At the Oceana Apartments, he lives in a three-room box. A television sits in the corner of the living room, and on it stands his honorary Oscar. He receives it in 1961 for his “creative pioneering in the field of comedy.” Danny Kaye presents the award.
By then, Babe has been dead for four years.
He does not attend the ceremony. He pleads illness, although this is only partly true. He cannot take to the stage without Babe.
On the wall by his desk is a framed photograph of Babe and him together. It is one of his favorites. Along with the Oscar, it is the only indication that he has ever been in show business.
That he was formerly in pictures.
Sometimes he is embarrassed at his decision to situate the Oscar so prominently. He fears ostentation. He does not wish to be thought of as boastful.
Ida tells him not to be so silly. Babe would have displayed his Oscar, Ida says.
This is beyond dispute. Babe would have delighted in it.
Here is the truth, he thinks: Babe would have thrived without him, but he could not have thrived without Babe. Babe gave him his identity. Babe offered him purpose.
The apartment is silent. Ida is taking a constitutional. It is at these times that he talks to Babe. He comes up with gags, bits of business. He explains them to Babe, detailing how they should be performed, listening, cogitating the response, adjusting, finessing.
He stands.
He runs through the act, speaking aloud his lines.
He closes his eyes, and he is no longer alone.