Lady Parts (22 page)

The scene continues as the parents become more unruly and the teacher becomes more frustrated. It culminates with Catherine yelling at the parents.

CATHERINE: I called you here because I thought we could have a dignified conversation about your children’s problems, but now I realize that’s impossible,
you
are your children’s problems. And should never waste the teacher’s time. Repeat after me, I should not waste the teacher’s time. ALL: I should not waste the teacher’s time.

CATHERINE: Again.

ALL: I should not waste the teacher’s time.

CATHERINE: Mrs. Prickley, a hundred times on the board.

ANDREA:
Me?

CATHERINE: Yes! Now!

ANDREA: I should not waste the teacher’s time …
Lights slowly fade out.

It was at that moment, on stage at the Old Firehall, that Edith Prickley was born. The posture, the voice, the intonation, the laugh, the volume, the name Edith all came together the minute I entered the scene and Catherine christened me Mrs. Prickley. When, while writing this book, I called Catherine to make sure I had the details correct, she reminded me that for a few weeks after that first time we performed “Teacher,” she came up with a different name to introduce me, but the name Edith Prickley was so perfect, it stayed. And so did Mrs. Prickley’s indefatigable laugh,
Pahaaaaaa!!!!!

I have held on to Mrs. Prickley’s leopard hat and jacket, and to her glasses, all these years. I still wear the costume when I perform the character at various benefits and in my one-woman shows. In 2008, Marty, Dave, Eugene, Joe, Catherine, and I performed “Teacher” at a Toronto fundraiser for the
alumni of Second City. We were all on stage together. I looked around at my friends and was awestruck. We were still making each other laugh some thirty years later. I felt honoured and deeply moved to be there with them. During the show, and specifically in the scene “Teacher,” we were kids again. No time had passed since 1977, when our careers were just beginning and the roots of
SCTV
were taking hold.

SCTV’
s Fiftieth Anniversary Benefit for the alumni fund.
From left to right:
Catherine, Harold, Eugene, Marty, Joe, me, and Dave.

I have done everything in this house, including polishing eight butter knives that I have not used in twenty years, to avoid writing this chapter on
SCTV.
Everything. I have tried to make friends with the animals in my yard, which include a mongoose, two geese, two ducks, and two swans. No animal will have anything to do with me. They know I’m stalling, and they are not willing to enable me one minute more.

So, after I finish gathering and sorting every loose nail in my tool chest, I will open up my
SCTV
file, entitled “What Do You Think of This?,” and try to write about those seven years that changed my life, that formed my career, that made it impossible to ever take direction from anyone on any subsequent TV show I did after
SCTV
went off the air in 1984. I will try to write about those glorious years with my talented friends, eight of the most gifted comic minds that have ever graced this planet: John Candy, Harold Ramis, Joe Flaherty, Martin Short, Dave Thomas, Eugene Levy, Rick
Moranis, Catherine O’Hara—and if I can accomplish just one-eighth of what we accomplished on TV with this book, I will be happy.

Patty Hearst was a nineteen-year-old socialite and heir to the William Randolph Hearst fortune when she was captured by the Symbionese Liberation Party, blindfolded, and allegedly locked in a closet for two months. When she was finally let out, she held up a bank and wrote letters to her family, calling them Communist pigs. Psychologists rushed to her defence and blamed her transformation on brainwashing, or the more fancy term, the Stockholm Syndrome. Her life was no longer about her; it was about the Symbionese Liberation Party and her fellow members.

Although I did not brandish a rifle and rob a bank, my life for my seven years with
SCTV
was not about me; it was about the nine of us. We were all blindfolded from the rest of the world and locked in a time capsule of collaboration and creative freedom. When you’re in the zone, you’re in your own time—in fact, you’re beyond time. I was beyond time for seven years. Conjuring up the memories feels like a violation. I’m reluctant to revisit them. I don’t want our experiences, which are sacred to me, to be exposed and misinterpreted. I want to protect the memories. Luckily because of the age I am, I can’t remember specifics, but I can recall in broad strokes my devotion to my talented friends.
And yet, as I write this chapter, I feel lost, because there was nothing singular about those years. Everything about
SCTV
was the group. Where are my buddies, my fellow members? How I wish they were just down the hall, and I were back in our old writing offices in Toronto or Edmonton. I could meander my way into anyone’s office, start brainstorming, pace around the room, laugh, collaborate, and laugh some more. By the end, something would have been written. And it would have been funny. How would we have measured that? From each other’s laughter. Our written scenes would then be passed along a conveyor belt of creativity.

Wardrobe, headed by our darling Juul Haalmeyer and Trudy, his mom, designed elaborate costumes, sewing them from scratch; Makeup, led by the brilliant Bev Schectman and Christine Hart, researched and then drew and painted our faces like works of art; and Hair, designed by the incomparable Judi Cooper-Sealy, produced styles of stunning originality. All of these talented people collaborated closely with us and, in many cases, were responsible for creating the characters themselves. It wasn’t until Bev suggested I paint my teeth a blinding white, Juul found a red plaid Scottish skirt and a starched white blouse with a plaid tie, and Judi created a mousy brown wig that I realized who Yolanda DeVilbis was.

She was the character on
SCTV
who recited the upcoming events in Melonville on her ten-minute weekly program,
Melonville Calendar.
Upon seeing my white teeth, Catherine threw out a suggestion that timid Yolanda have a stutter as she recites the upcoming uninteresting events:

“This week at the Melonville Mixer, you can get three, free … free, three … three free fruit beverages. Orange … grape … and orange.”

The writers, the actors, the crew, the director, the producers, the caterer, the janitor—anyone we asked, “What do you think of this?”—gave us their opinions. All of them were responsible for lifting our words off the page. Everyone supported each other and egged each other on. There was no one to squash our comedic impulses. We were kids in a playground, and comedy props and costumes were our toys. It was collaboration unlike anything I had ever experienced before or would after, and writing this chapter without the cast is as foreign to me as performing
SCTV
alone. And so I emailed my friends.

Dear cast and writers of
SCTV:

I have been writing a book of essays for HarperCollins Canada for the last two years. I am near the end of the first draft and have yet to include
SCTV.
I am asking you if you would take a minute to email me what you think is worth remembering and what is worth forgetting about me during the show. I’m not asking you to do the writing; I just can’t remember details, which begs the question, why am I writing a book? Which begs the bigger question, who in their right mind would read it?

Love and miss you all,

Andrea

Over the next week, I heard from Catherine:

Oh dear. I’m a woman in my fifties, but I’d be oh so happy to attempt to reminisce with you. It will be like Libby and Sue Bopper. On the bright side, I guess it means we’re not that old. If we were, we’d have that excellent long-term memory. I look forward to laughing with you.

Mike Short, one of our writers and Marty’s brother, emailed me that he had hundreds of stories—“What about the nine thousand times you showed the fellas your tits?” Bob Dolman, one of our talented writers and also my husband at the time of
SCTV,
wrote, “I remember something.” And believe me, he did. I was so grateful to hear Bob’s recollections, as he had a bird’s-eye view of my time with
SCTV.
He saw me in and out of the TV studio, in and out of our bed, and in and out of the maternity ward twice as I gave birth to our sons during those seven years.

As I was talking to each person, I realized we all remembered the smaller details differently but agreed on the larger picture: that we all trusted and looked out for each other.

I never heard back from Joe Flaherty but didn’t expect to, he being the most eccentric person of the group. That’s not to say that Joe won’t appear just as I’m about to finish the book. And he’ll undoubtedly have the most wisdom and the funniest take on our years together. But for now, he’s probably using his frequent flyer miles to travel to countries all over the world, in no particular order and with no particular plan. He’s always been a fanatic for accruing sky miles. Joe was the cheerleader and ringleader on
SCTV,
and his quick mind and sarcastic humour motivated me to write some of my favourite pieces. Without Joe, the
Evita
parody “Indira” or the
Annie
parody, starring a thirty-year-old
chain-smoking Andrea McArdle as nine-year-old Little Orphan Annie, would not have been written.

Joe had the ability to take something earnest and, with the slightest twist, turn it into something hysterically funny. He also had the gift of saying what everybody was thinking but was afraid to say. In a brainstorming meeting once, our producer, Nancy Geller, whom we all loved, pitched an idea, and the room went quiet. After a minute, Joe blurted out, “Uh, that’s a really interesting and terrible idea, Nancy.” Everybody burst into tears and laughter because we were all thinking that the idea was horrible, but who had the nerve to say so? It was Joe who had the courage.

During
SCTV’
s last year, on the US pay-cable station Cinemax, Catherine, who had left the show, came back to do our final episode. We had run out of money and yet had to deliver the eighteenth show. We were in the green room, and Catherine was improvising as Lola Heatherton, who had just got out of rehab. Joe laughed at everything Catherine did. “Look at her,” he said. “She’s just free. She can improvise and go off. It’s like working with a genius.” I said, “What about me, Joe?” He responded, “No, she’s perfect. You, go learn your lines.” And he walked out.

On second thought, I hope he doesn’t respond to my email.

When I got in touch with Eugene, he wrote back:

My memory is worse than yours. Were you on the show?? Need some time. Will get back ASAP.

Eugene

xo

His response was typical Eugene. That’s how he wrote. He would think and ponder and let an idea grow, and when he was ready to write, he’d sit alone and meticulously create a scene for the cast. But it was on his timetable, because he had his own rhythm. He also could be a little stubborn. Marty recalled my talking to Eugene about a piece I had written and Eugene saying to me, “I just wish I understood what the point of it was.” He was being sincere, and it never occurred to him that I might be insulted. I leaned over with a pen in my hand and drew an
X
on his pants over his penis and said, “That’s so Deb [Eugene’s wife] can find it later.” I loved making Eugene laugh. Out of everyone I contacted, Eugene was the only person to respond literally to the question I posed in my email. After a week, he sent me what he referred to as his “writing assignment” and said he hoped it was what I was looking for. The following is his beautiful and funny recollection of our time together: