4

WHATEVER THE PROCESS WAS, IT CERTAINLY wasn’t calming. Mickey hadn’t been home two hours before he felt like jumping out of his skin. He paced back and forth, then reached for the phone and dialed.

One ring. Two. Three.

He was calling his ex-wife, Dolores. When she answered, he would say, “I think Larry’s watching out for me. I’m not drunk or weirded out or anything. I just have this feeling, and I wanted somebody to know.”

On the fifth ring her voice mail came on. Mickey left his message. It wasn’t that Dolores would react well to it, but she was the only person Mickey knew who wouldn’t tell people he had lost it. Dolores had issues with him, but disloyalty wasn’t one of them.

Now what?

All the talk about fear had upset him, and he couldn’t shake it. He had no appetite. His skin felt cold. Being alone wasn’t helping.

Mickey reached for his car keys. A moment later he was down in the garage choosing between the Escalade and his old Porsche, a cream two-seater with red leather interiors. It was the first luxury he’d splurged on once he was sure that his success wasn’t a mirage. He chose the Porsche and backed out of the garage.

There was one place in the world he could go to. One place where he was king, and fear meant nothing.

 

HEADS TURNED WHEN Mickey walked into a shabby bar in North Hollywood. The Miller Lite sign over the window was thirty years old, and looked it. A mirrored disco ball hung forlornly over an empty dance floor.

Mickey wasn’t two steps through the door before the owner came running up.

“Mickey, is that you? I can’t believe it.”

“Hey, Sol. You still have amateur night?”

“Sure, of course. Every Friday. You remember that? It must be fifteen years.”

Sol was a retired Hollywood extra who used to get plenty of work in the old days, when movies were movies. “Look at this face,” he’d say. “I can play Italians, Jews, Indians, you name it. I once had a callback to play Geronimo. It’s the nose. The camera loves my nose.”

“Remember my first joke?” Mickey said. He pointed at the beer sign and recited. “You know why vampires hang out in this bar? They can come in any time and ask for a Blood Lite.”

Sol shook his head and laughed. “Yeah. You bombed big-time that night.”

But not for long. Mickey had been nineteen at the time, a college dropout in torn jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He didn’t know much, but he knew in his heart he could be funny. An ad in a throwaway newspaper said there was an open microphone on Friday nights at a North Hollywood dive. Turned out, it drew lots of comics from hell, and Mickey.

Now he looked around. About a third of the tables were populated.

“How about I do half a set?” Mickey asked.

Sol’s face fell. “It’s not Friday, Mickey. The place is dead. You should have told me.”

Then it hit Sol that one of the biggest comics in the business was in his establishment. He shouted to the bartender to give Mickey anything he wanted, and then Sol disappeared. He came back a minute later with a microphone and a stand. Mickey took it and walked to the far end of the room. He tapped the mike. Customers looked up. Then they did a double take.

“Folks, this is for Sol, who gave me my start.”

While Mickey did his set people kept using their cell phones to take pictures and call their friends. Mickey was six jokes in when new faces began to appear in the audience. After half an hour the place was packed. They were laughing hysterically. They adored him.

Mickey knew he was only there as a distraction, but at least it was working. He was feeling high; the one-liners were rolling off his tongue like butter. He almost turned the two big guard dogs into part of his act. Instead, he riffed on religion.

“I just came back from touring the Midwest. Any Lutherans here tonight?”

A hand shot up in the back.

“Okay, I’ll talk slower.”

He was on such a roll that he could have told the gags in Urdu and nobody would have cared.

“My grandpa’s the most religious man I know. He says if God had meant for man to fly, he would have given us tickets.” That one dated back to junior high. Mickey could dredge them up from as far back as he wanted. His mind was churning one-liners so fast his mouth couldn’t keep up.

“People say God isn’t listening, but he answers knee-mail.

“You all know about the Golden Rule: Those who have the gold, rule.

“The problem with fundamentalists is that ninety-nine percent of them are giving the rest a bad name.”

It had to end eventually. He wanted to finish on a joke that would make the whole room go, “Awww.” A warm and fuzzy.

“I went to Catholic school as a kid. One day I was in the lunch line, and there was this pile of apples. The nun in charge wagged her finger. ‘Just take one. God is watching.’

“So I took an apple, and the line moved along. At the next table there was this pile of chocolate chip cookies. I didn’t know what to do.

“‘Pssst,’ the kid behind me whispered. ‘Take all you want. God’s watching the apples.’”

Mickey got his “Awww.” And a huge round of applause.

When he came off, Sol ran up and hugged him with an old man’s tears in his eyes. They sat at the bar while the crowd mobbed Mickey for autographs. Nobody wanted to leave without buying him a drink.

Francisco was the farthest thing from his mind.

It would have been a perfect night, except that when he walked back to his car, Mickey found a parking ticket stuck on the windshield. He couldn’t believe it, and then he began to fume. What kind of idiot cop gives parking tickets after midnight?

But when he reached over to pull it off the windshield, he saw it wasn’t a ticket after all. It was a folded sheet of white paper. Mickey felt a shiver as he opened it.

I’m keeping your secret, you’re paying my price
You know if you don’t, I’ll stop being nice
Protection is worth it, wouldn’t you say?
Life is so empty when you don’t get your way

Who am I?

Mickey wadded up the note and hurled it into the night. He felt sick. Francisco was watching. And the second riddle was obviously intended to upset Mickey. Why else would it suggest blackmail?

 

MICKEY LOST SOME sleep obsessing over the riddle. He was still in bed at ten the next morning when Dolores called him back.

“Are you sure you’re okay? That was a strange message you left,” she said.

“You know me, I’m always cool,” said Mickey.

Dolores laughed. “Yeah, I know you. That’s why I called.”

This wasn’t a put-down. Dolores had been instantly attracted to Mickey when they first met. He was almost famous by then, which gave him a certain bravado around beautiful women. Before that, a tall, willowy brunette like her would have been way out of his league. Dolores liked his boldness during their courtship, and for a long time afterward.

“What makes you think Larry’s watching over you from Heaven?” she asked.

“I dunno,” Mickey said evasively. “I was in a strange mood. Maybe it was because of the way he died, all alone with nobody around.”

Dolores knew about his father’s death, but she lived in Connecticut now. She hadn’t been able to come to the funeral on such short notice.

“Mickey, I don’t want to get into a whole thing with you,” she said. “But you don’t even believe in an afterlife. You don’t go to church. You’re the prototype for ‘Life sucks, and then you die.’ If you think Larry is watching over you, something has happened.”

“Not really.”

“Truth?”

“Okay, okay.” Mickey took a deep breath. “I think Larry came to me after he died. He had a message for me.”

“Really?”

“You think I’m nuts.”

“Maybe.”

Dolores said this in an even tone, as if the situation could go one way or the other. She had always been extremely reasonable. “What was the message?”

“God is laughing.”

A pause. Mickey had no idea what was running through her mind. “What does that mean?” Dolores asked.

“It means that everything’s okay. Larry wants the human race to know that we worry too much.”

“That’s nice. But since when does dying make you smart all of a sudden?”

Was this Dolores being reasonable or trying to be funny? Mickey wanted to let the whole thing go. But now that he had opened up to someone, he couldn’t stop.

“Larry really got to me,” he said. “I mean, God has always been a scary bastard. I figured that out when I was a kid. Maybe he doesn’t create all the terrible things in the world, but he doesn’t lift a finger to stop them.”

“I don’t see it that way,” said Dolores. “Not that you ever asked me.”

Which was true. It had never occurred to Mickey that she had any interest in God, any more than he did.

“How do you see it?” he asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m trying to tell you that I’m really thinking things over.”

Something in his tone—a hint of candor, a rare show of vulnerability—made Dolores go on. “I think the world had a chance to be perfect, but then we blew it. We’re living in the crap of all our past mistakes. The garbage has piled up so high we can’t see over it. We did the crime, now we’re doing the time.”

Mickey was dismayed to hear this. “I had no idea you were so bummed out,” he said.

“I’m not. I’m a realist. I haven’t believed in Adam and Eve since I was sixteen, and I don’t blame anything on the Devil. That’s not the point, though, is it? A fallen world would have hit bottom by now. We just keep falling. But for some reason I keep thinking maybe we’ve still got a chance.”

“You honestly believe that?”

He could feel her hesitation at the other end. “Mickey, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you.”

“Why not?”

“You really want to know?”

“Absolutely.”

Dolores sounded very sober now. “You’re a comedian, and comedians tend to be ruthless. Anything for a laugh. I never know when you might put me down. So I decided a long time ago to keep the really private stuff to myself.”

Mickey wanted to remind her about the idyllic few years they had had together. Before he could open his mouth, his mind flashed on Dolores writing in her journal and shutting it the minute Mickey came into the room. Dolores donating a thousand dollars to Mother Teresa’s orphanage in India, and Mickey reminding her that she was spending his money. Dolores talking about Kabbalah and the look on her face when Mickey teased her about it in front of their friends.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” he said, feebly.

“It’s all behind us now, Mickey. It’s okay.” Dolores’s tone softened. “Sounds like you’re asking yourself some tough questions. Maybe you’re even changing, Mickey.”

They chatted for a few more minutes. After Dolores hung up, Mickey sat back. He could have sunk into a major depression then and there, but the doorbell rang. Mickey jumped up to answer it, grateful for the distraction. When he opened the door, he found Francisco on the doorstep.

“You look shell-shocked,” Francisco remarked. He stepped inside without being invited.

“My ex,” Mickey mumbled.

“She always saw through you. That was a good thing, only you didn’t see it that way.” Francisco sounded casual; he didn’t wait for a reaction. “You have the second riddle?”

“I threw it away. It bothered me.”

Francisco shrugged. “I brought a copy. So, it offended you?”

“It felt like some kind of demand for hush money. How else should I feel?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

Francisco pulled out a piece of paper from his cargo pants. He wore the same outfit every time, khaki pants and a blue work shirt. It made him look austere, the way a monk would look if he cast off his robes.

He read aloud.

I’m keeping your secret, you’re paying my price
You know if you don’t, I’ll stop being nice

Francisco looked up. “Your secret is that you think you’re nothing, a nobody.” He went back to reading.

Protection is worth it, wouldn’t you say?
Life is so empty when you don’t get your way

Who am I?

“Protection isn’t hush money in this case,” said Francisco. “It’s your defenses, the walls you live behind.”

“I don’t feel too protected right this minute,” Mickey grumbled. He hadn’t shaken off what Dolores had said to him, and now Francisco was back.

The tall man refolded the riddle and handed it to Mickey. “I put the answer on the back, in case you’re interested.”

Mickey turned the slip of paper over and read a single word: “Ego.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “But before you explain anything, let’s get out of here.”

“Fine. There’s someplace I need to take you anyway,” said Francisco.

Mickey didn’t pretend that this was good news, but he led the way down to the garage. In a minute they were in the Escalade, heading down the Coast Highway.

“Yesterday’s riddle was about fear, today’s is about ego,” said Francisco. “Ask yourself, why would people choose to be afraid? Fear makes the world feel scary and unsafe. If that’s only an illusion, why hold on to it?”

“I don’t know.”

Francisco tapped the shirt pocket where Mickey had put the piece of paper. “Ego. Your ego makes believe that you are in control, that you will get what you want. After a while, your fear is put out of your mind. You have a self-image to keep up, after all. You need other people to believe in you. There’s money, status, possessions, and a family to acquire. As long as ego keeps holding out the carrot and creating constant drama, you never have to face what lies below the surface.”

“Not everybody has a big ego,” Mickey protested. He assumed that Francisco had been referring to him.

Francisco shook his head. “It’s not a matter of whether your ego is inflated or not. We need a demonstration. That’s where we’re heading.”

There was nothing more to say for the next few miles. Francisco asked Mickey to turn off the highway at Santa Monica, where they parked in a municipal lot. Then he walked them over to a nearby pedestrian mall.

“Okay,” Francisco said. “I want you to go up to people and tell them a joke. That’s your specialty, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“That’s all?” Mickey said warily.

“That’s all.”

Mickey offered no resistance. He spotted a thirty-something woman in expensive sunglasses. She was window-shopping and she looked approachable. Mickey walked up to her.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m telling free jokes today to cheer people up. Want to hear one?”

The woman was a little startled, but she said yes.

Mickey let his mind toss out a joke at random. “A man goes to his doctor for a rectal exam. The doctor says, ‘That’s strange. You have a strawberry up your ass. But don’t worry. I have cream for that.’”

The woman in the sunglasses screwed up her face. “That’s gross,” she said. She started to back away.

“Wait,” said Mickey, but she had turned away and quickly crossed the street. He was stunned. That was an awful joke. Why had he come up with it?

Twenty feet away Francisco nodded encouragement. “Find someone else,” he said.

Mickey looked around. An older couple was heading toward him. They looked easygoing, so he approached.

“I’d like to tell you a joke,” he said.

They were flustered. “Are we on TV?” the woman asked, gazing around.

“No, why?”

“We know who you are. You’re famous,” the man said. “Why would you talk to us?”

Mickey felt a surge of confidence. “It’s okay, folks. I just feel like telling a joke,” he said. “And I’d be glad to sign an autograph afterwards.”

The woman was smiling now, feeling reassured. “What a treat,” she said. She started rummaging in her purse for a pen and paper.

“Great. This is just for you,” said Mickey. “What do you get when you cross a mouse and a lion? A mouse that nobody picks on.”

The couple had been smiling with anticipation. Now the smiles gave way to embarrassed disappointment.

“Wait,” Mickey said hurriedly. “That was just a test.”

The couple looked hopeful again. Mickey felt sweat under his armpits. He flipped through his mental index.

What’s red and not there? No tomatoes.

A pun is its own reword.

What did the finger say to the thumb? I’m in glove with you.

Where was this garbage coming from? “Just hold on,” Mickey said. He forced his mind to think.

How does the man in the moon get a haircut? Eclipse it.

What do you call two guys fighting over a prostitute? Tug of whore.

Mickey felt dazed. He saw the woman holding out a pen and paper. “We don’t mind,” she said. “Just your autograph will be fine.”

“No, no,” Mickey cried. “I have one now, a really good one.” He felt immensely relieved. Whatever his mind had been doing to him, now it was back on track.

“What’s big and yellow and lies on its back? A dead school bus.”

The man was starting to get angry. “You’ve got a microphone hidden somewhere. You’re trying to make us look like fools,” he accused.

Mickey felt panicky. “Not at all,” he said.

The man cut him short. “I’ve seen those programs. Thank you very much. We’re not interested.”

He seized his wife’s arm and pulled her away. She took one last look over her shoulder. Mickey could read pity in her eyes.

Francisco had walked up. “How did that feel?” he said.

Mickey whirled on him in a rage. “Like crap. How do you think it felt? You did this to me, didn’t you?”

Francisco opened his hands innocently. “I was just standing here.”

Mickey wanted to blast him, but a wave of humiliation washed over him.

“I’m dying out here,” he moaned. “This is a disaster.”

His whole livelihood depended on his wits. Mickey closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He knew exactly where to go to get his material.

Why did the cookie cry? Because his mother was a wafer so long.

How do you turn soup into gold? Add twenty-four carrots.

Oh my God. He felt physically sick.

“Pull yourself together,” said Francisco.

Mickey glanced at him. Francisco didn’t seem to be smirking or enjoying himself at Mickey’s expense. Mickey took a couple of deep breaths until the feeling of being stuck inside a nightmare started to fade.

“What were you trying to teach me?” he said.

“Your ego only feels good when you’re on. When you’re clicking, you’re alive. I wanted you to feel what it’s like to be off.”

“I don’t want to be off,” Mickey protested.

“I know. It’s in the riddle.” Francisco recited the last two lines again.

Protection is worth it, wouldn’t you say?

Life is so empty when you don’t get your way

“Ego has trapped you in a vicious circle,” he explained. “It feeds you what you want, it keeps you moving from one desire to the next. But ego’s game is like a leaky boat. You’re only floating if you bail faster than the boat is sinking. So it goes from birth to death. Every day something new to chase after. In your case, the big allure is approval. The more you get, the more you want. Your idea of success is an unending flow of other people liking you.”

“So?”

“So God forbid you should stop playing the ego’s game. Then what? You’d be terrified. In the quiet of your mind the gears would stop racing. A voice would rise from the darkness, and it would whisper in your ear, ‘Nobody cares who you are. You’re nothing.’”

“Maybe I am nothing,” Mickey said mournfully. “You saw me back there.”

“That’s your truth right now,” said Francisco. “But there’s another truth. A better one.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re not nothing. In fact, you are everything. Literally. If you could stop being on all the time, your being would expand until it filled the universe. I know that sounds unbelievable. Are you up for another demonstration?”

Mickey nodded. They walked away from the pedestrian mall, and after a moment he said, “I told my ex I was starting to ask myself some questions.”

“Did she believe you?”

“She seemed to think I still had lots of work to do.”

“Don’t expect anyone else to see what’s going on inside you,” Francisco warned. “The process is private, yet it happens the same way every time.”

“Which is how?”

“When the pain of being the same becomes greater than the pain of being different, you change.”

Francisco smiled, and for a fleeting instant Mickey saw a face behind the stranger’s: Larry. His father was still watching him. He wasn’t in heaven yet. “They” were allowing him to connect with his son a little longer.

A moment later his glimpse of Larry was gone. Francisco was leading them back to the parking lot to the car. Mickey got behind the wheel.

“Where to now?” he said.

“We need a specialty store, one that carries women’s clothes.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” Mickey said. “There are women’s stores on every corner.”

Francisco shook his head. “Not that carry my size.”

Mickey stopped asking questions. He turned the key in the ignition, and the big Cadillac roared to life.