MK
***
WELL, THAT’S SHOW BIZ! by Milton Knight
Chapter
One: SETTING THE STAGE
A
light glared above. The two men squinted away from it.
One
of them was what one would have been, in the popular colloquial of the time,
labeled a “runt”. Thickset, perspiring, he was no match for the tall, rawboned
man who clutched his collar, nearly lifting him from the floor.
The
thin one pushed his face into the fat one’s, his facial features beet red,
convulsing.
He
drew back his palm. He threw it into the small one’s face for a smack that rang
through the premises. He shook the little one by the collar, and hurled him
down to the floor. The runt’s straw hat spun on the floor, as its owner
wallowed in a foolish heap, arms and legs impotently thrashing about.
The
tall one plunged his hand into the inside of his jacket for the object
naturally in it; a pig’s bladder. He advanced to assail the small one with it,
delivering slap after hollow slap. The smaller man started to skedaddle away,
turned back, recovered his hat, put it back on, and raised his hands to protect
it against further damage as the pair stampeded out of sight.
The
pit band lunged into a hokey, helter skelter finale; the pianist bashing his
fists through the keyboard; the drummer assaulting the woodblocks, and a
saxophone fiercely hooting the melody, creating a din so appropriately fast and
crazed and spirited, one couldn’t help but grin, wince, or laugh out loud. The
comedic duo, perspiring, panting, glowing with elation, trotted back onto the
stage. Graciously, they doffed their hats to the audience and bowed. They bowed
to each other, grinning generously and pantomiming shooting gestures with their
fingers, as if both were saying “Good going pal, I couldn’t have done it
without you”. As he bowed, the little guy thrust one foot in the air behind
him, staying balanced on the other, striking a fleeting pose that was
simultaneously clownish and oddly elegant. The partners continued with fast
bows, nods, hat wavings and silent mouthings of thanks to the crowd, and
winsomely trotted offstage. Back they came for second bows, and exited for the
last time. The tall man returned to the stage to introduce the last act. The
small man waited.
The
tall man came back behind the curtain, applause still echoing from out front. The small one kept pace with his partner. Their
pace slowed into a trudge as they were enveloped in the backstage dimness. The
tall one, Paul St. Clair, lost his smile. Wheezy Gibson, the small one, very
deliberately inspecting his straw hat, shot him a glare that almost pierced the
darkness. The small man remarked, “I’d watch it with that bladder if I were
you.”
Paul
did not turn to look at his partner. He kept walking, and faster. “What did I
do this time?” he said.
Wheezy
followed him: “Don’t you kid yourself, St. Clair; don’t think I don’t know what
you’re doing. On purpose, that is. You delivered three extra blows this time. I
was counting. You think you’re being cute. You think you’re getting your own
back on your boss, don’t you?”
The
pair had slowed to a halt, facing each other. Paul was aghast. Wheezy had been
counting his blows? One simply wouldn’t know what complaint he was going to have
next. The comedian was unpredictable!
Paul
St. Clair remembered the valuable rings, watch chains and tie clips Wheezy had
given him when he was in an effusive mood. And then Paul thought of Wheezy’s alternate
bursts of cruelty. Wheezy’s instability could be simply frightening.
Paul
gazed to the ceiling’s peaceful pitch blackness, where he wished he could be
himself. His eyes, looking older and wearier than his forty-eight years, were
dreading, pleading, but resigned. “Wheezy, please…the audience ate it up…and
every time I ease up, you say I’m losing them..”
“Oh,
they ate it up,” Wheezy snapped. “We did
just fine, but don’t you forget. That slapping business is out there on that
stage. I’m the show here.” Paul periodically tried to break in, but Wheezy
always drowned him out. At this, he was expert. The pitch of his voice turned
higher, almost into a whine. “I’m the boss of this team. You cannot withstand
the power of my fists! Back here, I can throw one special delivery and knock
you into next Monday. And you wouldn’t dare do a thing about it. NOT A THING.”
Now
Wheezy shoved his little face as high and close to the tall man’s as he could.
He was trying to goad Paul into indignation. Playing with him, seeing if he
could spur Paul into self defense. Then, brother, would the house erupt. Wheezy
was hoping, striving to bring the confrontation to its zenith, giving him the
excuse to pop like a cork.
Paul
was forced to look down into Wheezy’s bovine face. He was dressed like a little
clown in his checkered shirt, red bowtie, violet suspenders, outsized green
trousers and sunflower in his lapel, and he was breathing fire into the cleft
of Paul’s chin. Paul wished the whole ugly, one sided argument could be
shrugged off; just called on account of rain. Damn it, he knew his job. If he
pulled his punches, Paul wasn’t doing his job. Deal three extraneous whacks,
and he’d be verbally abused and physically threatened.
Off
to the side, among the lamps and ladders, stood the nightclub’s two stagehands.
As “working men”, union men, proudly standing “a world apart”, they observed
the goings-on through half lidded eyes, chewed their gum, and waited for the
fuse to go off.
“Oh,
Wheezy, why don’t we just forget it?” he wailed, gripping Wheezy’s hand and petulantly
throwing the small man’s arm aside.
Wheezy
deflated like a child’s balloon, his head sinking behind the bow tie on his wide
collar. Once again, his partner had called the game to a close, just by
remaining calm. Fidgeting, Wheezy struggled to renew his aggression, but the
house manager called out to delay the storm.
Exchanging
looks between the two men, she mocked, “Break it up, children.” To the straight
man, she poorly affected the cluck of a weary Chinese mother: “Show over, Paul.
You go home.” Relieved, Paul took not another glance in Wheezy’s direction. He
simply retreated to the team’s dressing room.
Turning
her attention to the “funny man”, Mona said disdainfully, her eyes over the
rims of her glasses, “Wheezy Gibson, I want to see you in my office.” Wheezy
gladly trailed after the manager, studying her round, pleasing rump with his
connoisseur’s eye. He felt he could read womens’ butts like others could read
palms.
The
stagehands, disgusted by the termination of the spectacle, exchanged looks as
if they had been cheated, and resumed their duties. It was 1:30 am. The show
onstage was coming to its end, and they could gladly close up the club.
The
dressing room the comics shared was just large enough for two men to apply
their stage makeup without bruising each other. As in most of the other backstage
rooms, the walls were whitewashed brick, the floor plain, pebbled concrete. Remains
of old posters were plastered on the walls, irremovable. Lighted mirrors were fixed
to opposite walls, and the team shared the bench in the middle. They also shared
a bulletin board for stage notes and pinups.
Paul
entered and turned to stare in the mirror. He furrowed his brows as he gazed at
his long face, sharp nose, his moustache and his thin, slick sheet of black
hair. Paul held his chin, and pivoted his face in a few directions to inspect
the ravages of age. The lines he saw did not please him. He pulled at the bags
under his eyes, and checked his teeth, which just didn’t look as white as they
once had been. Perhaps it was the cut-rate, yellowish lighting they used in
this place.
He
had played the roles of house singer and straight man at The Candl Club since
1946; for over ten years. His engagement had spanned the years of three successive
owners. He had been partnered with a succession of comics. They were of varying
quality, never outstanding. They’d arrive; get itchy feet or a better offer and
bid farewell. Paul always stayed behind, convinced that he lacked the fortitude
it took to survive outside the walls of the little downtown club, and terrified
by the prospect of maneuvering in a crueler, more competitive arena. In the
club, he felt, were people he had known for years, where he had built up a
record good enough to call it home no matter what. There was no sign of
disapproval from management. He was a fixture here. Part of the family. The
customers had come to know him. Here he was and here he’d stay. As long as
possible.
The
straight man had been always considered a man of equal talent to the comic’s. The
straight man was admired for his expert timing, providing an earthly contrast to
the buffoon’s flights of fancy.
Traditionally,
the straight men were the managers of the teams. Employers went to the straight
men with their wants and needs, not the clowns. Whenever possible, management avoided
having to deal with the unpredictable “funny men”. Clowns were irresponsible,
self destructive, demented children who needed the guidance of a sober adult.
Personalities onstage and off were thus melded.
Comedians
came, comedians went away. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference. But
when Wheezy Gibson had been hired to fill the spot, Paul was aware that here
was someone special. Not only did St. Clair and Gibson click, they brought out
the best in each other. Paul had been doing just alright before. Now Gibson was
the one that kept the audience coming back and loving them both, raising the
pair above and apart from the declining standards of burlesque comedy.
The
normal sixty-forty salary contrast remained in place. However, through subtle
aggression, Gibson had appointed himself the ‘boss’ of the team. He introduced knockabout comedy into the act.
The severest and most boisterous kind, offering simultaneous laughter and shock.
Wheezy deeply admired the daring acrobatics of the silent film comedians, just
loved this school of comedy. The team was among the last to practice it. Wheezy
had educated himself until he had become an expert practitioner of the craft. He could propel himself into dazzling
cartwheels and somersaults, and send himself thudding on the concrete floor. It
was painless to himself, but disturbing to spectators. Paul was dazzled, afraid
and even guilty for slapping Wheezy and triggering what seemed to him a suicidal
self punishment, would naturally ease up, and get “Come on stupid! I want you
to lay it on! Just give it to me! Don’t worry about hurting me! You just aren’t
that strong. Next thing you know, the slobs won’t laugh. Then what could
happen?”
The
team could fail, thought Paul. Destroy this partnership so successful? Another threat to Paul’s livelihood. He had
many fears, but the loss of his livelihood was the greatest. Paul needed to
maintain a sense of security to protect himself from the world around him,
where anything might happen.
Glum,
Paul removed his snappy suit and carefully, slowly, trembling, hung it in the
closet. The outfit had improved his build considerably. In his underwear, Paul
stood, lanky and sallow, with a hollow chest and a weak belly.
He
shrugged, changed suits, threw on his knee length tweed coat and left by the
back alley exit.
Mona
Fago, the stage manager, opened the windowed door of her business office, and kept
walking until behind her desk. Wheezy, still in his ludicrous costume, followed
her in and closed the door, happily anticipating more than the gin Miss Fago
noisily fumbled for in one of the drawers.
A
single, yellowed bulb inside a rusted tin cone hung above the desk. Only the
nearest edges of the office paraphernalia could be discerned in the greenish
light. The olive blotter on the desk. The blue grays of file cabinets. The
washed out whites of the piles of papers and contracts, the muddy melange of
photos and posters hanging on the walls. However, a spray of moonlight was
thrown upon a cot at the opposite end of the office reserved for Mona’s off
duty “siestas”.
Wheezy
reached for the wall switch for further illumination. “Don’t do that”, Mona
blurted.
It
was possible she didn’t want to break the mood. It was also possible she wanted
her face to remain unseen. She must have been over forty, but she still had
what it took as far as Wheezy was concerned. Her face was in shadows, but the
dull bulb highlighted her pointy breasts and the bottle of gin.
“Drink
with me”, she said without expression or pleasure as she poured two glasses.
The sound of the liquid was clear and delicious. Wheezy picked up his glass,
sat across from her in the rickety swivel chair and sipped.
After
a pause to savor the taste, Mona said gently, “Stop picking on Paul.” It sounded like a gesture of obligation, not
concern.
Wheezy
snorted. “Pick on him? On him…did you see us out there tonight? He could have
killed me!”
“Oh,
stop being a crybaby, Wheezy. A few extra smacks with a pig’s bladder. A
balloon! Is it or is it not you who tells him to keep it violent? You’re
strong. You can take it with the best of them. That’s why you’re a winner. And
you know Paul can’t take your outbursts, loser that he is.”
Wheezy
turned his drinking glass from side to side, studying its reflections, and chuckled
to himself. He liked Mona, and not just as a nice piece of tail, as he felt
about most decent looking females. She had a good sense of humor. And a
capacity for frankness. You didn’t have to choose delicate words with her. Sure,
she acted like a stick. But one had to be tough to stay in her business. Her po-faced
demeanor made it clear that she wouldn’t court any nonsense. Her jaded
expression, the hair worn in a tight bun, her cat’s eye glasses, her tailored
suits and the clipped rhythm of her clacking heels conveyed that well enough.
But the turtleneck sweater she was wearing close to her, and the banana breasts
peeking out from under the jacket, warmly suggested a good time could be had.
And, oh, the two of them had enjoyed some good times. But off of that cot, it
was all business and only business. Sex partners received no favors.
For
her part, Mona felt no cause to give Wheezy any favors. He was breezy, agreeable
enough to dally with, but he was no friend. He was an unpleasant little mental
case, she felt. At his best, abrasive. At his worst, an egoist son of a bitch.
In his clown suit, he was a repellant sight. Out of the suit…well, he had an
alright body and an impressive member.
“You
wanna talk to me about somethin’, Mona?”
“We’ve
talked. I WANT…a siesta.”
Paul
St. Clair walked down the alley from the rear exit. The globe of light beside
the door set the pebbled, moist brick walls glistening. The alley was
intimidating, but the crew, even the dancers, had grown used to passing through
it to the street. There had never been a problem, except for an occasional
wino…
“What
do you say, Skipper? Gotten good right Friends with God Jesus?”
It
was Beautiful Joe, a vaguely nautical regular at the club, who came and watched
the show every evening he could afford to, and tried to proselytize the cast
after it ended. He wore a dark seaman’s jacket, a striped t-shirt, and rough
jeans, hard with crust from lack of a wash. From under his cap, his gray hair
and beard flew out of his head in every direction, giving him the appearance of
a wounded yet noble porcupine. One of the Lord’s own oddballs.
“Jeez,
Joe, you scared the hell outa me.”
“Just
what I want to do, son. Well, how about it. Joined the denizens of Jesus
Christ, our Lord of America??” Joe insisted on walking at Paul’s side as he
continued up the alley.
Paul
felt some empathy for this well-meaning eccentric, but was irritated by his pressuring.
Paul was simply not interested. Looking pained, he said, “Look, Joe”, he said,
“You know I’m a believer, but I can’t dedicate my soul to it. I’ve got too many
questions.”
“Ask
the Lord, and he shall forgive them, Pappy. All you need is some spiritual
food, and that’s free; anywhere, anytime. Let me tickle your tastebuds.”
Joe
was getting poised for one of what he considered his “masterful” diatribes.
Paul nipped that in the bud. “He shall forgive me, you say. Why is having a
question an error on my part? Isn’t the Lord all-knowing enough to recognize
that so many things about the world He created are going unexplained? That His
world to us makes no sense whatsoever? That it hurts just to be here?”
“As
you say, Paul-o, He made the Earth. And so there are no questions. Come; let me
take you on the merry-go-round that is Our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
Merry-Go-Round
was right. There was nowhere to go with this clod. Paul was losing his
patience. He fumbled in his pocket, and laid a coin on the old man’s palm.
“Thanks,
Paul-o, bless you. I shall pray for you. I shall use this money to lead others
even less enlightened than you on the Path to Glory. Hallelujah, Brother! And
then some…” His words faded into the distance as Paul walked out of the alley.
As
he approached the stairs of the subway, Paul couldn’t help but consider that
the fifty cents he had just “contributed” would simply be used to finance
another grape soda at The Candl Club.
Back
in the alley, Beautiful Joe slipped the fifty cents into the pocket of his
jacket, then thrust his palm upward, as if he was carrying a tray, letting the
other arm dangle like a doll’s, and, moving around in a circle, exploded into
an eccentric shuffling dance step. “Well, Hallelujah! Well, yes, yes! Well
awereet!! Yas, yas!!!”
The
two stagehands, walking out of the nightclub, stopped behind Joe and exchanged
truculent sneers. “Alright, clear the way, Beautiful”, muttered one.
Snorting
derisively, the other one stupidly repeated, “Beautiful.”
The
old man turned violently on the pair, thrusting a wizened finger. “And you, my
friends, are the most sinful of all! Using God’s light to illuminate the Devil’s
work!! Why not Henry V?? Why not Twelfth Night?? Yes, the pair of you! Repent!!
Repent your wicked ways and make way for the true light, the Phosphorescence of
Heaven!!”
Unimpressed,
the two men pushed past him, one on either side, squeezing the old man in the
middle. The stagehands linked arms as they left the scene, proud of this
improvised, perfectly synchronized expression of contempt.
For
that instant, Joe had been thrown off balance. He had to hop on one foot, but
he gracefully regained his balance and barked after them, finger in the sky,
“Yes! Yes, you, too, will see! Thou shalt learn the Wisdom! You will cognize
the Magic of Paralysis! Repent, you juveniles! Repent and…I LOVE YOU!! I LOVE
YOU!!” he shouted with vitriol.
The
stage door clicked shut once again. Beautiful Joe’s face puckered into a smile.
He turned. Yes, it was dark, but, Glory, her loveliness shone as would a
lantern! Even draped in an overcoat, she could raise an erection. If God had
ever sent an angel forth to do Satan’s work, it was her. Beautiful Joe was
overwhelmed by a wave of pity for the poor, sinning girl. His heart ran over
with pity. Again raising his finger, he said to her:
“Slut!!
And you are the most sinful of all! A whore leading men astray! Flaunting your
flesh, dredging up a man’s basest instincts!! The face of an angel…and the soul
of a demon!! You sin!! You SIN!!” Beneath his whiskers, Joe’s face had gone
florid.
The
redhead stood calm before him.
“Did
you like my dance tonight? I did it thinking of you.”
Beautiful
Joe stood paralyzed, only his filmed eyes following her as she drifted toward
him. His breathing was audible as he nobly toiled to resist this woman’s
obscene charms.
“Jezebel…Queen
of Sheba…”
The
redhead draped her arms around Joe’s neck. It was like being wrapped in
Heavenly Swaddling Clothes. But he was wise; yes, old Joe was cognizant of this
trollop’s game!
“Mae
West…” he croaked, shuddering.
The
woman’s tongue slipped through his bristling whiskers to loll about in his
mouth. Joe’s eyes danced. She sucked away at his lips. Joe’s eyelids fell. He
was nearly in tears. The redhead’s bulges were held generously against his
body; her hips ground deeply into his crotch.
The
couple came out of it for air. Joe was panting helplessly. Her expression was
almost a snarl. Her hands rubbed hard over his spine. “Does that feel good,
Joe?”, her body still drilling against his.
Beautiful
Joe’s eyes moved skyward. “Oh…oh, get thee behind me, Satan…”
“No,
Joe. YOU get behind ME. We’ll have so much fun. Like this…”
With
an adroit index finger, the woman goosed Joe through his heavy jeans, deep up
his anus. He quivered and seemed to propel an inch or two off the pavement,
smearing his manhood against the woman’s pubes. She laughed throatily. “Yes,
Joe. You’ll do that to me someday.”
Joe
whinnied and snorted as would a mad stallion. The woman strummed his enflamed
crotch like a stringed instrument. Even her eyes were widened by the dimensions
of his ripening bulge tonight. The gravel crunched under her knees as she
lowered herself, planted her face in his crotch, and lovingly moved it back and
forth. She hummed softly, musically. Joe melted.
“Oh…oh,
Cleopatra…Lady Chatterley…” he inhaled.
The
woman’s fingers kneaded his crotch with increasing speed. Beautiful Joe leaned backwards, balanced on
his spine. He had surrendered. The woman unzipped his trousers in order to play
more intimate games with his testicles; but one brush of her hand across the underside
of Joe’s bare cock produced a fat, thick belch of semen.
Joe
pitched backwards with a melodic exhale. The woman caught him in her arms, hooked
her fingers under his armpits, carried him a few steps and gently sat him on
the lid of a garbage can. From out behind the can, a cat hissed and scampered out
of the alley.
The
sweet purr of a luxury motor swelled in the street. The wicked woman’s heels lazily
clicked away on the pavement. She still looked back at the old sailor. She blew
him a kiss.
“Good
night, Beautiful Joe.” Then she disappeared into the night.
A
car door slammed. The auto’s hum faded in the distance. Bathed in the halo
issued from the exit bulb, Joe sat slouched against the moist brick wall, his
head dangling to the side like a puppet’s.
Oh,
that blasphemous woman, with no labor dragging him to the gates of perdition!
He must save her! Someday, he would succeed!
“Every night, my child! Every night I can I will return and fight to
rescue you from the Depths of Whoredom!!”
Joe
felt rejuvenated, only half conscious of the recent events and the ooze trickling
down his thigh. He had a sudden, final inspiration. He looked down to the
club’s basement window. A yellowish
light still glowed, and the clicking of a typewriter could be heard.
Inside
the office, under the weak light, her back to Joe, Mona sat at her desk, nude,
typing. Wheezy, also unclothed in the semi darkness, loitered on his back on
the cot, blissfully gnawing one of his fat cigars. Suddenly, Joe’s head,
goggle-eyed and hair blasting like Struwwelpeter’s, appeared outside the
window:
“KNEEL
AND PRAY, MY CHILDREN!! KNEEL AND PRAY!!”
For
a moment, the couple was frozen, staring incredulously at the face in the
window. Then Wheezy inhaled, “Son of a bitch”, and hurtled forward to the
stairs leading to the door.
Beautiful
Joe righteously stood his ground, doing his idiotic pseudo-Gospel dance step in
place, feet skittering, hips shifting, until he heard the door click. Coming to
the conclusion that the angry comic was not about to have a turn of conscience,
Joe decided to give this sinner up as lost for the moment, and insanely
scrambled down the alley into the street.
In
all his bellicose nudity, Wheezy lunged out of the door, flooding the alley
with light. He lifted a large stone from the pavement and heaved it at the back
of Joe’s head. The stone sharply ricocheted off a wall and clattered into the
street. Wheezy screamed. “Go back to your Coney Island
whores, you creep!”
Clutching
a thin house coat to her throat, Mona came out behind Wheezy and grabbed his
shoulder, whipping him around. “For God’s sake, Wheezy, you might have killed
him! Do you want to go to prison??!” Wheezy pushed past her back into the
office: “Fraud! Faker! That old pervert’s no more an evangelist than I am!!”
Chapter
Two: THE STRAIGHT MAN
Once
again, the subway had cost Paul two hours getting home. It was five in the
morning now. Plodding up the staircase from the subway, the pale bronze sky was
turning yellow, making him squint; irritating him no end. Paul St. Clair was no “day person”. The
slight frost rendered his street, an unchanging line of brownstones, duller and
even more colorless than usual. Paul entered his building, and traveled up the
three flights of slippery marble stairs, carefully clutching the banister. His
mother was already very much awake in the living room, jogging rapidly in a very
small circle. “Beep! Beep!” Then, in a lukewarm tone betraying her disapproval
of her son’s strange schedule, she called, “So at last you’re back, Paul?”
“Yes,
Mama”, he responded, feeling her schedule was just as odd. Who’d get up before
five a.m. if they didn’t have to?
“Eggs
and bacon in the fridge, son. Beep! Beep!” She bounced out the door and down
the slippery marble stairs for a jog through the park; her personal passion.
Paul
fried up the cold meal and ate at the kitchen table. Unlike Mama, Paul just
didn’t feel filled on just vegetables and fruits. Like the rest of his life, he
yearned for total comfort, and that meant frequent steaks and chops.
As
he peppered his eggs, he grimaced as he ruminated. His mother was an utter health nut, to the
world at large a peculiar thing for an old lady to be; it was like practicing
Yoga, which she also did. Yes, Mama was an eccentric.
Mama,
in turn, thought her son would benefit from a proper schedule, but he was in
show biz, providing food and rent for the both of them, and that was that.
Paul
was frustrated by the long trip home, and too keyed up to go right to sleep. He
drifted into the living room. It was an old lady’s home. Dark brown dominated,
with its heavy, antiquated wooden cabinets and tables, its faded, striped
wallpaper, its dust colored floral cushions and doilies. Aged and unchanged
since Paul’s parents took the apartment as newlyweds.
Paul’s
joints trembled slightly as he slowly sank into one of the easy chairs. The
family cat leapt from nowhere into his lap. Paul smiled and cuddled the pet,
scratching her head. He carried her into
the kitchen and poured her a bowl of milk. The cat lapped away. Paul squatted
over her, stroking her fur. He thought of his mom doing her calisthenics there
moments before.
“To
see her behave, you wouldn’t think I was taking care of HER, would you?” he affectionately
said to the cat. In truth, after his father had passed away, Mama didn’t need
much taking care of at all. Paul loved his mother very much. But he had assumed
the heroic role of in-house guardian so that he could stay put.
Paul
stood up to return to the living room. He was forty-eight years young; eighteen
years Wheezy Gibson’s senior. Glumness shot through his body. Paul felt so much
older than he actually was.
Did
Paul dislike Wheezy? Paul shook his head. He was resentful. Even jealous. Paul
was jealous of the man, with his bald nerve and cocksmanship. Wheezy had all
the balls Paul lacked. The comic personified the orgiastic youth that Paul himself
had avoided and regretted having missed. Paul dreaded the inevitable day Wheezy
would be swept off to Hollywood,
leaving the straight man to the mercy of fate and lesser comics. But the mature
are past such petty foibles as hate. The experienced man understands and has
risen above the follies of youth.
Even
though Paul had always been in show business, the word for his life would have
been ‘prudent’. Increased wealth had been by no means the goal in any of his endeavors.
Maintaining the status quo, keeping his life content was his obsession. Safety.
To keep the four walls around him; to be able to sink into this upholstered
chair, the cat in his lap, and to be able to think, to dwell on the fact that
there were no threats on the horizon, no problems to solve; these were, he
felt, the only things he needed to be truly happy. To be able to remain on
salary at the club.
But
conditions in his business were changing. The male entertainers were becoming
quaint holdovers from a grand tradition; “old tyme” burlesque; nostalgic Americana. Comedy had been
devalued. New talent was not encouraged.
The established comics were growing older and wearier; for Paul, being
around them was like being stranded in the Bowery on a bad night. In the glorious past, the strippers had been
the grand finale; they were fast becoming the whole show. Society was ‘growing
up’, proprieties had loosened and the nightclubs had little need to act as if
they were offering “programmes”. Coming were full evenings of masturbatory
delights. In this uncertain atmosphere, Paul feared his little niche was a
fraud not yet revealed. If he clung on tight, didn’t rock the boat, perhaps he
could play it for the remainder of his working life. And the longer his partner
stayed with him, the more assured that would be.
Paul
raised his eyebrows in a kind of facial shrug, then lifted his shoulders in a full
one. The future he could not predict or deal with, and that bothered him a lot.
It
was his nerves that got him, his goddamn nerves. Paul walked into his bedroom. He
sat on the bed. He pulled a bottle of rye from the night stand. Paul was past
the point of enjoying liquor. But just the assurance that there was a nip or
two at hand gave him something of that warm, quieting sense of stability. Every
thought became a profundity. He could get through life by himself. Bittersweet
surrender was at hand.
An
hour later, Mama found her son stretched across the bed, with one foot on the
floor, his mouth hanging wide open, not snoring at all, but drooling
noticeably. She took off his shoes, put his leg on the bed and covered him with
a blanket. But she drew the line at removing his pants. That he could do
himself.
Chapter
Three: THE CLOWN
Wallace
C. “Wheezy” Gibson prided himself as being the antithesis of his clodhopping
stage persona.
Giving
the driver an ostentatious tip, the comic shambled out of his taxi and up the
path to his apartment building. Wheezy
could barely afford the rent on the midtown suite, but felt it was necessary to
keep up appearances. He nodded to the doorman and took the elevator to the
sixth floor.
Wheezy
had come from a family which had never cared about art in the least; a home
shabby and completely without decoration. The most artistic thing to enter the
home was the Sunday supplement. It was a stubbornly functional working class
home. There was a suspicion of art of all its forms, because ornament of any
kind was thought to represent values alien to Americans who had to work for a
living. Art was an indulgence of the privileged, the decadent and depraved.
The
home with the beige paint chipping off the walls and its bleary eyed occupants depressed
the child greatly. When the sun started to set, he dreaded having to return to
it. His life was not enough. He was only a child, but gnawed by a tragic feeling
that he was missing out. And he was obstinate about resolving it.
After
school, three times a week, Wheezy dragged himself to the borough library to
pore over the art books. It was all at his self prompting. He had no desire to
be a painter, but he thrilled to the mystique of the cultured mind. He yearned
to be walking through Leonardo’s cavernous, luxurious studio, witnessing all
that genius applied in so many directions. So different from his own
feebleminded surroundings. But the library would close and Wheezy would have to
walk home.
Wheezy’s
childhood interests were “uncommon”, and his neighborhood was tough. It was the
sort of area where a child never knew when he would be cornered by six
others. He grew up having to defend himself,
and did so rather well. He had broken a few bullies’ bones, the only
achievement his parents were really proud of.
Because
of this hard-won approval, and the awe it elicited in others, Wheezy attained a
natural interest in physical development and even in the violent. For a little
guy, he was strong, and he soon became a bit of a bully himself. But his was an
extreme malice. The people around him sensed that he was developing a fearful
taste for the sadistic; a lust to hurt more than the average schoolyard bully;
a passion for assault just short of murder. When he’d walk home from the
library, classmates were obsequious vassals or tried to avoid him. And if
Wheezy detected that, the kids could end up the victim of a savage beating
ending with blood on the sidewalk. When Wheezy felt like coming home late, his
father dared not think about whipping him.
Girls
were easy to get. Wheezy was an outlaw, dangerous, and dreadfully thrilling.
There was the threat of a bruise with every kiss. He gravitated toward girls
with low self esteem; ones begging for his approval. Each dreamed they were
capable of being “the one” to fill the gap in his tormented soul. Wheezy
developed a contempt for them.
Wheezy
walked alone a lot of the time. His alienation was nurtured like a hothouse
plant.
On
the other end of the spectrum, Wheezy chose to join the high school’s drama
group. He reveled in it. His frightening side dissolved. His fellow performers
saw another side of him: alive with positive energy, amusing, and gifted with a
devilish sense of humor. From the beginning, he was playing Falstaff and Puck,
any character with an imp’s spirit.
His
parents couldn’t have cared less; they didn’t bother to show up at the
presentations. Instead of disapproving of his interests, they ignored them
entirely.
The
extremes of his personality confused and threatened teachers; he was an
adolescent personable and excellent in his English, drama and art classes, but
could otherwise be deemed a brute.
Wheezy
was certain of where his interests lay. Aware that he wouldn’t rate as a
leading man with his pugnacious looks, he confined himself to playing for
laughs. Low brow guffaws. He entered every amateur night he could. He picked up work in local presentations. He
played hooky; he stayed out late. His family did not ask questions. They had
given up actively raising him.
One
year before graduating high school, without sentiment or ceremony, Wheezy left
home. Unable to find an automobile he could afford on his meager savings, he
got convenient hold of a battered motor scooter, and began a trek as a “hobo
comedian”. He did spots at cheap clubs and resorts. He followed carnivals,
playing the clown or athlete. He even bridged into doing trapeze and tightrope.
He begged, he stole. His toughness helped. If any wise ass along the road even
began to give him grief, he easily put a finish to the affair. When an employer
deliberated over payment, he’d collect blood money. It was heavenly. Not only
was such force necessary, Wheezy got a big kick using it.
Through
skill, a string of lucky breaks and the boldness of youth, Wheezy got a
foothold in vaudeville and was gaining a good reputation as a performer.
Now
thirty, Wheezy prided himself as being a self-made man of the world. And, in
his own slovenly way, he was correct.
He
turned his key in the lock of his apartment. A snap of the switch revealed its
interior. He hung his coat and hat on the rack standing beside the door.
Wheezy’s
suite was spacious and sloppy. As a contrast to his drab home of origin, his
anteroom was crammed with art awaiting him, helter skelter. Not an inch was
empty. Oriental rugs lay in relative filth. A motley assortment of gaudily
framed Renaissance and Restoration prints hung arbitrarily and often crookedly
on the walls, and cheap reproductions of classical statuary stood everywhere,
often inconveniently. Many of them had been manufactured as lawn decorations.
All of them were of opulent nudes. The avant garde crap wasn’t even worth
consideration. The female torso was true beauty, and Wheezy considered himself
a connoisseur. His lip curled; he slid his palm across a pearly buttock of “The
Fall of Eve” as he passed it. He was remembering his session with Mona, and her
own round, ripe ass. He was proud to be fucking her.
Now,
in delightful solitude, Wheezy strode into the bathroom, took down his pants,
and enjoyed a most satisfying diherrea. A man had to keep his bowels moving
regularly and often, he felt. And it had to be done in solitude. Here, away
from the club, with no knocks at the door from Paul to destroy his sensual
pleasure. He took the act very seriously.
He
wallowed in a bath that was nearly boiling, soaking the pains he had sustained
in the evening’s performance. The three extra whacks Paul had snuck in floated
through his thoughts, but they would not disturb this night. Wheezy was relaxed
and pleased; king of all things clever.
It
had come late and not easily, but by now people were assuring him he was going
places. He was at last a “rising comic”. Call him baggy pants, whatever. He had
the gift. Eventually, Broadway, Hollywood…who
knew? After taking his very sweet time,
he lifted himself from the tub. Glowing with satisfaction, Wheezy slipped into
pyjamas (fuck “pajamas”) striped violet and light gray, almost purring with
pleasure as the silky material slipped over his skin.
He
sauntered through the hallway, admiring the reproductions that lined it, and
marveled. This is mine, he thought. It’s really all mine.
Wheezy
turned off the hallway’s last light, entered the bedroom, and lowered himself
into bed. But gingerly. He mustn’t wake Wifey. Oh, never EVER wake Wifey. She
couldn’t take it. If that happened, she’d be up all night, and wouldn’t be
happy unless she made him stay awake with her. Oh, mustn’t ever, ever wake
Wifey.
Wheezy’s
mood shifted suddenly. Was this what it all came down to, he asked himself?
Working ‘til dawn and waking up to a dreary tub of a wife?
***
COPYRIGHT 2017 BY MILTON KNIGHT
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