PHILLIP LOPATE DID not want to be a judge.
But he had signed a contract when he agreed to play the part of a general in his most recent film, Invasion Force. This contract had two signatures on every page except the last, which had six signatures on it. In this contract he had promised not just to learn his lines and act in the movie, but to do “all things possible” to promote it afterward.
So if the film company told him to go to a shopping mall and draw marbles out of a barrel for a contest, he had to go. If they told him to get up at four in the morning to appear on a TV talk show, he had no choice but to do it. And if they told him he had to fly to Toronto in the middle of a snowstorm and judge some dumb contest for Perfecto Kiddo (whatever that was), he had to do as he was told. And so he had packed his bag and gone to Toronto and tried to be pleasant to everyone.
But it was so hard to be pleasant when the very idea of the contest made him want to throw up.
The representatives of the Perfecto Company who had met him at the hotel were humorless and self-important. They showed him a tape of the Perfecto Kiddo commercials before they showed him to his room. He hated the commercials. They made his skin crawl.
Finally, he had escaped from the Perfecto executives and stepped into an elevator full of kids who reeked of soap, shampoo, and perfume. They were Perfecto Kiddos and he was embarrassed to be a part of their exploitation.
Phillip Lopate had kids of his own, a boy and a girl who were now grown up. He liked kids, the way they are in real life. But this bunch … it was hard for him to even look at them without his feelings showing in his face.
And so he took his place on the judges’ podium feeling nauseous. He pretended to make notes, but all he was doing was making doodles on his pad, and that was what he was occupied with when he first noticed Sam Kellow walking into the hall.
Phillip Lopate was an actor, and actors are always thinking about different walks for when they need to use them in their acting. It didn’t take the old movie star long to figure out why the kid walked the way he did—his shoes were tight. Also his jacket was too small—it affected how he swung his arms.
He peeked sideways at the scorecards of his fellow judges. The woman with all that jewelry (was her name Delia or Deborah? he forgot) had already marked a minus two next to boy number thirty-two. This made Phillip Lopate like boy number thirty-two. He was interesting to watch.
He watched Sam Kellow try to dance. He saw two things—that he had not danced before, but also that he had some talent. He liked his attitude. He gave him three out of three for dancing. He was the chief judge; he could do it if he wanted to.
He watched the girl. The girl was nice to the boy and the actor liked her because of it. He thought about how grown-ups had pushed these kids into this situation and he did not like the grown-ups for doing that. If there had been a score for grown-ups, it would have been a minus. He gave the girl three out of three for her attitude. He was starting to have a good time.
He was supposed to watch all the children, of course, but he found that rather painful to do. He had two judges, both very serious product managers from the Perfecto Company, one on either side of him, and these two earnest folk were going to tell him who should win, according to their scoring.
He would have preferred to have been at La Fenice lunching with his grown-up son. But he was obliged to stay, and so he got his pleasure from watching Sam Kellow.
When the spaghetti comet flew across the air, the chief judge laughed out loud, right into his microphone. “Ha-ha!” He had not meant to, but he was so astonished, so shocked, so pleased, really—that was the truth—to see someone do the sort of thing he would have liked to do himself.
Have you ever heard Phillip Lopate’s voice? It’s big and deep and when he laughed at Sam Kellow into his microphone, the laugh boomed out across the ballroom, as loud as rolling thunder.
He saw Sam look at him. He saw his hurt face. He was so sorry he had laughed. He felt his embarrassment. He would have done anything to take that laugh back.
Then there was a great commotion as the child’s parents ran across the floor. Phillip Lopate thought, They’re upset he’s not going to win. He shook his big lion’s mane and scowled.
And yet when he looked at the parents, he could not dislike them. He liked how they hugged their boy, how they smiled and laughed and wept.
Beside him Deborah (or was it Deidre?) sniffed. “That’s not Wilfred,” she said. “He’s number thirty-two but he’s not Wilfred Mifflin.”
“Those are not Wilfred Mifflin’s parents,” said the other judge. “What will I do? They’re impostors.”
“Give me your scores,” said Phillip Lopate.
They both looked at him and hesitated.
“I am the chief judge,” said the actor. He was already acting. He was speaking like the army commander in Invasion Force.
“Yes, sir,” said the judge in the blue suit.
“Give me your scores,” said Phillip Lopate. He was the army commander still. “And I will make my decision.”
“Your decision?” asked the judge with the gold jewelry.
“I am the chief judge,” said Phillip Lopate. “Isn’t that what you told me? You make your recommendation to me. But I am the one who makes the final decision.”
“Yes, but it is customary for the chief judge to endorse our recommendations.”
“It is customary for me,” the actor said, using a line he had had to learn for Invasion Force, “it is customary for me to do things my way.”
“Yes, sir,” said the judges.
Phillip Lopate rose to his feet. Suddenly he was feeling very good.
“Perfecto Boy thirty-two,” he called, “Perfecto Girl thirty-two, present yourselves.”