Sometimes in the act of writing we learn things about ourselves. Recently this happened in, of all places, a Facebook stream. My friend Craig posted a black and white photo of Gilda Radner and John Belushi. The photographer captured a tender moment, Gilda seated in a chair, Belushi standing behind, leaning in to wrap his arms around her, his head next to hers. It was a provocative photo; in that it provoked, thought. I was one of the first to view it. We all know the pressure of wanting to write a pithy, poignant comment, right then. Myriad emotions coursed through my brain: the tragedy, the love, the talent, the laughter, the inspiration.
My comment was about comedians and how they seem to be drawn to comedy by some larger force. Thinking of comedians who seem to be haunted, like: Belushi, Chris Farley, Richard Pryor, John Candy and more recently Greg Giraldo. These performers seek the laughter of others to fill a need in themselves. At some point, Craig and I pulled off the main Facebook stream and had our own electronic conversation about “comedians like that.” Eventually, we reflected on our own desire to make others laugh.
I know just enough about Freud and Jung to be dangerous, or at least confusing, to myself. If you asked my grammar school friends at Immaculate Heart of Mary, I don’t think it would be a reach for them to place me in the class clown category. If you polled Jean Ann Powers, Robby Sullivan and Chrissy Ryan, they’d probably throw that moniker on me and a handful of others in our class. I started to think about what triggers this desire in me? Like Belushi, am I damaged in some way? Did I have abusive neglectful parents? No. Was my father a raging alcoholic? Well not raging, nothing out of the ordinary for our family, circle of friends, or the 70’s. Why do I feel this desire to make the one comment that will crack up the staff meeting?
After my conversation with Craig, I thought about a morning this past summer….My wife and I had eye appointments. After shuttling our boys off to their respective day-camps, we met at the doctor’s office. As is usually the case, I arrive after my wife. It’s a big rectangular waiting room with multiple practices using the same space. I open the door, take a quick glance around the room and spy Kira on the exact opposite side. While I am glancing around the room, all eyes are on me; there’s not a lot going on in the waiting room. I fight the urge to break into song, seriously. Why? Because it amuses me. I had this vision of me donning an imaginary top hat and cane and doing a little Bugs Bunny/Al Jolson ragtime: “Hello my baby, hello my sweetie, hello my rag time girl…” I don’t have the nerve, I settle for an overindulgent stage wave, acting as if my trans-Atlantic crossing was successful and I am seeing Kira for the first time in months. Kira shakes her head and looks at the floor.
Some eyes are still on me as I make my way across the room. I notice a grizzled WWII vet right next to one of the magazine tables. I make a b-line and survey the inventory. I am looking for material. I already have something to read, I always do. Jackpot! There’s a copy of a magazine that’s perfect for my next performance; a periodical I would have no reason to ever read. I pick up the latest issue of, “Cheerleader.” I feel Sergeant Fury’s eyes on me. I peruse the cover as if I am really thinking about reading it. I put a quizzical look on my face, and say, “Oh, I have not seen this issue yet!” After delivering my line, I display, like one of the models on “The Price is Right,” the cover of the July issue of “Cheerleader” a glossy photo of the captain of the LSU cheerleading squad in all her blonde, blue and gold glory. Nothing, maybe a derisive grunt from my geriatric G.I. Joe. I am stunned. That was good stuff you old codger! I’m not expecting you to spit your coffee out but I was hoping for a guffaw, maybe a chortle, a snort, a chuckle, I would have settled for a polite smirk. But derision?
By now Kira is mortified, a few of the other patients might be as well, especially the women. I am beaming. I think it’s hysterical, especially the fact that Kira wants to crawl under the table. In my heart I know she thinks it’s funny. If she doesn’t, I think it is and that’s what matters to me. If my "Cheerleader" skit didn't work, no worries. I am used to these comedic lead balloons. My batting average for these impromptu jokes is probably like a decent major leaguer, that is to say, around .300. So 70% of these efforts fail, but I don’t care. I take my walk of shame, and sit next to Kira, a cheshire cat grin on my face.
The sliding glass window, behind which the clerical staff sits, is in the middle of the long side of the rectangle, across from the WWII vet. I open my book and do some reconnaissance. The room looks like a Woody Allen movie set. Every age group is represented, 90’s, 80’s, 70’s… “and playing the part of the 40 somethings will be Jim and Kira Spinner.” I know there’s a joke in here about early bird dinner specials but I decide to save it for later. I have this eerie feeling that I am glimpsing our future. Walkers, oxygen tanks, and canes, oh my.
I read and then interest in my book wanes, so I talk to Kira as if I am hard of hearing, “HOW DID THE BOYS GET OFF FOR THEIR FIRST DAY OF CAMP?” She pleads with me, with her eyes, please stop? “DO YOU THINK THEY’LL LANCE THAT LARGE FESTERING BOIL?” I can see Kira is pained, so I back off. Sometimes I know when to stop. I keep glancing over my book, like we all do, playing detective about the other patients…Hmmm, what do you think she’s in here for? She’s 90? I can’t believe she’s 90. She’s sharper than half the people I know. What an interesting lady. I wonder what her life has been like? Oh, look at him, he’s on his last leg, poor guy, now his wife has to wipe his butt for him. That’s not for me. I hope I go quickly, I don’t want to hang on like that….
The patients continue getting called up. There’s one recently retired guy, a sharp dresser, still thin at 60 something, making an effort to make the clerical staff laugh. I applaud the effort. He made some marginally funny comments as he was checking in. But when they call his name, he shouts, “That’s me! What did I win!” I am the only one to laugh, the sound of one man laughing, know it well. I think, that guy’s alright, I bet he’d be fun to hang out with.
The couples go in together, with the accoutrements of the aging process. Then they call, “Mr. and Mrs. Spinner!” I stay seated, “You go first.” I am thinking I will continue to enjoy some time to myself. Kira goes up to the window and is informed that we should go in together. I wave my hand at the window, “She can go first. I’ll wait here and enjoy some unfettered reading time.” I like to weave the word unfettered into conversations whenever I can. Despite my protestations, we are told to go in together.
We are escorted to the eye exam room and told to wait for the doctor. I begin to play with the equipment. I am like a kid in a candy store. I pick up some unknown eye implement and ask Kira, “Have you ever had the Aunt Jemima treatment?” Kira is a nurse and she has a respect, or a fear, of doctors that I just don’t have. While I appreciate their expertise and their devotion to schooling, there’s a part of me that knows they put their pants on one leg at a time. I also have a little chip on my shoulder because my 3:30 appointment should be 3:30 for them also. But I digress. “Put that stuff down!” Kira whispers, with one eye on the door that says, the doctor could come in at any... And on cue, the doc comes in.
The first thing I do upon introduction is to tell the doctor, “I think you should know, Kira memorized the eye chart.” Kira apologizes for what a jackass I am. Doctor McGillicuddy rolls her eyes, “I have one of those at home too.” The doc deals with me as she would an adolescent, after her cursory comment, she ignores me. I go back to my book. Unfortunately, the doc keeps feeding me lines, “Kira, your eyes are so red. Are they always this red?” Geez doc, if you are going to play straight man… “Doc, I’ve been talking to her about this, maybe you can help? Even though she’s the mother of three boys, she's still smoking the ganja like she's a coed at a frat party.” Freaking doctor doesn’t blink an eye, “Well at least she won’t get glaucoma.” I think, she might be fun to hang out with.
