Best to Laugh: A Novel (6 page)

9

“
L
OOK
AT
MY
GOOSEFLESH!”
said the woman next to me, offering for view her textured forearm.

“Yes, it is cool in here,” said Chip, the freckled game show coordinator. “Research shows it keeps the energy up.”

“If we freeze to death,” said a man behind me, “won’t that bring the energy down?”

“All right, people,” said Chip, “let’s try to forget about the temperature. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

He led the small group of contestants into a room furnished like a den with vending machines.

“This is the greenroom. This is where you’ll take your breaks and have lunch. If you need to use the ladies’ or men’s rooms, Abby here will escort you.”

A young woman with an earnest overbite said, “You really can’t do anything outside this room without me tagging along!”

The man who’d complained about freezing to death nodded. “It’s because of that big scandal back in the ’
50
s. When they fed that one guy all the answers ahead of time.”

“Yes,” said Chip quickly. “We are scrupulous about avoiding scandal. Now, everyone, please find your name tags on the table and prepare yourself to be
Word Wise
!”

With that cheerful exhortation, he left the room, leaving Abby alone to stave off scandal.

After we contestants helped ourselves to beverages, we sat at a big oval table and exchanged mini-biographies. Dorothy from Iowa, the woman who’d earlier shown me her goose bumps, was an avid sweepstakes player and was listing the prizes she had won (a boat, a set of real leather luggage, a year’s supply of BlockOChoco bars) when Chip reemerged, outfitted with a headset and a clipboard.

“All right, people, it’s show time. Up on the docket are Jerry and Carrie.” His strictly business contestant-coordinator persona was offset by
a surprised smile. “Hey, rhyming contestants. Anyway, Jerry and Carrie, follow me. Abby will take care of the rest of you.”

Herded together into a tight group, my (stifled) impulse was to moo as we followed Abby through the studio and into the front row of the bleachers, where a small audience was assembled. We had been advised not to acknowledge any friends or relatives—“We can’t risk any passing of signals”—and every contestant took meticulous care not to look up and wave, jeopardizing their eligibility.

“Isn’t this thrilling?” whispered Dorothy, sitting to my left. I nodded, and Tina, the fifth grade teacher who was at my right, leaned forward, her hands clutched under her chin.

“The set looks so glamorous!”

It was shiny
,
that’s for sure. On a silver lamé curtained backdrop, metallic letters spelled out
Word Wise!
The host’s podium was also silver, and flanked by silver cubes at which the contestants were sitting; Jerry looking relaxed and Carrie looking terrified.

“I hope she doesn’t lose her lunch,” said Leon, a pharmaceutical salesman from Santa Ana.

As cameramen and people with clipboards and headsets positioned themselves, a man with a lopsided afro raced toward us, clapping his hands.

“Hey, everybody, I’m Jimmy Jay, the show announcer as well as the guy who’s going to warm you up!”

His half-dozen so-so jokes about the Flying Wallendas, the Susan B. Anthony dollar, and Love Canal failed to bring up my temperature, but when he asked, “Are you warm yet?” the crowd responded with a hale “Yeah!”

“Good,” he said as a camera rolled into position. “Because now it’s time to introduce today’s celebrity game players. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Filo Nuala!”

A dark-skinned man who could nudge aside an ox with his shoulders emerged from behind the silver curtain.

“Filo Nuala!” whispered Bob, a blinds and drapery installer. “Holy shit!”

Filo Nuala was a quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams. I knew this not as a fan but as a person with intact senses. You couldn’t watch TV, read the newspaper, or listen to the radio without witnessing the American Samoan exhibiting his exploits on the gridiron, hosting a big charity event, or pitching this shaving cream or that breakfast cereal.

Pressing a big hand against his tie, the man sat down at his cube, dwarfing it.

“And joining last year’s MVP is this year’s Emmy-award winning actress Precia Doyle!”

Now I was getting excited. Precia Doyle was an actress who’d made a career of playing British aristocrats on lots of high-brow miniseries, several of which I had watched through the years with my grandmother.

“She’s so tiny!” whispered Dorothy.

After Precia offered a funny little curtsy to Filo Nuala, Jimmy Jay said, “And now, the man who makes
Word Wise
the preferred game show of Mensa members, our host, Yancey Rogan!”

The show’s jazzy theme music came on, and a tall, gangly guy in a checkered sport coat loped onto the set, his puffy shag as unmoving as plastic.

“Thanks, Jimmy Jay,” he said and looking into a camera that had glided to a stop in front of him, he pointed his finger and said, “Now let’s play
Word Wise
!”

It was a tease; first Yancey Rogan had to honor the game show law of engaging in banter before the game playing began, which meant chatting about football with Filo and plugging Precia’s upcoming miniseries about all the sexual and political intrigue in Queen Victoria’s court.

Next the contestants were introduced, and after Jerry told about his police work—“I’ve got a pretty quiet beat; seems I chase down more truants than bank robbers”—Carrie, still looking like she needed Dramamine, explained that she was a veterinarian’s assistant.

“So I imagine you get on-the-job training as to how to keep the wolves away,” said Yancey.

Carrie’s head bobbed in several directions so that you couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or disagreeing.

“All right, then,” said Yancey, smiling into the camera. “You’ve met our fabulous celebrities and our fabulous contestants—now let’s play
Word Wise
!”

I had spent the week watching the show; there wasn’t much to it, really; it was sort of like word volleyball, except they kept throwing in a new ball.

The game begins and one team is given a letter, say,
A.
A beep sounds, a light goes on and Yancey gives the celebrity a category of speech, say,
noun.
So the celebrity might answer, “Apple.” The play then goes to her
partner, and after another beep and light, Yancey gives the contestant another category of speech, say,
adjective.
He might respond with “Anxious.” Throughout the round, Yancey can change the category at any time and the players’ answers have to reflect that.

If a team misses an answer, if for instance the celebrity says, “annoyed,” and her category was still
noun,
the letter A and the remaining seconds go to the other team. When that time runs out, that team is given a new letter and a minute to play their full round. Whichever side racks up the most words at the final bell goes to the Big Dictionary. Occasionally a whistle blows, which means a speed round will be played and the winner of that wins a bonus prize—usually a trip.

“Filo and Jerry,” said Yancey, “your letter is E and Filo, your category is
adjective.
”

A beep sounded and a light on Filo’s cube went on.

“Empathetic.”

Another beep and Jerry’s cube lit up.

Yancey said, “
Verb.
”

“Enter,” said Jerry.

When Filo’s light blinked on, he said, “Egregious.”

Whoa, I thought. Here was a football player whose helmet actually protected something.

“Entertain,” said Jerry.

“Erroneous,” said Filo.

“Jerry,” said Yancey after the beep. “
Adjective.
”

“Erratic.”

Another beep.

“Filo,” said Yancey. “
Noun.
”

“Elephant.”

“Elk,” said Jerry.

A buzzer sounded.

“I’m sorry Jerry, your category was still
adjective.
” He turned to the women. “Precia, the letter is E, category is
adjective,
and there are still twenty seconds remaining on the clock. Go.”

Precia said, “Enormous.”

“Carrie,” said Yancey after the beep. “
Verb.
”

Carrie looked stunned, as if the light that flicked on her cube was a headlight and she was the proverbial deer, but just when I thought she was going to lurch out and crash into the windshield, she blurted, “Elapse!”

Precia nodded approvingly at her partner and when her light flashed on, she said, “Eminent.”

“Exit,” answered Carrie.

Beep.

“Precia,
noun.
”

“Existence.”

A lower buzzer blatted.

“Congratulations, ladies, you won the rest of your opponents’ round; now we’ll start your own. Carrie, the letter is J and your category is
verb.
”

The game continued until the final round, and Yancey told Filo his letter was N and his category
noun.

The light and Filo’s word arrived at the same time. “Nimbus.”

Beep.

“Jerry,” said Yancey. “
Adjective.
”

“Noisy.”

We were all sitting forward in our seats, taking everything in. In my mind, I shouted my own answers,
Nadir! Nullify! Nymph!
and imagined my fellow contestants were doing the same thing.

Filo Nuala, who played football in stadiums filled with raucous, beer-drinking fans, didn’t seem adversely affected by the respectful quiet of this tiny audience; he was focused and sharp, and it didn’t surprise me when he and Jerry won the game.

“Carrie, I’m afraid we’re going to have to say good-bye to you,” said Yancey. “But let’s let Jimmy Jay tell us what you’ll be taking home.”

“Yancey,” said Jimmy, standing in front of a display. “Today’s parting gifts include beautiful and unbreakable Melnor dishes—a place setting for six—along with a guarantee that when company comes over, the only thing you will break is bread! Also, Yancey, our lucky contestants will be taking home this beautiful Zirconian pendant and matching earrings by Gerral Jewelers, a case of delicious Rice Doodles, and this very timely clock radio, courtesy of K&H Electronics!”

B
Y
LATE
AFTERNOON,
there were only three contestants left in the stands and I was resigned to not being called that day when Chip came up to us during a commercial break and said, “Candy, you’re up.”

Those words had the effect of a blast of desert heat: I felt a deep flush and all saliva in my mouth evaporated.

As I walked toward the set, my legs turned to jelly, their bones to sponges. My heart, which had been running like a steady reliable Ford engine, now revved up like a Ferrari’s. My palms sprouted geysers and I wiped them on the sides of my skirt before I shook my partner Precia’s hand.

W
HEN
THE
RED
CAMERA
LIGHT
CAME
ON,
Yancey introduced me to the home audience and then asked, “So what do you do here in Hollywood, Candy?”

I hadn’t planned to say anything other than I was new in town and looking for work, but unplanned words tumbled out of my mouth.

“I’m Dooby Carlyle’s stunt double.”

Filo’s laugh was sharp and quick—Dooby Carlyle was his former 6’5” three-hundred-pound teammate who’d parlayed his fame on the field into a new career as a cowboy/detective in the hit action/thrillers
Rodeo Cop
and
Rodeo Cop II.

I relaxed in the laughter of the audience and the game began. My team, as the contender, got the first turn.

“Precia, your letter is G and your category is
adjective.
”

Beep. Her light went on.

“Gigantic.”

At my beep/light I said, “Gracious.”

“Gleeful.”

Beep.

“Candy,
verb,
” said Yancey.

My mind made a sharp turn. “Guarantee.”

Beep.

Yancey told Precia her new category was
noun.

“Gutter.”

Back to me. “Give.”

“Giant.”

The low buzzer blatted.

“Precia, I’m sorry, you already used the word ‘Gigantic.’”

One of the rules of
Word Wise
was that you couldn’t form a verb or adjective out of a noun already used, or vice versa.

Precia bumped the top of the console with her fist and whispered, “Sorry,” to me.

Filo and Dorothy were given our remaining time to finish the G round.

The football player gave “Gassy” and “Gamine” as adjectives and Dorothy “Galvanize” for a verb, but when her category switched to
noun
and she said, “Greek,” the buzzer rang.

“I’m sorry, Dorothy,
Word Wise
does not accept proper nouns.”

“Dagblast it,” said Dorothy. “I knew that.”

The rounds continued, and although Filo and Dorothy made a valiant effort with the letter U (“Umbrage” and “Umlaut” were two of Filo’s nouns), at the end of the play Precia and I had three more points, which meant I’d be back the next day as the returning champion.

Returning champion.
Imagine that.

10

I
T
WAS
PAST
FIVE
when I got home. I changed into my swimsuit and found Ed by the nearly deserted pool.

“Ah,
The Warren Commission Sham,
” I said, reading the title of the book resting on his Styrofoam cooler. “More light poolside entertainment.”

Ed didn’t answer.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” I said, situating myself on the chaise longue next to his. “And by the way, you’re peeling.”

“Where’ve you been all weekend?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“Oh, here, there,” I said casually. “Could be that I was on the ABC lot, taping
Word Wise.
”

Ed sprang up in his chair as if a bee had crawled up his swimming trunks.

“You were on
Word Wise
?” When I nodded, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come down and watched the taping!”

“I was going to, but then I got all superstitious. I didn’t want anyone who I knew to watch me if I lost.”

“And did you?”

“Eventually. But yesterday I won my first game, and this morning I went back as the returning champion and I won a grand total of four-thousand-seven-hundred dollars and a trip to Tahiti!”

Ed whooped, causing Robert X. Roberts to stir slightly under his
L.A. Times
Sunday magazine.

“Four-thousand-seven-hundred dollars and a trip to Tahiti—Candy, that’s great!”

My smile stretched earlobe to earlobe.

“Well,” I said, “it’s not the kind of money you won.”

“On my first game show, I only won three hundred and a microwave oven. So who were your partners?”

“Yesterday I had Precia Doyle—”

“I love Precia Doyle! Not only is she a good actress—she’s smart!”

“I’ll say. The other celebrity was Filo Nuala and—”

“—Filo Nuala, the football player? He’s like Superman, a Rhodes Scholar, all-American, goes to the Super Bowl his second year—”

“—he was pretty good at
Word Wise,
too, but I never got to be his partner. Today when I went back they had different celebrities.”

Ed chuckled and lacing his hands behind his head leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Candy, tell me everything.”

It was my pleasure.

I told him how my mind had scrambled while playing with Precia Doyle, how fast the lights and beeps and turns were, and how I struggled to remember whether I was supposed to name a noun, an adjective, or a verb. I told him how I had barely slept the night before, so excited I was to go back as returning champ, and that I had won my first game of the day with my new partner, Benjamin Parnell.

“Benjamin Parnell? He’s the dean of celebrity contestants—he’s been on game shows forever.”

T
HE
LATE
AFTERNOON
SUN
was losing its potency, and I blanketed myself with my towel.

“He was nice. I got to go up to the Big Dictionary with him.”

This was where the real money was earned. The celebrity sat facing his or her partner, behind whom loomed a big screen that looked like an open book, and on whose pages words lit up. The letter at play would be announced, and the celebrity had to give definitions—for instance, when Benjamin Parnell and I played, Yancey announced, “T—
noun.
”

A little bell rang and after clearing his throat, Benjamin Parnell said, “Call made by lumberjacks when chopping down—”

“Timber!” I said.

We sailed through nouns, verbs, and adjectives, but time ran out before we could get all the way to the last page of the dictionary; twice, Mr. Parnell’s definitions had been disqualified for using the root word, and once, I got stuck on his definitions, causing him to skip to the next page. But I had won fifteen hundred dollars, which wasn’t bad for two minutes of guessing.

It was when partnered with Sally Breel, star of
Sally in the Morning!
that I won the most money, and the trip to Tahiti in the bonus round.

“Sally Breel!” said Ed. “What was she like?”

“All business. No chitchat at all during the commercial breaks—
she’d sneak a cigarette or get her makeup touched up. And her face was weird—sort of frozen or something.”

Ed laughed. “You’re really not from here, are you? Sally Breel’s the queen of face-lifts.”

“But she isn’t even that old!”

“She’s at least sixty,” said Ed. “Which is a hundred-and-two in Hollywood years.”

Robert X. Roberts had shuffled off to his apartment and Billy Gray Green had fired up his blow dryer by the time I finished telling Ed all about
Word Wise.

“Here’s to you, kiddo,” he said in a fair imitation of Humphrey Bogart. “I’d take you out to celebrate, but I’ve got a date tonight.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Nope.” Standing up, Ed shook his towel. “She’s a stewardess.”

“Ooh la la.”

“Well, for just a little regional airline . . . but still.” Anchoring his towel with his chin, he folded it into a neat square. “Hey, what about tomorrow night? I’ll take you anywhere in the world you want to go—or at least anywhere in the greater L.A. basin.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I know just the place.”

T
HE
C
OMEDY
S
TORE
looked like a black bunker that had been defaced by graffiti artists with good penmanship. Written in white paint were the names of dozens of comics who’d appeared there, and we busied ourselves reading them as we stood in line for the Monday Amateur Night performance.

“This is going to be fun!” said Maeve.

After the night at Ed’s apartment, she had left a little cactus plant on my doorstep with a note of apology—“Sorry for being prickly,” it had read, “and kind of a jerk, too”—and the hokey but genuine gesture had made me want to put effort into a friendship, and I had invited her to join Ed and me.

“I had a blind date here once,” said Ed. “To see Richard Pryor. A friend of mine set me up with his girlfriend’s sister and she didn’t crack a smile through his whole routine—plus she shushed me when I laughed!”

“I’m guessing that was the last date as well as the first,” I said.

“She was one I was glad got away.”

We were seated near the back at a small table whose centerpiece was a red glass candleholder wrapped in plastic webbing. After taking our order, our bored waitress returned and, reminding us of the two-drink minimum, plunked down our beverages.

“I don’t think there’s a danger of overdrinking with these,” said Maeve, holding up a glass narrow as a test tube.

The chatter of tourists, college kids, and couples on dates filled the room, and when the emcee bounded onstage, I might have shivered with excitement.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Welcome to the Comedy Store’s Amateur Night—where comedians have five minutes to live or die!”

The slight man wearing a suit, red tennis shoes, and a five-o’clock shadow introduced himself as Danny Hernandez.

“Yes, my last name’s Hernandez, and yes, that’s Hispanic. Which means not only am I going to keep things moving on stage, but afterwards I’ll get your car if you valet-parked.”

“Ba-boom,” Ed whispered.

“And now without further ado or further adon’t, let’s bring up the first act of the evening—ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ryan Ridges!”

“
S
OME
SAY
MY
LOVE
IS
WRONG,
some say I’m kinky,” sang Mr. Ridges, accompanying himself on a banjo, “but I’ll never give up my sweetheart, my little hamster Winkie.”

“Get a life, weirdo!” shouted a heckler.

A short sturdy woman—one of only three women to go on—talked about her bad luck with men. “I asked my last boyfriend why he was ditching me for an eighteen-year-old swimsuit model with an IQ of 40, and he said, ‘Because I know what’s important in a relationship.’”

Like a kid standing in front of a deep-sea aquarium, I was wide-eyed and enthralled, and with the exception of the expensive test tube drinks I loved everything about the Comedy Store. I loved its name, a place where laughter was both merchandise and currency. I loved the convivial darkness we all sat in, softened only by candles, the glowing tips of cigarettes, and a spotlight. I loved watching how each comic approached the stage; one poor guy looked like he was one burp away from vomiting, another strode up like an evangelist, arms held high. I loved listening to their five-minute routines—the bad ones were as instructive as the good ones—
and I even loved the heckling—how the audience cringed when a comic didn’t know how to handle it, and how it applauded when he did.

I was in a room filled with laughter, sitting amid an orchestra of high, fluttering, whining, low, chortling, deep, blasting, staccato laughter. It was literally music to my ears, and more than anything I wanted to conduct it.

“Hey, have any of you seen that new Woody Allen movie,
Interiors
?” asked a sleepy-eyed guy in a tie-dyed T-shirt and bowtie. “Man, what happened to Woody? He used to make some funny movies, but if anyone told a joke, I couldn’t hear it over all the whining . . .”

Hours—but what seemed like minutes—later, Danny Hernandez took his final bow.

“Thank you all for coming, people, and let’s hear it one more time for all the comics who were brave enough to come up onstage!”

Which I vow here and now,
I wrote later that night in my calendaeium,
is going to be me.