Treasury of Joy & Inspiration (22 page)

The Good Samaritans

I got
talking to a couple at the supermarket and subsequently missed my bus. As I walked home, a car pulled up. Seeing it was my new friends, I jumped in and told them where I lived.

“This was great—thank you,” I said when we reached my house. “Do you have much farther to go?”

“Not really,” they replied. “We were outside our door when you got in.”
Doreen Connor

• • •

“Hello, Mrs.
Miller,” said the bearded guy behind the counter of the bagel shop.

My husband and I looked at him but drew complete blanks. “I'm sorry, do we know each other?” I asked.

“Yeah, you was my English teacher.”

Leaning over, my husband whispered, “Good job, honey. Good job.”
Elizabeth Miller

My Father and Me

By Billy Crystal

December 2005

From
700 Sundays

W
hen I
was nine years old, I said to my dad, “Pop, listen. I want to be a comedian. Is that crazy? I want to be a comedian.”

He said, “Billy, it's not crazy. And I'm going to help you.”

The next day Dad brought home something from his store, the Commodore Music Shop, that started to change my life. It was a tape recorder. It was profound for us because in those days there was no home videotape or anything like that. This was the only way my two brothers and I could hear ourselves back. We could make up our own TV shows and radio shows, practice our imitations. We'd do our shows in the living room for the relatives and hear them back. It was a way to develop our timing.

Dad started showing us the really funny people on television to inspire us. He would let us stay up late on school nights to watch Ernie Kovacs, the great Steve Allen with Tom Poston and Don Knotts and Louie Nye, and the greatest comedian ever to grace television, Sid Caesar.

This is when my uncle Berns really entered our lives, and he would forever change them. A wild one, a Zero Mostel kind of personality, Berns was a mystical man with shoulder-length white hair and a long white beard. He could do magic tricks and mime. He loved to be silly and make people laugh. Everyone was pulled to him, as if he were a magnet.

One day, Dad brought home this record from his shop. It was a Spike Jones record. Spike would have different kinds of sound effects—gunshots, whistles, dog barks—all perfectly integrated into his arrangements. I never heard such crazy stuff in my life. Uncle Berns said, “Lip-synch it and do it for the family.” I memorized every moment of “You Always Hurt the One You Love,” got it down perfectly, every whistle and scream. They loved it. The living room was my room now.

My brothers and I were always performing for the family. Rip would sing, Joel and I would do something together, and then I'd close the show. It's still the best room I've ever worked. Every family event was an opening night for us. We would get paid with change. My cousin Edith would give me dimes, and I would stick them on my forehead. When my forehead was full, the show was over. Mom and Dad were always the best audience. That's how you start. You want to make your folks laugh.

Often Dad would improvise with us on the tape recorder. It was so great to spend this kind of time with him. As much as I loved playing baseball and watching it, there are other ways of “having a catch.”

And then
when I was 15, I made a new discovery. I saw The Girl. This wasn't lust. I fell in love with an adorable blond girl. She was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. I knew what head-over-heels meant because I kept tripping and falling when I would follow her home from school.

Finally I got up enough nerve to ask her out and she said yes. Then we really started going out, and it was the first time I made out with somebody in a movie theater. I got up enough nerve and I said, “You know what? I love you, I really do. Let's go steady.”

“Oh, no, Billy, I can't do that,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I don't want to go out with you anymore. I really just like you as a friend.”

“Really?”

The rejection was too much to take. I was mad. I was embarrassed. I felt like a fool. I was still in love and I was in terrible pain. I couldn't see straight. I remember the day after she dumped me, it was a Tuesday night . . .

October 15,
1963. I was sitting at the kitchen table studying for my chemistry test in the morning. I had just lost The Girl. Who cared about chemistry? Was it ever going to be important in my life? Was anyone ever going to say to me, “Billy, what's lead?” And I wouldn't hesitate and look him right in the eye and proudly
say, “Pb.”

“Yes it is, Bill. Yes, it is. Here's a million dollars.”

That was never going to happen. And every time I'd turn a page in the chemistry book, I'd see The Girl's face.

My parents came into the kitchen to say good-bye. They were on their way out to their Tuesday night bowling league. They loved bowling with their friends. They had so much fun doing it. And frankly, this was pretty much the only fun they were having now because times had changed for us, and not for the better.

My father's business had closed a few years earlier. The music shop couldn't keep up with the discount record places that were springing up around Manhattan. My dad was now 54 years old, and he was scared. With Joel and Rip away at college, for the first time he was out of a job.

It was so sad to see him struggle this way. When he walked into the kitchen that October night he looked worried. He looked upset. And when he saw me pining away for The Girl, he looked mad. We had just finished a month of Sundays together, talking about comedy, watching baseball. With my brothers away at school, I didn't have to share him. It was just the two of us for the first time.

But that night, as I stared at my chemistry book, he started yelling at me. “Billy, look at you. You're going to have to get your grades up. You're going to have to study because I can't afford to send you to school. That's how it's going to work, kid. You understand? You're going to have to get a scholarship or something. Look at you moping around. This is all because of that girl, isn't it?”

I snapped, “What the hell do you know?” It flew out of my mouth. I never spoke to him like that. Ever.

He looked at me, rage in his eyes. I was scared, didn't know what to do.

I froze. He was quiet now, the words measured.

“Don't talk to me like that, please.” And he and my mother left.

I felt awful. Oh, why did I say that? I ran after him to apologize, but they were in the car and gone before I could get there. I came back to the kitchen, thinking, Well, they'll be home around 11:30, quarter to twelve. I'll apologize then, and maybe he'll help me study for this test.

Before I got into bed, I closed the door, but not all the way. And I fell asleep.

I woke
up to the sound of them coming through the front door. I looked at the clock. It was 11:30, just like always. I could hear Mom coming down the hallway toward the back of the house, where the bedrooms were. And as I was waking up, I could hear her, just like always . . . she was laughing.

Or so I thought. I was confused getting out of my sleep. She wasn't laughing at all. She was crying, hysterically, and it got louder and louder.

The door flew open. The light blinded me. “Billy, Billy, Daddy's gone. Daddy's gone. Daddy's gone.”

My uncle Danny was with her. They spoke at the same time, but I only heard one thing. “Dad's gone, kid. He didn't have a chance. Dad is dead.”

I was confused. I thought they were talking about their father. I said, “Grandpa died?”

Mom held my face tenderly and said, “Billy, no. Listen to me. Dad had a heart attack at the bowling alley. They tried to save him. They couldn't. He's gone. He died there, Billy.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. Then she looked at me, her red eyes glistening and said, “Oh, Billy.”

After the
funeral, everyone came back to the house. There must have been hundreds of family members, neighbors, friends, and a lot of food and conversation to keep your mind off your loss during the mourning period. It's called a shiva. But to me, the right word is “shiver” because the feeling of Pop's death made me tremble.

This house that was always filled with laughter and jazz was now so sad and dark. I stayed in my room. I didn't come out. I mean, I didn't want to see anybody. Friends would come over to try to talk to me, try to make me feel better, you know. But nobody really knows what to say to you. Hell, we didn't know what to say about a lot of stuff. A living room filled with people, and I didn't care.

And then one day, I heard laughter. Big laughs. Everybody having a great time. I had to come out to see who was working my room. It was my crazy uncle Berns. Performing for the family. He was making everybody laugh. He was so funny even my mother was smiling.

He was carrying on, making everybody else feel a little bit better and taking some of the pain out of his heart as well. Making people forget just for a few moments why they were there, and it was okay.

He had just lost his brother, the person he was closest to in the world. And the message to me was profound, because it meant that even in your worst pain, it's still okay to laugh.

Credits
and
Acknowledgements

Joy

“Overtaken by Joy,” by Ardis Whitman,
Reader's Digest,
April 1965.

“Shall We Dance?” by Neil Simon. Reprinted with the permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc., from
The Play Goes On
by Neil Simon. Copyright © 1999 Neil Simon.

“The Bottom Line on Happiness,” by Clayton M. Christensen. Copyright © 2010 by Harvard Business School Publishing (July 10, 2010).

“Obey That Impulse,” by William Moulton Marston. Condensed from a CBS Radio Broadcast, March 18, 1941.

“In Search of Heaven,” by Gail Cameron Wescott,
Reader's Digest,
December 2005.

“Gilligan's Aisle,” by Jeanne Marie Laskas, © 1996 by Jeanne Marie Laskas.
Washington Post Magazine
(January 7, 1996).

Miracles

“The Gold-and-Ivory Tablecloth,” by Rev. Howard C. Schade,
Reader's Digest,
December 1954.

“A Dog Like No Other,” by Peter Muilenburg,
Reader's Digest,
June 1998.

“ ‘A Man Don't Know What He Can Do,' ” by Elise Miller Davis,
Reader's Digest,
October 1952.

“The Forked Stick Phenomenon,” by Emily and Per Ola d'Aulaire,
Reader's Digest,
May 1976.

“Letter in the Wallet,” by Arnold Fine, © 1984 by Arnold Fine.
Jewish Press
(January 20, 1984).

Gratitude

“Christopher Reeve's Decision,” by Christopher Reeve. Copyright © 1998 Cambria Productions, Inc. From the book
Still Me
by Christopher Reeve, published by Random House, an imprint of Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. Reprinted with permission.

“Information Please,” by Paul Villiard,
Reader's Digest,
June 1966.

“The Dream Horse and the Dining-Room Table,” by Billy Porterfield. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. from
Diddy Waw Diddy
by Billy Porterfield. Copyright © 1994 by Billy Porterfield.

“His Gift of the Future,” by Marc Lerner,
Reader's Digest,
June 1995.

“A Heart for the Run,” by Gary Paulsen. Excerpted from
Puppies, Dogs, and Blue Northers
by Gary Paulsen. Copyright © 1996 by Gary Paulsen. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

“The Gratitude Club,” by Steve Hartman,
Reader's Digest,
July/August 2012. From the CBS News Archives.

Giving

“The Christmas Present,” by James A. Michener,
Reader's Digest,
December 1967.

“The Man on the Train,” by Alex Haley,
Reader's Digest,
February 1991.

“Ferragamo's Gift,” by Susan Shreve, © 2003 by Susan Richards Shreve. Originally appeared in
MORE
magazine as “Dear Signor Ferragamo.” Used by permission of Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

”
Letting Go,” by Litty Mathew,
Reader's Digest,
December 2009/January 2010.

“She Gave Her Father Life,” by Henry Hurt,
Reader's Digest,
November 1996.

Holidays

“A Family for Freddie,” by Abbie Blair,
Reader's Digest,
December 1964.

“A String of Blue Beads,” by Fulton Oursler,
Reader's Digest,
December 1951.

“Night of Hope and Possibility,” by Roxanne Willems Snopek,
Reader's Digest,
December 1999.

“The Holiday I'll Never Forget” (“All I'm Asking For,” by Rick Bragg; “The Gift of Possibility,” by Esmeralda Santiago; “Eight Candles, Nine Lives,” by Melissa Fay Greene; “Sharing the Sweetness,” by Tayari Jones; “Some Assembly Required,” by Floyd Skloot; “A Legacy of Love,” by Lee Smith; “Merry, Silly Christmas,” by Jenny Allen),
Reader's Digest,
December 2011/January 2012.

“Christmas Out of Season,” by Robert Fulghum. “Christmas in August,” from
All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten
by Robert L. Fulgham, copyright © 1986, 1988 by Robert L. Fulgham. Used by permission of Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

Healing

“A Love Like No Other,” by Skip Hollandsworth. Copyright © 1994 by
Texas Monthly
(February 1994).

“Two Words to Avoid, Two to Remember,” by Arthur Gordon,
Reader's Digest,
January 1968. Reprinted with permission by the estate of Arthur Gordon.

“The Day My Silent Brother Spoke,” by Jim Watson,
Reader's Digest,
January 1992.

“The Ugliest Cat in the World,” by Penny Porter,
Reader's Digest,
March 1993.

“My Fourteenth Summer,” by W. W. Meade,
Reader's Digest,
July 1998.

“Mother Courage,” by Linda Kramer Jenning,
Reader's Digest,
July 2009.

Heroes

“An Open Letter to Students,” by Dwight D. Eisenhower,
Reader's Digest,
October 1948.

“Three Days to See,” by Helen Keller, © 1932 By The Helen Keller Foundation Education Program.
The Atlantic Monthly
(January 1933), 77 N. Washington Street, Boston, Massachusetts 02116.

“How America Can Make Brotherhood Work,” by Bill Bradley,
Reader's Digest
75th Anniversary Issue, 1997.

“The Night I Met Einstein,” by Jerome Weidman,
Reader's Digest,
November 1955.

“My Father and Me,” by Billy Crystal. From
700 Sundays,
copyright © 2005 by Billy Crystal. Published by arrangement with Grand Central Publishing, a Division of Hachette Book Group. New York, NY. All rights reserved.