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CALLING ALL CLASS CLOWNS!
CLOSET COMICS
16 YEARS OLD OR YOUNGER
Are you always ready with a punch line?
Do you tell a great joke?
Can you leave ’em laughing?
JOIN US ON NOV. 16
AT THE BALSAM AUDITORIUM IN CHICAGO AS WE SEARCH FOR
A Live Televised Appearance on Comedy Planet
The feeling that came over Max was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. This was it— his destiny, pinpointed by a single guided missile of chocolate and saliva. He reached out a trembling hand.
Big Byrd patted Max's shoulder. "Let it go, man. The custodians will clean it up."
"Not the chocolate!" Max exclaimed, tearing off an entry form. "The poster! The contest!"
Sydni gave the poster a disinterested once-over. "You know somebody who's going to enter?"
"Me!" Max almost bellowed. " I'm the funniest kid in America!" There was a lot of hemming and hawing. "Oh, come on! Who do you know who's funnier than me?"
"My cousin Cyril," Big said readily. "He once went down a bobsled run on a Frisbee."
"Is he under sixteen?" Max demanded.
"I don't think so. He drives a station wagon. And he has grandkids."
"Look, Max," said Sydni kindly. "It may be that everybody laughs at your jokes around here. But this kind of contest is going to attract kids from all over. And some of the teenagers are bound to be better than you."
"Besides," added Maude, "you think your mom's going to let you go to Chicago? Keep dreaming."
But that evening, for the very first time. Max performed his act in front of a live audience: Olivia and two of her friends, also age four.
Nobody laughed; one of them actually cried.
"I need practice if I'm going to get good enough to win the contest!" Max groaned aloud.
"What contest?" came his mother's voice from over his shoulder.
The thing about Ellen Plunkett was that she never paid full attention to anything or anybody. She was a devoted mom, but when she talked to you, she was always doing something else at the same time—folding laundry, cooking, tidying up, or dealing with her freelance P.R. clients. It was an annoying trait, but it had its advantages. Sometimes she was so distracted that it was possible to blow something right by her.
Today was not one of those times.
"Chicago? That's four hours away!"
"But, Mom," Max pleaded. "This is my big chance! I may never get another one."
She started to load the dishwasher. "You're eleven years old, Maxie. You'll get a hundred big
chances in a dozen different careers. I guarantee you're not going to be a comedian."
Okay, that was a dead end, but there was still Dad. Max would be going to his father's house tomorrow. His parents shared joint custody—"One joint one week, another joint the next," as Max put it. It was a friendly arrangement. His parents lived only a few blocks apart in the same school district. So Max could change homes on a weekly basis without too much disruption to his life.
He never went straight to his father's house. On Friday afternoons, he would go from school to the small veterinary practice Dr. Jack Carmody ran in town. There he would do his homework while his father finished up the afternoon appointments.
Max never minded the waiting. The office was a terrific place for a comedian to get ideas. Pet owners somehow seemed to be a little more colorful than ordinary people. Like Yoshi Atako, who might have been fat, but you couldn't tell, because he always had an eleven-foot python, Hector, wrapped around his torso. To Max, he looked like a walking pile of tires. Or Mrs. Kaperzinski, who was positive her parrot, Tweedle, was sick, because the bird said so. In a nifty piece of detective work. Dr. Carmody
figured out that "Oh, my aching back!" was just the bird repeating what Mrs. Kaperzinski told anybody who would listen. Tweedle was fine; Mrs. Kaperzinski needed a good chiropractor.
The door to the examining room opened, and out stepped Dr. Carmody, escorting Mrs. Kaperzinski and Tweedle.
"It's impossible for a bird to have carpal tunnel syndrome," the vet was explaining to Mrs. K. "If you stop talking about your wrist, he won't hear it, and he won't say it."
He turned to his son. "Max, have you been doing your comedy routine in the waiting room?"
Max was surprised. "What makes you say that?"
Tweedle squawked. "Aaak! What's the deal with librarians?"
Max looked sheepish. "I need to perform for an audience, Dad. Mom signed me up for this comedy contest in Chicago, and I have to get my act in shape." It would be easier to get Dad on board if he thought Mom was already a yes.
Dr. Carmody was dubious. "Your mother's taking you to Chicago?"
"It's a national contest," Max went on. "Kids are coming from all over to do stand-up. First prize is a
thousand bucks and a guest spot on Comedy Planet. What a break that would be!"
"Well, I have to assume Mom knows what she's doing," Dr. Carmody mused skeptically.
Perfect thought Max. Dad was a go. That left just Mom. She was a hard case, but she had an Achilles' heel.
Back with Mom and Olivia the next week, Max waited until Mario called in from the road.
Mario Plunkett was a long-distance truck driver. Max called him "the biggest load of rotting cabbages on eighteen wheels." Mario phoned every night to check in with his wife and sing Olivia her bedtime song. He always asked to speak to Max too, which kind of drove Max crazy. Mario was Olivia's dad, not his.
Besides, the guy was so boring! The calls were a never-ending travelogue of places he passed on his routes: milestones, hometowns of celebrities, the anchovy capital of the Midwest, the world's largest Easter egg.
"Guess what?" Mom exclaimed, trying to share the earpiece with her daughter. "Daddy's calling from Coldwater, Ohio, where the manure spreader was invented!"
Max usually made a point of refusing to take the phone, out of loyalty to his Dad.
Ellen Plunkett was adept at covering up. "Not tonight, dear. Max is upstairs doing his homework. ..."
"I'll say hi," Max volunteered, grabbing the receiver. "How's it going, Mario? What was for dinner tonight? Roadkill again?"
Mario laughed his head off, which he would have done even if Max had given him a weather report. Finally, he managed, "So how are you, kiddo? Did you have a good week with your old man?" Mario never missed a chance to ask about Dr. Carmody, which almost made Max feel guilty about disliking the guy.
"Pretty good." Max dropped his voice so his mother, who had returned to some paperwork, wouldn't hear. "Dad's going to take me to Chicago so I can enter this comedy contest for kids."
"That's fantastic, Max!" Mario exclaimed. "You're going to knock 'em dead! Any chance Mom, Livy, and I could go too? Man, it would be great to watch you on a real stage!"
"To be honest," Max said carefully, "Mom wasn't thrilled with the idea when I first told her about it."
"You let me talk to her," his stepfather promised. "This is important! It could be your big chance!"
Max grimaced. He should have been smiling; Mario never let him down. But accepting favors from him always made Max feel a little unfaithful to his Dad.
"Hey," said Mario. "The Voles have a big home stand coming up. What do you say—let's try to catch a game."
The Tri-County Voles were Bartonville's ice-hockey team. They played in some subbasement minor league and still managed to own last place despite pathetic competition. A season-ticket holder and number-one fan, Mario was always bugging Max to go with him.
"I don't know," mumbled Max. "Middle school is pretty tough. Major homework."
"There's a Thursday night matchup with the Centerville Storm," Mario wheedled. "It should be a dogfight!"
"I'm not really into hockey," Max said lamely.
It was a lie. The truth was that if Jack Carmody had wanted to take him to see the Voles, Max would have put up with the clumsy play, the uncomfortable bleachers, and the ancient Zamboni that filled
the rink with smoke every time it came out to clean the ice.
One thing about Mario: he was always gracious in defeat. "Well do it another time."
"I should probably get going," Max began.
"Tell me a joke first."
"Aw, Mario, I don't feel like it."
"Come on. I miss you guys."
Max sighed. "Did you hear about the sewer cleaner who put Odor-Eaters in his shoes? He took one step and disappeared."
Mario howled.