Best to Laugh: A Novel (7 page)

11

M
Y
COUSIN
C
HARLOTTE
had left the keys to her 1973 Maverick, along with the instructions: “Use only for emergencies—like if the garage catches fire!” Finger wagging like that most often provoked me to do the opposite, but instead of patching out in the driveway, picking up a group of hairy hitchhikers, and taking pedal-to-the-metal joyrides down to Tijuana for tequila shots, I uncharacteristically obeyed.

I was one of those odd ducks who liked to get around by my good old-fashioned feet or good old-fashioned public transit. At an early age, I had learned to appreciate taking the bus not only for its relative ease and efficiency, but for the world you got to watch on the outside, as well as the one on the inside.

Once a rumpled guy wearing a pungent street cologne staggered on, plopping himself in the seat ahead of my grandmother and me. I remember Grandma tensing and putting a protective hand on my knee as he turned around to face us, but when he opened his mouth, it was not to ask us for spare change but to break out singing “Blue Moon” in a high, soulful voice. After holding the last note, he nodded and turned around in his seat, as if he’d done nothing more unusual than ask us if the bus crossed Nicollet Avenue. Another time, on my way home from the U, I witnessed a wedding proposal, which, unfortunately for the would-be groom, the would-be-bride didn’t accept, saying, “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

It was usually the passengers who provided the entertainment, but on the bus taking me to my first temp job, they took a literal backseat to the driver who sang out each stop on Hollywood Boulevard with his own personal flair.

“Highland. Oh, I wish I was Highhhhh-land.”

“Las Palmas—Las Palmass, ass, ass.”

When he said, “Bronson! Charlie, Charlie Bronson,” I got off.

On the corner of Hollywood and Bronson, Beat Street Records occupied a bright blue two-story building and its interior continued the primary color palate. The reception room was painted a lemon yellow and
a red curtain hung behind a small desk. Posters of bands were arranged at odd angles on the wall and underneath a white neon sign reading Beat Street was a blue futon couch.

It seemed fitting that in a room whose decorator could moonlight as a nursery school teacher, a yodeler’s trills came over the stereo speakers.

“Oh, hi,” said a woman, pushing aside the red curtain. “You must be the temp. If you’re not, we don’t officially open until ten.”

“I am. The temp that is. But I was told to be here at nine.”

“That’s when the sane people start.” She reached out her hand to shake mine. “Solange Paul, one of the sane ones. I’m also the office manager—the one you come to if you have any questions, which you shouldn’t, because really, your job’s so easy a monkey could do it.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

She offered a sly smile. “Answering phones, typing letters, serving coffee—how hard is that?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a monkey answer a phone. Not to say he couldn’t, but I think he might have a problem taking a message.”

“You’re right. And a monkey couldn’t do the unspoken part of your job and mine, which is to make the men not look as dumb as they are.”

Her style of dress did not match her brash, teasing manner; her black hair was processed and cajoled into a pageboy and the skirt of her navy blue suit reached her knees. She wore nylons and pumps with little bows at the toes. She didn’t look much older than I, which made me wonder why she dressed like an insurance agent nearing retirement.

A high and plaintive yodel filled the room.

“Elton Britt,” she said. “My secret vice. You can’t be black and have a thing for cowboy singers.”

“Is that a rule?”

Folding her arms, Solange smirked at me. “Yes, it’s in the ‘Code of Black Behavior’ pamphlet we’re all given as children. Don’t they pass one out to Asians, too?”

“Yeah, but other than the ‘No chow mein on Fridays’ rule, I can’t say I remember any.”

We both smirked. Our conversation was like a jousting match, but rather than crying “Ouch” and “No fair” at each other’s jabs, we were enjoying it.

“Well, in any case,” said Solange, “welcome to one of L.A.’s hippest record companies.”

“Is this one of L.A.’s hippest record companies?”

Solange turned off the stereo. “According to our publicity. Now come on, I’ll show you around.”

A door to the side of the desk opened up into the small break area. Behind the curtain was a big rectangular room and arranged in it were four offices defined by low walls and modular furniture. Unlike the ones in the reception area, the record and band posters hung straight on the white walls. Shelves of albums lined the back wall and to one side of them was a spiral staircase.

“This is where it all happens,” said Solange, “contracts, schedules, publicity, A&R—”

“What’s A&R?”

“Artists and Repertoire. Tony’s our A&R guy—he listens to demos, works with the bands, the songwriters, etc. He also wears leather pants every day, as sort of an homage to Elvis, who he still can’t believe is dead.

“That’s Ellie Pop’s office—she’s our publicist. Her real name’s Popadopolous—but the nickname fits. Pop, pop, pop—she’s all over the place. You get tired watching her.” Her hand tipped to the right. “This is where you can find me, and this is Greg Wyatt’s office. He’s an attorney and keeps—or tries to keep—things legal.”

I pointed to the spiral staircase. “What’s up there?”

Solange sighed. “Neil Thurman’s office. The president of Beat Street Records. His father’s Ned Thurman.”

She met my blank look with one of surprise.

“Ned Thurman runs RCB—the biggest record company in the world, with the best artists. So of course Neil, his spoiled little son, has a job handed to him at RCB, and when the self-same spoiled little son wants to strike out on his own, Big Daddy springs for it.”

“I take it you don’t exactly care for the guy.”

“Neil? He’s nice enough. A little too fond of the”—here she toked an imaginary joint—“but on the whole, okay.” With a sudden wince, Solange rubbed her earlobe under her small earring and explained, “Metal allergies.”

I reasonably asked why she didn’t take her earrings off.

“Because then the allergies win,” said Solange, with a final tug to her earlobe. “Now, what we were talking about?”

“Neil the spoiled little son.”

Solange cocked her head, studying me.

“I believe I may have been a bit loose-lipped. For all I know, you could be a company spy.”

I slipped off my shoe and held it to my ear like a telephone receiver.

“Boss,” I stage whispered, “she’s on to me.”

Stone-faced, Solange regarded me as I put my shoe back on, and just as I thought she might be considering a call to Security, she laughed.

“Girl, you are a strange one. Which in this business is probably a good thing.”

“Hey,” I said to the curly-haired comic coming out of the Improv. “You were funny.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s the goal.”

I nodded at the case he held. “Do you always play the trumpet in your act?”

“So far.”

“Do you write your own material?”

“Why, do you want to sell me a joke?”

“No . . . I was just wondering.”

The comic’s smile was easy. “Yeah, I write my own material. I think it’d be weird performing someone else’s.”

“Well, it was funny.”

“Thanks again.”

The horn of a car swerving toward the curb asserted itself over the other sounds of traffic on Melrose Avenue.

“That’s my ride,” said the comic. “Nice talking to you.”

My own ride was on the bus, and as it muscled its hefty self through the traffic on La Brea, I leaned my head against the smudged window, reviewing what I’d seen that night. The guy with the trumpet was one of my favorites, and so was a guy who did a mind-scrambling impression of “Johns”—Jonathan Winters doing John Wayne doing Johnny Mathis. The only woman performing in the entire lineup did a riff on the Maidenform bra commercials and how they never featured women doing mundane, everyday things.

“I mean, you never hear them saying, ‘I dreamed I shopped for brisket in my Maidenform bra’ . . . or ‘I dreamed I popped a pimple in my Maidenform bra.’”

I was a comedy vulture, watching and listening to everything, wondering what attitudes and ideas I could scavenge for my own use.

After pulling the buzzer, I was walking up the aisle when the bus driver laid on his horn and braked hard. I lunged forward, grabbing the metal backrest of a seat.

I dreamed I flew through the windshield of a crosstown bus in my Maidenform bra.

12

T
HE
B
EAT
S
TREET
STAFF
huddled around the portable TV in the break room, surprisingly excited to see me on
Word Wise.

“My boyfriend’s watching it at home,” said Ellie Pop, racing in. “He loves this show.”

As the snappy
Word Wise
music began, Greg Wyatt, the attorney, turned to Neil Thurman and said, “Idea: a novelty album of game show theme songs played by rock-and-roll bands.”

“I love it!” said A&R Tony. “Imagine Black Death’s bassist playing this—” he strummed an imaginary guitar along with the bright chipper TV music—“or better yet, the
Dating Game
theme song!”

“Shh,” said Solange. “It’s starting.”

Yancey Rogan strode onto the set.

“I’ve heard that guy’s a freak,” said Ellie Pop.

“Shh,” said Solange.

When Filo Nuala and Precia Doyle were introduced, everyone in the room cheered.

“Shhh!” admonished Solange, again.

No one took offense at her bossy behavior, and I personally was grateful for it, not bold enough to shush anyone myself.

They were disappointed that I didn’t get to play with Filo Nuala but cheered when I won my round with Precia.

“Well, I’m impressed, Candy,” said Neil at the end of the episode. “How do you know all those words anyway?”

Solange rolled her eyes. “She reads, Neil.”

“I tried that once,” said my boss affably. “I got a headache.”

When my second show aired the next day, the assemblage was reduced by half, Tony, Ellie Pop, and Greg all having previous luncheon engagements.

“I thought you had a date with your dad at Ma Maison,” said Solange.

Neil shrugged. “I do. But first I want to watch Candy win millions of dollars.”

“I’d like to watch that, too,” I said.

They cheered me and booed my opponents, and during the first commercial break Neil informed us that he’d gone to school with Sally Breel’s daughter.

“Beverly Hills High,” Solange explained. “It’s where the elite send their kids to start networking.”

Neil laughed.

“No, that starts at the birthday parties. You know Linc Michaels?”

“Of course,” said Solange, and to me translated, “big record producer.”

“And my best friend,” said Neil. “Who I just happened to meet at the sixth birthday party of Nan Norman.”

“Yes, Candy,” said Solange wearily. “Nan Norman the movie star.”

“I remember Mindy Breel because she had one of the first nose jobs of anyone I knew. She was cute, too—before. Afterwards her nose looked permanently pinched—like one of those synchronized swimmers wearing one of those nose-plug thingies.” Neil pulled off the band encircling his ponytail. “I wonder what she’s doing now.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure she’s doing fine. Once you’re a member of the Beverly Hills Mafia, you’re taken care of for life.”

“Beverly Hills Mafia,” said Neil with a laugh. “You kill me, Solange.” Looking at me, he smoothed back his hair, before gathering it into a ponytail again. “Can I help it if I grew up with rich and powerful people?”

He didn’t ask the question with attitude but with sincerity, and there was an awkward moment of silence before we all starting laughing, and then the show came back on, and when Yancey announced that the letter was W and the word was a noun, Sally Breel said, “Wealth!”

This really cracked Neil up.

As the credits rolled, he raced out of the office to keep his lunch date with his father and after Solange turned off the portable television set, she leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest.

“Candy, I am truly impressed. You were the best one on that whole show.”

I shook my head. “Jerry, the cop? He won sixteen thousand dollars and a trip to the Bahamas.”

“I’m not talking about who won the most money. I’m talking about who was the most entertaining. You were so funny! When you had the letter F and you said, ‘Fangs’ in that vampire voice—that was hilarious! And when—”

The bell on the front door jingled and a voice asked, “Hello?” and I scurried out of the break room to attend to business, which in this case meant signing for flowers—for the third time since I’d been on the job—sent to Ellie Pop.

“How many bouquets do you suppose she gets in a year?” I asked, carrying the heavy arrangement to Ellie’s office.

“The smart ones know how valuable publicity is and Ellie’s good at her job,” said Solange. “When she got the band Hard Rain a front-page spread in the
Herald-Examiner,
they sent her a lemon tree!”

Positioning the vase on Ellie’s desk, I inhaled. The smell was deep and sweet, and I was about to ask Solange the weird question that skittered across my mind: what’s more beautiful—how a rose looks or how it smells?—but she asked me one first.

“Have you ever thought of doing comedy, Candy? I mean, professionally?”

The rush through my body was like the one I felt when Ricky Pederson and I kissed (well, bumped lips) in our seventh grade cloakroom.

“I uh . . . I uh, yes.”

There. I had admitted it. Out loud.

“Is that why you came out here?”

My ears translated her mild question as something hollered by a prosecuting attorney determined to get to the answer that’ll crack the case wide open, and I stared at her, my heart pounding so hard I could feel the pulse in my ears.

“Well, I . . . my cousin needed to sublet her place and . . . yes.”