The test of a real comedian is whether you laugh at him before he opens his mouth.
—George Jean Nathan
It’s hard for people to realize that famous people are often shy. They are hiding on stage. Ridiculous? Think about it. Makeup. Disguise. Costumes. “Shy” does not mean “lack of ego.”
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The show went about as well as could be expected. It was full—Charles Jay Brown had done a good job—but it was largely full of little old ladies who would have applauded anything. They were there to see Brenda Woolley, of course, and responded cheerfully enough when she sailed out to introduce the show. It wasn’t that she lacked talent, it was just that she behaved as though it wasn’t absolutely necessary in her case. That it was somehow beneath her, that by just being there they were somehow blessed. What was so irritating to Alex, who watched every excruciating moment on the monitor, was that she condescended to her audience, confident in their adulation. It was self-satisfaction as an art form. The Goddess as supreme being, doing bugger all. She told a few polite jokes rather poorly, sang a medley of her hit “I’d Cross the Universe for You, My Dah-ling,” threatened to sing more later, and was suddenly gone. “Jeez,” said Alex disgustedly, “she really is a waste of space.” Both Alex and Lewis were nervous before a show, and this night more than most. They both knew this was important. The talent scouts would be watching. Alex paced the room sighing heavily, occasionally stopping to stare at himself closely in the mirror. Lewis sat in the bath reading a magazine, pretending it wasn’t happening. Then he slowly and meticulously got dressed, performing strange vocal exercises.
“Ma-na-la, mor-nor-lor, mee-nee-lee, may-nay-lay,” he repeated loudly. An irritating mantra for the nervous Alex, whom he studiously ignored. Only when they were about “to walk the fifteen yards” from the wings into the spotlight center stage, did he relax and turn to Alex.
“Okay, pal,” he said, “let’s do it,” and they smiled and nodded and stepped out to face the monster.
In the event, the crowd was good. From the wings they saw Katy Wallace slip into a vacant box where she was joined by an elegant white-haired bearded man who watched the entertainment impassively. It wasn’t much of a show, but it was slickly produced and the crowd loved it. The keynote, as with all Brenda Woolley shows, was tacky. For example Alex and Lewis followed an act called Einstein in Hollywood, an unspeakable flying dance routine “inspired by” (don’t you love that as a program note?) Einstein’s celebrated visit to Hollywood in 1954. At the height of his worldwide fame Einstein was treated to lavish displays of entertainment on the Paramount lot. Helpless to understand the strange mixture of showgirls, moguls, and schlock, he turned to Charlie Chaplin and asked, “What does all this mean?”
“Nothing,” replied Chaplin.
This historical moment had been turned into a musical epic, with girls in flimsy costumes floating about yodeling “E=MC²” accompanied by thirty dancers dressed as colored balls depicting molecules. Grinning boys and girls in big round costumes representing electrons, protons, and neutrons frolicked about in various interlocked positions exemplifying hydrogen and carbon atoms.
First thing Alex said as he hit the stage was “Boy, I haven’t seen such big balls bouncing around in space since Superman left town.” He got his laugh, but it threw Lewis, who had been anxious about smut and had asked him to keep it clean. To make matters worse, sensing Lewis’s panic, he went off on a long riff about Einstein and inadvertently used the ‘F’ word. He pranced about the stage singing, “E equals MC squared, as if the fuck you cared.” It was a shocker for the LOLs. Lewis suddenly seemed to wake up and take control. He dismissed Alex from the stage. He became the outraged authority figure and pointed Alex to the wings. Alex went with it. He cowered and behaved like a guilty ten-year-old. He went further. He became a chimp. The more Lewis remonstrated with him, the more he adopted that strange bent-legged chimpanzee waddle. He ran round the stage squatting with his knees sticking out. He swung on the curtain and thumbed his nose at Lewis. He turned his backside on him and beat a tattoo on his buttocks. The audience loved it. When Lewis ran backstage to ask for assistance, Alex jumped into the orchestra pit and monkeyed around with the drums, creating chaos. He pretended to pee on the bandleader, which brought a squeal of delight from the little old ladies. Lewis jumped down into the pit to try and catch him, and Alex skipped over the rail into the audience itself. There were howls of delight and screams from the front row. He kissed a tall blond lady and slapped her husband, grabbed a banana from somewhere and improvised strange things with it. Lewis ran to one of the side exits and summoned a couple of guards. As Alex ran round the auditorium, igniting laughter wherever he went, the security guards pursued him. It was chaos, it was pandemonium, and it was, of course, all perfectly rehearsed.
“Ars est celare artem,” said Carlton, watching in enjoyment from the wings.
“You what?” said a gum-chewing chorus girl.
“The art is in concealing the art,” said Carlton. “It’s Latin.”
“You from Latin America?” she asked.
“Did I ever tell you about my theory of comedy?” he said.
She stopped chewing for a moment.
“Carlton, you’re a tin man. You’re built like a hunk, but you can be switched off. If they’d remembered to attach a vibrator, you’d be perfect.”
“Don’t say that,” said Carlton, offended.
The audience applauded as Alex was finally chased back onto the stage to face a very stern Lewis. He reverted to the ten-year-old and was told to apologize to the audience, and then to the band, which to much mirth he refused. Lewis, playing the stern, reproving father, insisted he shake the hand of the bandleader. He reluctantly reached for it and shook it. Then he snatched the entire arm off the bandleader and ran triumphantly round the stage with it. There was a gasp of horror. The audience was for a moment genuinely shocked, but as Alex continued to play with the arm, they soon realized it was animatronic, controlled from the wings by Carlton, and laughed at their own shock. Alex began to improvise with the severed arm, doing strange and nasty things with it before Lewis seemed to get bored and chased him offstage. The applause as they ran off was good. But Lewis was furious.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“Why’d you stop me? It was going well.”
“You had to say something, didn’t you. What’s with the Einstein bit?”
“I saw you panic. I thought you’d dried. I just said the first thing that came into my head.”
“It went very well,” said Carlton.
“Muscroft and Ashby,” yelled the MC, and they ran on again and took another bow. The applause was quite warm.
“You know, I think we might have done it,” ventured Alex, seeking a way back to Lewis.
“Yeah, right.” He stomped off towards the dressing room.
“Why’s he so pissed?” asked Carlton.
“He’s a perfectionist,” said Alex. “He’s just mad at himself for losing control there.”
“But you did great,” said Carlton. “They loved you.”
“Yeah. They did.” He didn’t sound all that convinced. He frowned and stared at his shoes. When he looked up, Katy Wallace was making her way towards him, looking fabulous in a simple tight black dress. She was smiling broadly.
“That was great,” said Katy, “really great. I haven’t laughed like that in months.”
“Really?” said Alex.
“Great job,” she said. “I thought it went really well and so did Emil.” She was joined by the white-haired man he had glimpsed in the box. He was very tall and thin, with a trim white naval beard. His white hair rose firmly out of his scalp like the bristles in a hairbrush. He looked like someone from the past, an old Edwardian naval officer, polite, formal, and stiff.
“That was very funny indeed,” he said without smiling.
“Alex, this is Mr. Keppler.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Alex.
“Really very funny,” he repeated.
“Oh, we had fun out there,” said Alex. “I just wanted to play with them, prod them, and wake them up. I had to mess with their heads after the opening.”
“After the what?” asked Keppler.
“Well, you know, it is the Brenda Woolley show after all.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow you. What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, she could pass through a talent detector without registering a blip.”
Something in his head was warning him. Something was screaming, No, no, go back.
“You think she is untalented?” asked Keppler politely.
“I think her talent is like antimatter. No one can see it, no one can measure it, who knows if it’s really there?”
“Interesting,” said Keppler. There was a slight pause. Katy seemed to be examining her shoes. Carlton was looking at him, bug-eyed in disbelief.
“Excuse me,” said Keppler after a moment, “I must go and check on something.” He gave a brief formal nod and headed backstage.
Katy looked at Alex, gave a half smile, shrugged, and then turned after Keppler.
“Emil,” he heard her call after him.
Carlton was still staring at him.
“What? What is it?” said Alex.
“You do know about Brenda Woolley?”
“What?”
“She’s his wife.”