharla West should have ever gone out with a guy like me in the first place?”

“Sharla West doesn’t deserve a guy like you.”

“You know what I mean.” Ed sighed again. “It was fun, really fun for a while, especially at the beginning. Seriously, I was besotted.”

“
Besotted.
Good word.”

“To think that a beautiful woman—a Hollywood actress!—wanted to be with me; well, it was easy to ride that wave for a long time.”

I nodded and we both stared out at the water. The pool lights were on, making it glow a fluorescent sea green.

“I never really liked how she treated you.”

“It took me a long time to notice. Again, blame the besotted factor. I didn’t mind being her coat rack—you know, holding her purse while she glad-handed all the important people . . . but what really started to bug me was her lack of curiosity about anything but herself. And when I wouldn’t go to that inauguration ball—”

“—I can’t believe you turned down a chance to go to the White House.”

“Actually, it wasn’t at the White House. It was at the Smithsonian.”

“Still!”

Ed shrugged. “There’ll be plenty more inaugural balls in my lifetime.”

“Sure. Invitations to those are a dime a dozen.”

Ed’s laugh was rueful. “Hey, don’t make me regret taking a stand.” He leaned back on his hands. “It sure is great about Maeve, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen her so happy.”

“You seem pretty happy, too.”

“I am,” I said, with a little catch in my throat.

“Aw, Candy, I’m so glad. Glad for you and Mike.” He clamped his arm around my shoulder, and making his voice sound old and rusty, he said, “Does my heart good to see young couples in love. Gives me hope for the future!”

47

I
F
I
COULD
HAVE
BOTTLED
MY
EMOTIONS
during the first show, that bottle would have exploded from the sheer force of its effervescence.

It was almost a full house (Melanie was good at publicity) and included in the audience were my favorite people: my grandmother and Sven, Madame Pepper, Ed, Maeve, Solange, Frank, and Melvin. The words of my secret power mantra rang in my head as Mike’s bouncy theme music began and his announcer’s voice filled the theater.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the Contessa of Comedy, the Duchess of Droll, the Empress of Entertainment—put your hands together for Miss Candy Ohi!”

The words of my life saber blasted in my head, as if screamed by three dozen cheerleading squads with bullhorns.

The curtain parted and I strode out briskly, wearing the suit and tie the costumer had found for me in the boys’ department of Buffums. I took my mark in the spotlight and struck an I’m-conveying-seriousness pose, bending one arm and holding it against my waistline, the other at my side.

“There is nothing wrong with your television set,” I said, stealing the line and intonation used in
The Outer Limits.
“Do not attempt to adjust the picture.

“What you are seeing is real: a woman—a Korean American woman—hosting a nighttime television talk show. Now I know there are some of you out there who don’t think it’s a woman’s place to host a nighttime talk show, so let’s meet one of them right now. Ladies and gentleman, the sexist pig I get to call my sidekick—Harry Chest!”

A spotlight shone on Harry sitting on the couch, his legs spread wide. He gestured to me as if his hand was a gun.

“Contessa of Comedy,” he said in the broad Brooklyn accent he’d decided to use, “give me a break! You know where you should be right now? You should be at home in bed with your man watching this show, not starring in it.”

A few boos rose out of the audience, which brought Harry scrambling off the couch.

“Ah, shut your traps!” he said, hands clenched. “You’re nothing but a bunch of henpecked losers!”

The boos increased.

“Sit down, Harry,” I said, and then looking out into the fourth wall, which served as my camera, I said, “For those of you at home, we’ve got a fight brewing here in the studio audience. I’m hoping it’ll break out in fisticuffs, with the audience winning.”

“Cut!” said the actress playing Gwen McGillicutty, our director. She raced out onstage wearing a tweed skirt, a cardigan sweater, and comfortable shoes. She looked like a British dog trainer and her voice was old-money-lockjaw. “Harry, you’re simply going to have to stop harassing Candy. She is the star of the show, after all!”

“Just because she slept with the president of the network!” said Harry.

Gwen looked more confused than usual. “But . . . but my husband’s the president of the network!”

The show rolled on. During our first “commercial break,” the actors playing Harry and Mac now played kids sitting at a table who didn’t want to eat their Death cereal.

“I’m not gonna try it—you try it!”

After pushing around their bowls, Harry said in a cute little voice, “I know, let’s get Mikey!”

My Mike, playing the little brother, dug into his bowl and after a moment clutched his throat and keeled over.

“Death Cereal,” came the prerecorded announcer’s soothing voice, “so tasteless, so healthy, so good for you, you might as well die.”

In other parodies of well-known commercials, we pushed products like Alkie Seltzer (we all played lushes trying to stop burping) and Eczema Shaving Cream, where the Swedish bombshell (me in a blonde wig) begged Mike, playing an old pervert in a trench coat, to not take it off!

After I finished my monologue and we got to the interviewing part, I sat at my desk and in hushed tones, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a thrill for me, and I know it will be for you, to bring out our very first guest, the lovely and talented Taryn Powell!”

The audience applauded and a moment later gasped, no doubt expecting Gwen or Rose to play the star of
Summit Hill.
Instead, the real Taryn Powell sashayed onto the stage.

I had called her up the day after Maeve’s engagement dinner to ask her if she’d been serious about coming on our show.

“Absolutely. Write me up a little script—make sure it’s funny—and I’ll be there opening night.”

A vision in a white-beaded gown that picked up light like a prism, Taryn threw kisses to the audience on her way to the couch.

“You could have dressed up,” I pouted, as she sat down.

She cast a cool eye at me. “I might say the same to you.”

The audience laughed.

The writers and I had conferred with Taryn in a fifteen-minute conference call batting around ideas, and when we asked her if she had anything special she wanted to do that she hadn’t done before, she practically squealed with delight and admitted to a special skill, which we then wrote into the script.

“So Taryn—”

“—please,
Miss
Powell.”

“So, Miss Powell, everyone knows you from the hit television series
Summit Hill
—”

“—I love that show,” said Harry. “All the broads on that show have such nice bazonkas.”

“Harry, please,” I said. “Try not to be such a buffoon.”

“He is right, though,” said Taryn. “We do have some nice bazonkas.”

I let Taryn and Harry share a little moment before I said, “Could you tell us about your new movie?”

“Well, of course; that’s why I’m here. You didn’t think I’d come on if I didn’t have anything to plug, do you?”

She explained how she’d gotten the much-coveted part in the biopic of Katrina Nemorov, the Ukrainian gymnast who’d dazzled the world at the last Summer Olympics.

“But Taryn,” I said, “Katrina Nemorov is . . . what, twenty-two?”

Taryn glared at me. “What’s your point?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “what’s your point?”

“Well,” I said, pretending to get flustered, “you’re a . . . bit older! Plus, she’s a gymnast! How are you going to portray a gymnast who got perfect scores for her floor exercise and uneven parallel bars routine?”

“This is how,” said Taryn, and standing up she whipped off the detachable skirt she had specially made. The audience cheered and whistled as she posed like Betty Grable in what looked like a sparkly beaded white maillot and went wild when she did a handstand.

The applause surged as she walked, on her hands, past my desk, turned around, and walked back.

“So,” she said, after she had jumped onto her feet and brushed her hands together. “You were saying?”

Also appearing on the show was champion Swiss yodeler Hulda Himmler (played by Rose who could really yodel) who tried to give me a lesson. Mac played the third guest, an up-and-coming soul singer who couldn’t get in tune with Mike’s band.

When Gwen gave me the cue to wrap it up, I stepped to the front of the stage and thanked the audience for staying up for
The Sorta Late Show.

“And remember,” I said, “laughter’s a medicine that can lighten a heavy heart, that can put a cold compress on a worried brow, that can—

“—hey, tootsie,” said Harry, pulling an imaginary zipper across his mouth. “Enough. Now how’s about we slip into your dressing room? We can go over some post-show notes while you give me a massage.”

The lights blacked out.

T
HE
REVIEWS
WERE
GOOD.
The
Herald Examiner
said, “They’ve assembled a wacky cast over at the Swan Theater, and a wacky premise, ‘Let’s put a late-night television talk show onstage!’ but somehow it all works and everyone has a good time from the beguiling host (Candy Ohi), to her jackass sidekick (Harry Jansen as Harry Chest), to, and especially, the audience.”

According to the
Los Angeles Times,
“
The Sorta Late Show with Candy Ohi
is a freewheeling and funny nod to television talk shows. . . . Taryn Powell displayed a delightfully comic (and limber) side that impressed and surprised this reviewer.”

“Bandleader and trumpeter Mike Trowbridge,” reported
Daily Variety,
“leads a jazzy quintet and amid the song parodies and witty intros is some seriously tuneful music.” (That was fun to read aloud to Mike; he in turn read aloud the part that said, “The talk show hostess is funny and charming with enough confidence to let everyone else be funny and charming, too.”)

I
DIDN’T
MONKEY
MUCH
with the daily monologue that PJ and Lowell wrote because I could count on it to be topical, politically charged, and funny, but it didn’t take long for me and the rest of the cast to get loose
and make the written scenes even more improvisational. If any actor decided to go off script or invent an entirely new scene, everyone else was more than willing to go along. It gave the show a wild energy that the audience loved and participated in. They booed Harry Chest’s outrageous comments, and Mac, the stoned cameraman, couldn’t ask his signature line, “Where’s my pipe?” without having members of the audience shout things like, “The band’s got it! or “The last guest took it!” which might result in a whole new direction for a scene to take.

Everyone was having fun, and we, ladies and germs, had a hit on our hands.