Best to Laugh: A Novel by Lorna Landvik
“Hmm,” I said, considering this. “Weapon against what?”
He looked at me, surprised. “Against life, of course.”
We were both silent as he escorted me across his bedroom and through the door into the hallway.
“Good luck, Candy, and remember: be bold. As Goethe says, ‘Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.’”
With that final piece of advice, the Master Rogue turned left, toward the grand stairway that led down to the great hall, and I turned right, to the narrow staircase that led up to the video room, passing Gina Mills in several scraps of white fabric I think was supposed to be a tennis dress. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, and the look she gave me was both suspicious and confused, and—I couldn’t help it—I looked to the ceiling and fanning my face said, “Yeow!” just for the fun of it.
36
FROM THE CONSCIENTIOUS BOOKKEEPER’S LEDGER:
4/18/79
Dear Cal,
Solange invited me to Beat Street for Summer Stephenson’s record launch and after Summer had lip-synched what the record company hopes will be her big hit, I asked Neil why Summer’s manager was wearing a tiny spoon on a chain around his neck.
“Is he on a baby foot diet or something?”
“Uh, Candy . . . that’s a coke spoon.”
“Why doesn’t he just drink it out of the bottle like the rest of us?”
A look of pity flashed on his face before he realized I was kidding.
“Oh, ha ha,” he said, nudging my shoulder with his own. “I’d say save it for the stage, but then again, you want laughs so maybe not.”
Everyone’s a comedian . . .
5/1/79
Dear Cal,
I’m 23 years old today! Happy Birthday to me! Maeve and Solange took me out for Thai food, and now I’ve got a brand-new love.
6/3/79
Dear Cal,
M. Pepper and I saw Alien—we had planned on going to Hamburger Hamlet afterwards, but the movie took away our appetites.
8/17/79
Dear Cal,
Great Night at the Natural Fudge!
I had introduced myself to the audience as being Korwegianish.
“Half-Korean, a quarter-Norwegian, and a quarter-Finn. Yes, I’m descended from those considered the funniest people on earth, those laugh-riots—the Asianavians. Who hasn’t rolled in the aisles listening to comics like Thor Kim or Yoo Suk Peterson? We’ve even got our own Three Stooges—Ole, Lars, and Dong.”
“Kiss my ass!” shouted a man from the back of the room.
“My mistake,” I said. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a fourth Stooge.”
It was rare, in the mild-mannered herbal-tea-drinking atmosphere that was the Natural Fudge, to have belligerent hecklers, but beer and wine were also served, apparently too much of it to this guy, as again, he yelled, “Kiss my ass!”
“Sir,” I said slowly, “Do you really think the more you shout that, the more willing I’ll be to do it?” Tapping my chin with my fingers, I looked upward, as if seriously pondering his words and in a dreamy voice, mused, “Hmm . . . maybe he’s not really being crude and obnoxious. Maybe he’s making me an offer I shouldn’t refuse—maybe his butt’s got magical powers like the Blarney Stone.” I looked back at the heckler. “Does your butt have magical powers?”
“I’m here to see Freddie, not you!”
I had no idea who Freddie was but nodded.
“Oh, well that explains things.” To the rest of the audience, I explained, “Freddie’s an improvisational contortionist. He bends his body into weird positions based on audience suggestion.” I cast a pitying look at the heckler. “But when Freddie comes out, you should ask him to kiss his own ass, because that would be the real act of contortionism, not kissing yours. Unless you and he have made previous arrangements?”
“All right!” he said, both agreeably and nonsensically, and he was silent for the rest of my act, which included a bit on my tenuous dating life (“I’ve had to lower my standards a bit . . . ‘my type’ no longer means ‘handsome and witty’ but ‘conscious and speaks English at least as a third language’”), a couple of impressions (my Beverly Hills panhandler getting the biggest laughs), and an exchange with Mindy, a waitress who wore a tank top accessorized by tufts of underarm hair and who, I had discovered, was always up for some good-natured ribbing. She provided me an opening when she dropped a plate.
“Oops, another customer review of the Eggplant and Okra Surprise,” I said.
“I wish we served an Eggplant and Okra Surprise,” Mindy said. “It sounds yummy.”
“She’s high,” I said to the audience.
“High on life. And maybe a little Maui Wowie.”
I looked at the audience. “This is a good time to remind you to tip your waitresses. Especially Mindy. She’s saving up to buy a razor.”
AFTERWARD, I joined Terry, Francis, Frank, and Mayhem at a table.
“Candy!” said Mayhem. “That was radical!”
“Bravo!” said Terry.
“Way to deal with that ‘kiss my ass’ asshole,” said Frank.
“‘Krugerrands,’” said Mayhem, reciting a line my Beverly Hills panhandler used, ‘Spare Kruggerands?’”
“If I still had my club,” said Francis, “I’d book you. For the weekend.”
As far as compliments go, I could ride on that one for a while.
“Excuse me, Candy?” A woman with a corona of springy brown curls and a face dotted with moles approached the table, hand out.
As I shook it, she said, “Claire Hellman—yes, just like the playwright and the mayonnaise. But I’m not related to either. Listen, I just wanted to tell you, I thought you were wonderful.”
After I asked her to repeat herself, I thanked her and introduced her to my tablemates. Her warm smile froze when I got to the man seated next to me.
“Oh, my God,” she said, “you’re Francis Flover?”
Looking slightly perplexed, Francis said, “Yes . . . unless you’re delivering a summons.”
Grinning, Claire Hellman squatted next to the table and took Francis’s hand.
“My mother told me all about the Bel Mondo—she said she practically lived there.”
Sitting up a little straighter, Francis asked, “And who was your mother?”
“Winifred Hellman. Well, back then she was Winifred Jarret.”
“No. Winnie Jarret is your mother?”
The woman’s curls trembled as she nodded.
Francis turned to illuminate the rest of us.
“Winnie Jarret worked in publicity for one of the studios, which meant she was often at my club, babysitting movie stars who found it hard to monitor their excesses.”
Claire laughed. “She loved it. She said where but Hollywood would they pay you to dress up, see great entertainment, and share a table with people like Peter Lawford and Mitzi Gaynor?”
“And how is your lovely mother?” asked Francis.
“Oh, fine. Living in the Valley with my dad. She quit working when she got married and had me and my brother, but she passed on her love of showbiz to both of us. Eric’s an agent, and I’m a filmmaker.”
“Isn’t that wonderful!” said Francis.
“Well, here’s the wonderful—or maybe synergistic—part,” said Claire, and seeing a chair at the next table, she got up from her squat and pulled it over.
“You guys don’t mind, do you?”
We all shook our heads, everyone wanting to hear the wonderful and synergistic part.
“Okay, obviously, I didn’t know you were sitting here, Mr. Flover—”
“—please, call me Francis.”
Nodding, Claire continued. “I just wanted to congratulate Candy here on a great act.” She gave me a little salute, which I returned. “But meeting you, I’m reminded of all the stories my mother told me about the Bel Mondo, and by the way, I’m sorry for your later troubles, Mr. . . . uh, Francis, but what I’m thinking is—wow! I??
“I can see why,” said Frank. “A documentary about my father is a great idea.”
“This is so wild,” said Terry. “When my date picked me up for prom, well, we were both sort of hippies and I guess our clothes reflected that, because my dad looks at my mom and says, ‘Can you imagine those two at the Bel Mondo?’”
At that moment, Mindy the waitress stopped at our table.
“Can I get you guys anything?” she said and looking at me, she smirked. “Or do you prefer to be served by someone with a little less body hair?”
“Oh,” I said, swiveling my head as I looked around the restaurant. “Is Bigfoot working tonight?”
8/30/79
Dear Cal,
My One-Year Anniversary in Hollywood! I bake a pineapple-upside-down cake and share it with the usual suspects.
9/15/79
Dear Cal,
I get a slot at the Improv!
“I hope you know how many people spend years getting to where you got in a couple months,” Gary Arnstein said one evening in the Improv green room. “Especially when you don’t even really have an act.”
“I have an act,” I said. “It’s just fluid.”
“Fluid’s not gonna get you on Carson,” said a comic named Jim Clausen.
I had heard this from comics and club owners: “You’ve got to hone your act—do it over and over and over.” That was my intention every time I stepped onstage, but it seemed I could never stick to the script.
“Take me, for instance,” said Gary. “I was doing Amateur Nights for three years before I moved up.”
“Shoulda done them for a couple years more,” said another comic.
“Should still be doing them,” said Jim. “Although with you, Arnstein, practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect.”
“You should talk, Clausen. I saw your act last Saturday.” Gary shook his head and in a deep news-anchor voice said, “Bomb rocks L.A. comedy club.”
Jim twirled his middle finger.
It was typical, I had learned, that anytime comedians got together there was a constant jockeying for position, a top-this mentality. Everyone was constantly “on,” which was exhilarating until it became tiring. There was as much testosterone-fueled swagger as on a battlefield, and as testosterone wasn’t my dominant hormone, I tended to stay in the demilitarized Zone of Estrogenia, throwing an occasional grenade mainly for my own amusement. Comics were wary of the women—and there weren’t many of us—who invaded their turf, and for me it wasn’t important to compete with them offstage. If we’d all been onstage together, it would be an entirely different matter.
A CALENDAEIUM ENTRY in October read, “Last day at Rogue Mansion—how will they survive without me?” Underneath that I had scrawled, “small party—nice,” and it had been, with the Rogue Meister himself accepting a piece of cake and thanking me for my good work.
“A piece of you shall be forever entombed in my video library,” he said, to which I replied, in a muffled voice, “Help, let me out!”
Terry fretted on the drive home, wondering aloud who she was going to make fun of the Rascalettes with.
I reminded her that our friendship wasn’t over and that we were scheduled to have brunch that Saturday.
“Yeah, but who am I supposed to get on-site relief with? I mean, just today Jackie Vining—she’s next month’s Rascalette—told me she’s changing the spelling of her name to J-a-q-u-e-e because ‘it’s more classy.’”
“Is that classy spelled ‘q-u-l-a-s-s-y?” I said.
“See! That’s what I mean.” She turned onto Sunset Boulevard and more to herself than me she said, “Geez—what am I doing with my life? I should be tagging endangered species in the rain forest or running with the bulls in Pamplona. How did I wind up at the Rogue Mansion?”
37
I SIGNED WITH THE TALENT AGENCY the Starlight Group, and my agent was Eric Hellman, who had, on the recommendation of his sister, Claire, come to see me perform. During our very first meeting, Eric was surprised when I told him I didn’t want to do TV commercials.
“You mind telling me why?”
“I figure if I wanted to be a salesperson, I would have applied at Dayton’s.”
Now his face (fairly handsome and, like Claire’s, fairly mole ridden) registered blankness.
“It’s the best department store in America. It’s based in Minneapolis.”
“Candy, surely you’re aware,” said Eric, no doubt filing the information I’d just given him in the useless trivia drawer of his brain, “that commercials are a stepping stone? I have a client who was seen in a rug shampoo commercial, and now he’s shooting a romantic comedy with Goldie Hawn! And what about sitcoms? Please tell me you don’t have anything against sitcoms.”
“I just don’t want to do anything dumb,” I said, not liking how small my voice sounded. “Or that feeds into stupid stereotypes.”
Eric nodded. “Duly noted.”
He booked me on my first college tour, in which I traveled with four other comics in a minivan as far south as San Diego and as far north as Santa Rosa. This was exciting in itself, but what set the Thrill-O-Meter’s needle to sway was that one of those four other comics was Mike Trowbridge.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said, as we loaded our bags in the back of the van. “Miss Candy Ohi.”
“None other,” I said casually, giving my suitcase a shove.
EVERYONE ON THE TOUR WAS funny, although Lance Gill’s ability to make me laugh diminished the more I got to know him; he had one of those egos that demanded the modifier insufferable. In the van or restaurant booths, he liked to lecture us on the art of comedy, offering unsolicited tips as to how we could improve our act.
“You, Boris,” he said to the guy who had emigrated from Russia five years earlier. “You’ve got a good thing going—people feel sophisticated laughing at a guy who’s from behind the Iron Curtain—but your jokes need to be updated. That bit about Khrushchev is tired, man.”
“What he mean, tired?” asked Boris, slathering his accent on extra thick. “If people are laughing, this means they are sleepy?”
“Yeah, Lance,” said Solly Berg, who’d given up a career as a science teacher to go into comedy. “Boris’s act kills. There’s nothing tired about it.”
“I’m only trying to help,” said Lance.
“If that’s help,” said Mike, “I’ll wait for the next ambulance.”
“Yeah,” I added. “If that’s help, throw me a rope that’s not frayed.”
“Da,” said Boris, chuckling. “If that’s help, I’ll take life-preserver not made of cement.”
WE DECIDED TO TAKE TURNS EMCEEING, and Mike had the honors during our show at UC–Santa Barbara.
“You’re in for a real treat,” he said and, before introducing Boris, lifted his trumpet to his lips.
“Those Volga boatmen are real partyers,” said Mike, after playing the song’s slow “Yo-oh, hee, hoe,” refrain. “And so’s the next comic, live from Russia—it wouldn’t be so good, of course, if he was dead from Russia—ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Boris Yvanovitch!”
When it was time to introduce me, his trumpet accompaniment was “My Funny Valentine.”
“Now Candy Ohi’s not really my valentine,” he said, “but she is funny, and she does have a beautiful heart-shaped . . . ass.”
After the show, we gathered in Solly’s room, giving each other notes, and if stares were lasers, mine would have cauterized Mike’s retinas and blinded him.
“About that ‘heart-shaped ass’ bit,” I
“You’re right,” he said, accepting the joint Solly passed to him. “I just thought it would be funny because everyone thought I was going to say ‘face’ and then I said ‘ass.’ But okay, it’s the first—and last—time I’ll use it.”
“I thought you girls liked guys noticing your bodies,” said Lance. “I mean, isn’t that why you dress the way you do?”
“Lance,” I said, holding up my palms. “Take a look. Aren’t I wearing the same thing as you?”
“Well, actually, his shirt is gray and yours is black,” said Boris. “And you of course are not wearing a tie.”
I waved off the joint Mike held out to me.
“What I mean is most girls like guys noticing their bodies,” said Lance. Taking the joint, he took a deep inhale. He held his breath but continued talking in a clenched voice. “You can’t tell me you dress like a guy when you’re not onstage.”
“I didn’t know wearing a black shirt and black pants constituted ‘dressing like a guy,’” I said. “Next time I’ll make sure I have your wardrobe approval before I go onstage.”
Lance shrugged and let loose a cloud of smoke.
“Why wait?—I’ll tell you now: you’d probably do a lot better if you wore a skirt, or something that showed a little skin.”
“Jesus, Lance,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” said Solly, mid-toke, “you’re sounding like one of those sexist pigs all the cute little gals are talking about.”
Solly winked at me, in case I hadn’t caught that he was joking. Lance just smirked.
“All I’m saying is Candy should make it easy for all the people who’d rather be looking at her than listening to her.”
“By people,” I said, keeping my voice neutral, “do you mean men?”
“Well, yeah. At least half our audience. Because unfortunately, as hard as you might try, most guys probably aren’t going to think you’re funny.”
“If I weren’t so stoned,” said Mike, “I’d ask you to step outside.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” I said, and deciding I’d be better entertained watching the late show in my room, I stood up.