Andy Kaufman Revealed! (28 page)

If you flew in an airline’s first-class section during the fall of 1979, there is a chance you were Kaufmanized without knowing it. We always flew first class as a perk of working with OPM (Other People’s Money). Do you recall a nervous man with glasses and long hair, a frightened first-time flyer, who had the misfortune of sitting across from a man wearing dark glasses, a know-it-all on the subject of airline safety and crash survivability?

“So,” said Sunglasses, “you’re scared? Lemme tell you, there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”

“Well,” said Scared Guy, “I’m just nervous ‘cause I’ve never flown. I’ve always been afraid of flying.”

“Oh, I understand,” soothed Sunglasses. “That’s why I want you to know, should we crash, the chances of you livin’ through it are decent, better than even odds, probably.”

Scared Guy’s eyes widened. “Crash?”

“Sure, it happens, but listen, unless we slam into a mountain or something, maybe clip a flock of birds or maybe another plane, we’ll live to tell about it. Chances are.”

“You think that could happen?” said Scared Guy, now bordering on Terrified Guy.

“What? Which one? Birds? Another plane? Hey, happens all the time, but don’t worry, the odds are good less than half the people will get killed. Your job is to be in the good half.”

“My job?” said quiver-voiced Terrified Guy.

“Sure,” assured the ever-confident Sunglasses. “See,” he said, opening his briefcase to display some graphic crash photos to bolster his case. “This crash, this one in Paris? Thoroughly avoidable, in my humble opinion.” He indicated some other photos. “But no chance of surviving that one. Door failed or something and
boom,
three hundred fifty people ground into fertilizer. And this one? Now, this was a biggy … two jumbo jets crashed into each other on the ground … now, of course that’s not gonna happen here ‘cause we’re airborne, but
this
one?” he said, pointing to another shot of carnage. “Whew, nearly three hundred people, engine falls off …
boom!
Hamburger.”

“Hamburger?” said Scared-Shitless Guy, his voice faltering.

The people in the neighboring seats were now sickened as Sunglasses tried to calm Scared-Shitless Guy with soothing talk of missing limbs and human shreds smaller than packs of matches.

“Did you know,” asked Sunglasses,
“Life
magazine said sometimes they find people’s fingers embedded in the undersides of armrests? You know why?”

His mouth moved, but Scared-Shitless Guy couldn’t even form a word.

“I’ll tell you why,” said the expert. “‘Cause they got so scared tryin’ to keep the plane in the air they tore off their own lingers! Pretty wild, huh?”

A flight attendant noticed the poor man’s extreme distress and warned Sunglasses. “Please, sir, you’re obviously upsetting him.”

“Hey,” blustered Sunglasses, “he’s scared ‘cause it’s all in his mind. Once you face your fears, you’re okay.”

The stewardess seemed unconvinced. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother him anymore. Thank you.”

The moment she left, Sunglasses turned back to the shaking man. “And this one?” he said, indicating a particularly gruesome crash photo. “See the dead man hangin’ from the tree? Ooboy, he musta fallen outta his seat from a good twenty thousand feet. Plane blew in midair.”

“Blew?” said Shitting-His-Pants Guy as the tears began to flow. “In midair?”

“Sure. Happens all the time.”

That was too much, and the man burst into wracking sobs of agonizing fear.

Sunglasses himself called the stewardess. “Listen to him! He’s a sniveling crybaby.” He turned to the crying man and slapped his arm. “What kind of man are you?”

The stewardess was appalled. “Sir, please leave him alone!”

“I will leave him alone when you get him to stop that bawling!”

The stewardess tried comforting the stricken man but after a few more seconds of loud sobbing, Sunglasses was so irritated that, to the horror of everyone watching, he jammed a handkerchief into the guy’s mouth to shut him up. As the battle between the flight attendants and the cruel air-safety expert continued, my tears were real, caused by painfully stifled laughter. The ladies finally got Sunglasses to leave me alone, never knowing their nemesis was a guy who’d probably made them laugh at some point, either on
Taxi
or
Saturday Night Live.
But on that day, Andy was merely a reduced-strength version of Tony Clifton.

Were you on that plane?

Some other aerial hijinks occurred on a flight with our new friend Kris Kristofferson. At the time, airlines were experimenting with inducements to use their services, and some had installed small cocktail lounges in their 747s. American Airlines called theirs Lounge in the Sky, and to get there one climbed a circular staircase from first class into a cozy space complete with a bar and small piano. It had been only a few weeks since the new facilities had been introduced, and travelers were still unsure of their function.

A curtain that separated the lounge from the stairs was drawn during takeoffs and landings, but was generally open in flight. We waited until there were five people in the lounge, and then I approached the flight attendants for their cooperation in our little scheme. They drew the curtain, and after a moment I stepped out and addressed the unsuspecting quintet, all seated around the piano, drinks in hand.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. American Airlines welcomes you to ‘Stars in the Sky,’ an evening of merriment and song. Tonight, we have three of the biggest names in show business.”

Now I had their attention. Five heads swiveled as they were all thinking,
Three big stars? He’s gotta be fooling.

I continued. “Without further ado, allow me to introduce them to you. First, you know him as the composer of such legendary hits as ‘Help Me Make It Through the Night’ and ‘Me and Bobby McGee,’ and as costar with Barbra Streisand a few years back in
A Star Is Born.
Ladies and gentlemen, give a big ‘Stars in the Sky’ welcome to Mr. Kris Kristofferson.”

Their jaws hit the floor when Kris stepped out from behind the curtain, waved, and took a few bows. Before they could recover, I continued. “Next, you know him from numerous television appearances, from
Saturday Night Live
to
The Tonight Show,
he is currently the star of the hit sitcom
Taxi,
please give a warm welcome to Mr. Andy Kaufman!” Andy parted the curtain and bowed, and the people were now wondering,
How the hell can American Airlines afford this?
They applauded furiously, disbelieving their eyes, trying to figure out how to tell the folks back in Kansas about this encounter. I figured we had them, so I took it over the top. “Finally, he has been called the Chairman of the Board and Old Blue Eyes, but I call him Mr. Sinatra, ladies and gentlemen, please bring out the living legend himself.”

Now they went nuts, clapping madly, completely in awe of American Airlines for assembling such powerhouse talent for such a small venue. But when Frank didn’t show, I broke character and explained the prank, and they all screamed at such a good joke. Then Kris and I and our five audience members accompanied Andy at the piano in a hearty rendition of “The Cow Goes Moo.”

Andy was a good Jewish boy who loved and respected his parents and siblings. He looked forward to family get-togethers and shared many a holiday with them and their extended family of spouses, aunts, uncles, cousins, and whoever else would join in. So when George Shapiro called a few weeks before Thanksgiving and told Andy that a well-known resort in the Catskills, Kutscher’s, had offered him a gig for that night, Andy balked.

“That’s the last place I want to be on Thanksgiving, George. I’m spending it with my family.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Andy,” said George. “Kutscher’s will cover your whole family for the night, plus whoever else you want to bring along.”

The idea that Kutscher’s would spring for the whole Kaufman gang appealed to Andy, who saw it as a chance to have a family reunion
and
Thanksgiving dinner all on someone else’s nickel. Andy wanted me along, as well as Greg Sutton, Andy’s musical director and childhood buddy from Great Neck. It promised to be a Borscht Belt kinda Thanksgiving.

Telling George to make it clear to Kutscher’s that he wasn’t going to do his standard show because it was a holiday and he’d be with his family, Andy set the date. When we arrived, the place was hopping, a classic Catskills resort with innumerable activities, from classes to friendly card games to nonstop eating. The band members, all guys over seventy, suspiciously eyed long-haired Sutton as he rehearsed them, probably thinking he was some degenerate druggie.

When it was show time, six hundred paying customers sat back and watched Andy Kaufman introduce his family one by one, who then crossed to center stage and performed. It was exactly what the Kaufman tribe had been doing around the dinner table for twenty-five years, and, like all family entertainment, it seemed killer to the participants. But for paying strangers, it was worse than watching paint dry. After the first few “acts” the crowd Started rustling around in their chairs and within a few minutes quietly chatting among themselves. Their buzzing drowned out the real Grandma Pearl as she carefully related the tale of the rabbi and his dog.

At any second, Andy could have come to the rescue with Elvis or any of ten other bits, but he chose not to, rather he let his family quietly die one at a time. Since Andy was mesmerized by failure, he wanted his loved ones to experience it, to flop in front of a big crowd — a big crowd of
strangers.
As much as they loved and admired Andy, his family really didn’t understand what he did or had gone through to get where he was, so by sacrificing them on stage he could give them all the gift of understanding of that initial elation of stepping out in front of an audience, followed by the agony of bombing. It was his little lesson for them, a small toll he exacted for their having enjoyed the fruits of his success for so long.

Foreign Man and Tony Clifton were magnificent failures, and now so too was the Kaufman Family, the unwitting stars of Andy Kaufman’s gripping production of “My Family Dies On Stage.” Andy even protracted the death scenes by gently prompting the singer or storyteller to warble another verse or chronicle another shaggy dog story, all to the audience’s extreme discomfort. He was using his family as if they were a version of his Great Gatsby routine from the Improv.

At some point one of the older musicians took Greg aside. “If he doesn’t stop this, we’re walking off the stage.” Civility prevented the crowd from throwing their dinners, but when it was finally over we felt the hostility and sought shelter in our rooms. In all my years in show business I have never seen such a mass bombing as I saw on the stage at Kutscher’s that night. It was so catastrophic that when we got back to the rooms Andy’s door displayed a note from the management demanding we vacate the premises
at once.
The failure was complete — another triumph for Andy.

As we exited like Russian refugees, clutching our bags and fleeing the onrushing Cossacks, some of the guests took the opportunity to cast some figurative stones. “That was awful!” yelled one man to Stanley Kaufman. “Your son should get out of show business!”

Stanley stopped and stared down the assailant. “You people are idiots! He’s a genius. Someday you’ll be telling your kids you saw him ‘live.’”

We crowded into the limo, and as an assembled crowd readied to boo us off, Andy made sure he got the last word as he stepped to the waiting door and looked them over with mock contempt. “It’s people like you who give Jews a bad name!” And with that he jumped in and we sped away.

Why would anyone want to self-destruct on stage, let alone allow their own
family
to do so? Perhaps it was his pure rebellion against the ethos that informs the lives of most, that conformity and acceptance are immutable foundations of our daily society. Iconoclasm and revolution, on the other hand, though noble behavior for historical figures, are merely disruptive and antisocial when exhibited by contemporaries.

On Saturday, December 22, 1979, Andy and I walked into Thirty Rock late in the afternoon to begin preparations for our segment on that evening’s
SNL.
The powers at
SNL
had gotten behind Andy’s wrestling matches, and a few weeks earlier, announcer Don Pardo had asked female viewers to send photos with a letter explaining why they thought they could beat Andy in the ring. Unlike our other matches,
SNL
was to pick the challenger. And therein lay the rub.

Their winner was a pro. After laying eyes on this sinewy Greek goddess as she warmed up, then discovering that her cornerman was not only her father, but also an ex-Olympic coach, I knew Kaufman was in trouble. To make matters worse, to sweeten the pot we’d brashly announced that Andy would allow his head to be shaved if he lost. The barber was setting up at ringside, and I cringed at the thought that the man was going to get to use those clippers and at the implications of it. Andy was the star of a national sitcom and his hair was of
mild
importance. If a cue-ball bald Kaufman arrived for work the next week, the resulting shitstorm would make the Tony Clifton appearance seem like a high tea. I sized up his statuesque opponent, and my stomach churned with the certainty that she was the real McCoy and was simply going to kill him.

As I took care of various details, Andy holed up in his dressing room consorting with his own cornerman, the redoubtable “Nature Boy” Buddy Rogers, a platinum-locked grappler from the Golden Age of wrestling. Andy had grown up watching Rogers defeat the forces of evil during numerous televised matches in the ‘50s and absolutely revered him. Lorne Michaels, on the other hand, was not as enamored of Mr. Rogers and in fact had decided, based on Buddy’s lackluster run-throughs, that his appearance was merely “dead air” and needed to be cut to the absolute basics.

Lorne’s motivation to chop Buddy resulted from a scheduling problem with another performer, Mr. Bill, the hapless, rudimentary clay puppet who often met a violent end at the hands of his nemesis, Mr. Sluggo. Mr. Bill was scheduled to appear in his pre-produced “Mr. Bill’s Christmas Special,” and, because some other sketches were already going long, Lorne was nervous that the time slotted for Mr. Bill was diminishing. Since the Mr. Bill sketch was date-specific, and since considerable effort had been expended on its production, Lorne viewed Buddy Rogers’s questionable contribution as wholly expendable.