Clothing Optional (7 page)

—Yeah.

—You like it?

—Yeah, it's funny.

—The Friars are roasting Paul Williams next week, and I'm on the dais, but before I get into my Paul Williams material, you know how I always like to shpritz whoever else is there.

—Uh-huh.

—And Berle is going to be the roastmaster, so I figured that I'd zing him with that one.

—Right.

—It's a funny joke, isn't it?

—Oh, yeah. Very funny.

—I think it'll get a laugh. I got it from this kid who's here with me now. He's just breaking in. He's only twenty-four years old, but he's got some cute ideas, so I'm trying to help him out. He reminds me of you a little.

—Uh-huh.

—Look, maybe you could meet me for a cup of coffee or something and we could discuss the Paul Williams material?

—Okay.

—I really think that it's all there, but maybe you can come up with a gag or two to punch it up.

—Sure.

—I was telling this young writer that you were writing gags just like he's doing until you caught that break and got on TV.

—Right.

—So you want to get together?

—Sure.

—How does Tuesday sound?

—Tuesday's the only day I have a problem with. Can you make it Wednesday?

—Sure, Wednesday's no problem. What do you have doing on Tuesday?

—Well, that's actually why I called. You see, I wrote this movie script that's going into production, and on Tuesday I have a—

—Okay, Wednesday's fine. The roast isn't until Friday, so I'll still have time to go over whatever we come up with over coffee.

—Sure, but listen, I got to tell you—

—I'd like to do well at the roast. It doesn't pay anything, but it's a good career move. I figure if I do good enough, maybe Paul will give me some weeks on his next tour. That's what happened to Freddy last time when they roasted Ben Vereen.

—Look, Stu. I have something to tell you that concerns you.

—Really?

—Yes. I wrote this movie, and I want you to be in it.

—You're kidding.

—No, I'm not. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Tuesday I have a meeting with the casting director, and I want to talk to him about you.

—Geez, I can't believe it. A movie…What's it about?

—Well, basically it's about the relationship between a young writer and a comic.

—Right….

—And, what can I tell you, as the years go by they sort of grow apart comedically, and really don't have that much in common on a professional level anymore. You know what I'm saying?

—Sure.

—But the two of them still keep in touch because they're friends and because the kid stills feels grateful to the comic for giving him his first break and helping make his dream come true.

—Super. Super.

—You like it?

—Are you kidding? It sounds just super.

—Thanks. Well, anyway, Kevin Kline might play the writer who's going to eventually create a role that could help make the comic's dream come true.

—Uh-huh….

—Because the comic is…How should I say this? He's the kind of guy who should be happy—like he's got a beautiful home, a great family, and he makes a lot of money opening for all sorts of headliners.

—Uh-huh…

—But he's the kind of guy who'll never be really happy until he himself becomes a household name—which is what the writer's going to try to do by creating this role for this friend. Do you know what I'm saying?

—Oh, sure I do.

—Well, what do you think?

—It's super. It really is. It really sounds like a winner.

—Thanks.

—Now, what part were you thinking of having me play in the movie?

—Well…uh, I thought it'd be great if you played the part of the comic.

—Really? Hmmm…

—Is something wrong?

—Well, the problem is that I'm not an actor.

—So?

—So I can't see how the hell I can play a guy like that.

—But…

—I mean, look, I know the kind of comic that you're talking about. Christ, I must know a thousand of them. But I don't think it'd be believable if I did it. You know what I mean?

—Well…

—Look, I'm really flattered that you asked me. Really I am.

—Uh-huh…

—Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you actually use one of those comics? You know, some unknown like Dickie Curtis, or Lenny Bates, or Joey Rush? Some guy who can actually play himself? Have you thought of that?

—Well…

—Christ, that would be a hell of a shot for someone like that.

—Right.

—You should consider it.

—Okay.

—Hey, look, thanks again for thinking of me.

—Sure.

—And I'll see you on Wednesday to talk about the Paul Williams roast. Okay?

—Sure.

—What do you say, two o'clock at the Stage Deli?

—That'll be fine.

—So I'll see you then?

—Uh-huh.

—Super.

Bad Exit Strategy

Allow me to begin by saying that I'm basically a good guy. I'm a faithful husband and loving father who tries his best to be a good neighbor in the small New Jersey suburb we live in. Despite all best intentions, however, I do admit that I am not above occasional mishaps—human errors that range from inadvertent oversights to wrongheaded miscalculations. But if pressed to recall a moment where I plummeted to my lowest depth of civil behavior, the time when my chosen exit strategy was, at best, atrocious, it would undoubtedly be what took place about ten summers ago in our town's swimming pool.

It was an August afternoon. The temperature was in the nineties and our kids were getting antsy, so we decided to take them to the local swim club. The Olympic-sized pool was crowded with similar-thinking neighbors who were seeking relief from the oppressive heat. The time soon came, however, when I found myself in need of relief of my own. That's right, I had to pee and was faced with the familiar decision of whether to leave the pool and endure the hot cement of the pool's perimeter on my barefooted way to what was traditionally an unkempt men's room or simply stay put and add a little water of my own to my surroundings.

I opted for the latter with no knowledge whatsoever that the town was trying an experiment where they put a chemical in the pool that, when combined with the acidic property of urine, turned a reddish color, which, in effect, acted as a billboard proclaiming, “THIS DISGUSTING PERSON JUST PEED IN OUR LOVELY POOL!” What followed was even more horrifying, as I had no way of knowing that the rather heavyset woman who was next to me, the one to whom I pointed to let our community know that it was indeed she who made a liquid donation to where they were bathing before I scampered away in a cowardly attempt to put as much distance between us as possible, was a local candidate for mayor. That what I was actually doing was telling a significant segment of the town's voting population that this sweet, grandmotherly woman who was running on a “town beautification” platform had just sullied these very waters with a beverage that she had drunk earlier and was now personally recycling into the pool that they and their loved ones were playing Marco Polo in.

The elections were held that November, and she lost by nine votes. Whether those nine people were at the pool that day and this episode influenced their decision is a question I cannot answer. Nor can I tell you with any degree of certainty that if she was elected mayor, she wouldn't have eventually ridden that wave of popularity to higher offices in the county, state, or, God help me, the United States Senate, had I not snuffed out her political career. All I do know is that about a year later, I saw her at the crowded deli counter of our local supermarket, said, “I am so, so sorry,” and handed her the much lower number I was holding before scurrying away as quickly as if she had just peed in a swimming pool.

The Enchanted Nectarine

In 1979 I ate a nectarine that I still think about.

It was August. August 2 to be exact. My girlfriend and I were getting engaged, and a show I'd written material for,
Gilda Live,
was about to begin its run on Broadway. Life was good. And was made that much sweeter by a purchase I'd made at a Columbus Avenue grocery on my way to rehearsal. A nectarine. China's contribution to the world of fruit. And while this writer does not regard himself adequately gifted to describe the glory of that mutant peach with hairless skin, let's just say that the moment I bit into it, I instantly forgave God for all the wars and sufferings he'd previously turned his back on—figuring he was busy making this amazing nectarine while all that other stuff was happening. This taste of heaven, which caused me to wonder whether, at the next round of SALT, the Soviet Union would think twice about invading Afghanistan if Jimmy Carter were to feed Leonid Brezhnev a nectarine like this one just before their little chat got under way. Whether Leonid would, instead, take one bite, immediately drop to the floor in a squatting position, and hold Carter's hands as they kicked their heels in the jubilant Cossack dance from the wedding scene in
Fiddler on the Roof.

But the wonders of this nectarine did not stop there, however, as my other senses, apparently envious of the festival the taste buds were attending, shifted into a higher gear and became more receptive to the offerings of the city street's colors, music, and smells that they were previously too self-involved to savor.

Yes, all that was right with the world was embodied in that single nectarine, whose only fault was that it wasn't the size of a basketball so its majesty could be shared by entire neighborhoods over the course of several weeks. As it was, I now was in the process of sucking whatever juices still remained in the strands clinging to its pit when I entered the Winter Garden Theater and learned of a tragedy—first from a stagehand, then verified by everyone else. Thurman Munson, the New York Yankees catcher and team captain, had died in a plane crash. The heart of the lineup as well as the dominant spirit of their clubhouse lost his life while practicing takeoffs and landings in the Cessna he'd bought so he could spend days off with his family in Canton, Ohio.

A city of fans was instantly bound by shock. Disbelief. Raw emotions were soon followed by tributes. The catcher's position left empty as the Yankees took the field for their next game…The scoreboard photo of Munson, his frizzy hair peeking out from beneath his cap, towering over a tearful Reggie Jackson in right field…A young widow with three small children at a televised funeral.

I'd never met Thurman Munson, but I mourned the loss. Selfishly, I was going to miss his presence on the team he personified. Their first captain since the legendary Lou Gehrig. Emblazoned on the tail of the doomed Cessna was the same number that was stitched on his jersey, NY15. A true Yankee to his untimely end.

I didn't idolize Thurman Munson—perhaps because I was now twenty-nine years old and supposedly past the age of regarding ballplayers with the same awe as I did Mickey Mantle and Sandy Koufax while growing up. Then again, those players were bigger than the game itself, performing with a grace that elevated the acts of hitting and throwing cowhide to an art form. This was not the case with Thurman Munson, whose play was regularly described by adjectives such as
scrappy, gruff,
and
combative.
Whereas I don't have a single memory of Willie Mays having a spot of dirt on his uniform, Thurman was the blue-collar counterpart who wallowed in his attempts to protect home plate or dive into the stands to catch a foul ball. His every move gave the appearance of an effort. Unbridled exertion. Thurman's demeanor was abrupt and coarse. He was stout and hairy, and on no planet in any universe would he be considered handsome. Yet, this was his attraction. Why he was crudely lovable. Ralph Kramden with shin guards. A common laborer who toiled for a paycheck. Who loved his family. And his life. And most probably appreciated a good nectarine. Devoured it with abandon. Relished every fleck that didn't get caught in his droopy moustache. And slobbered the juices that hadn't already spilled onto the front of his already soiled shirt.

Did Thurman Munson like nectarines? Was it possible that the bulge in this tough guy's cheek was not a chaw of tobacco but, indeed, a pit? I had no way of finding out. I knew none of his teammates, and the few sportswriters I was friendly with thought I was kidding when I asked. So the question was quickly assigned to the same part of my brain where other former curiosities like “Would Jesus have thought Good Friday was an appropriate name for the day he was crucified?” and “Do fat people use more toilet paper?” were filed.

Then, some years later, I met Thurman's wife, Diana. A friend of mine took me to a reception the night before Old-Timers Day at the stadium. I got to see some of my childhood heroes, now elderly men in shirts and ties who no longer looked like baseball players but like elderly men in shirts and ties. Sensitive to both their and my need for them to be young again, I found myself picturing these gentlemen as they once looked on baseball cards—a white lie that no one in the room seemed to mind. When I was introduced to Mrs. Munson, however, more than anything, I wanted to ask if her late husband liked nectarines, but I knew my question would be a reflection on the person I was a guest of and the collateral damage could have been disastrous if it was deemed inappropriate or, more likely, idiotic.

So while I know that it would be a far better ending to this tale if I said that by the end of the evening my curiosity swelled to the brink of eruption, causing me to dash out into the parking lot, catching up to her just as she reached her car, excuse myself, ask if Thurman liked nectarines, and that she took a moment to orient herself before a wide smile appeared on her face as she recalled the memory and said, “Why yes, Thurman loved nectarines”—I cannot honestly say that is what happened. Nor can I say that to this very day whenever I bite into an amazing nectarine, I think about Thurman Munson. Hell no. If that kind of sappiness even makes this oftentimes overly sentimental wordsmith cringe with horror, my guess is that Thurman would use it as an excuse to come back from the dead to beat the shit out of me, and he would be justified in doing so. In fact, there's an excellent chance that I would join him in giving me a sound thrashing. That being said, I cannot remember eating as good a nectarine since that day.