Not QUITE the Classics (2 page)

“Well done, Watson! We'll make a thinking man of you yet.”

“Now, there's no reason to—”

“I'm joking. You are right, there were too many syllables. Of course, I was translating from the original Greek, so I should be allowed some latitude. Watson, with my theories and with the aid of this learned tome, I may be on the brink of being funny.”

“Dear God, Holmes, if this discovery falls into the wrong hands, civilization as we know it could end.”

Holmes punctured the awkward silence. “Ah yes. Exaggerism: an exaggerated witticism that overstates the features, defects, or the strangeness of someone or something. Well played, Doctor, well played.” And with that, he sprinted to his study.

I did not see him until two o'clock the next afternoon. He leapt out of his room. (During the period leading up to his performance, Holmes never just walked out of his study. He bounded, leapt, bobbed, hurtled, sprung, pounced, and one time, he gamboled.)

“Tell me, Doctor. Which is funnier: a goat or a duck?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's a simple query. Goat or duck?”

“Well…duck.”

At that, Holmes dropped down as if dodging a projectile. A few seconds later, he popped up. “Did you see what I did there? I mistook your meaning of duck and turned it into a humorous situation.”

“Holmes, have you had any sleep?”

“No time. Awake or asleep, the duck misunderstanding is highly amusing. And you are right, duck is funnier. Do you know why?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“Because its alternative meaning allows you to do physical comedy.”

“No, because it has a
k
in it.”

“The letter
k
is funny, is it?”

“Not in and of itself. It's the k sound that prompts amusement. When a mouth forms the k in any word, it widens into a grin, subconsciously making those observing this smile along. Many words that are endowed with the k factor are among the most amusing in the English language. Think of it: knickers, scuttlebutt, spelunking.”

“I have to admit, I always have to conceal a smirk when introduced to a Kenneth.”

I studied Holmes's tired face. “Would you like me to make you something to eat? I can't remember the last time I saw you indulge in foodstuffs.”

“Thank you, Watson, that is very considerate.”

“What would you like?”

“It's obvious.” He smiled. “Kippers, of course!”

The next day, as I was going over some particularly intriguing anatomical texts, Holmes barreled out of his room.

“Watson! Knock, knock.”

“Ah! Ha ha …yes, very funny, Holmes.”

“What is?”

“Your two k sounds. Yes, quite amusing.”

“No, no, this is a different thing altogether. Knock, knock.”

I stared at him.

“Knock, knock,” Holmes repeated.

“Why do you keep saying ‘Knock, knock?'”

“It's something I have just invented. Well, to be truthful, I borrowed it from Shakespeare. The Porter…from
Macbeth
. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes, Holmes, I am. I'm not illiterate, you know. I have read plays and books. You may have seen me with a newspaper at times.”

“All right, all right. No need to get your dander up. The Porter in the Scottish play pretends to be the porter to the gates of hell welcoming sinners of different professions. All follow the pattern of ‘Knock, knock,' to which comes the reply ‘Who's there?' Then comes the joke. In the play it was a monologue, but I have devised it so that the audience can become part of the fun.”

“How will they know to say ‘Who's there?'”

Holmes seemed nonplussed. “What?”

“How,” I said, unconsciously slowing down as if talking to a Frenchman or a somewhat addled cocker spaniel, “will the audience know to say ‘Who's there?'”

“I shall tell them. That does not matter at the moment. I am trying to work the concept to see if the format is successful.”

“All right. Who's there?”

“Wait for the set-up, will you? Knock, knock.”

“Yes?”

“Not ‘yes.' ‘Who's there?' Let's start again, shall we?” Holmes sighed loudly. “Knock, knock.”

“Who's there?” I said.

“'Tis I, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you recognize me?”

I stood stock-still, not knowing how to respond. Holmes, too, seemed a little uncertain.

“Hmm,” he said. “There's something missing…but what? What? Of course! There's no familiarity with the concept, so there can be no deconstruction at this particular…hmm.” He trailed off, lost in thought. “Watson, after I say who is at the door, repeat the name I give you, adding the word ‘who.'”

“All right, Holmes.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who's there?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock who?”

Affecting a perfect Irish accent, Holmes replied, “Sure, lock the door so I can't get in.”

I laughed. Heaven help me, I laughed. I have never seen Holmes's face so lit up as when he heard that laugh. It worried me.

And so it was for the days leading up to Holmes's debut as a standing up comedian. Just as I was growing accustomed to his prolonged absences, he would launch himself from his study talking about the science of eliciting laughter. If you have never had to sit through such a lecture, I can tell you it is the driest, most mind-numbing subject ever. The worst part of the whole process was that Holmes seemed physically unable to let any word, phrase, or idea pass by without turning it into a joke. It was most annoying. The closer the day of his performance drew, the more high-strung he became. The foreboding I felt would not leave me.

The fateful day arrived. Holmes was not about when I made my way to breakfast. A cursory search of the flat did not turn him up. There was, however, a note.

Watson

I shall see you tonight at the show. Please wish good thoughts for me.

I fear that all may not go according to plan.

The sick feeling in my stomach grew acute.

That evening I made my way to the Lambkin and Puffin. It was not located in the most savory of neighborhoods, yet it was pleasantly appointed and the ale was better than many of the higher-class public houses I frequented. I looked around for Holmes, but he was nowhere to be seen. For a brief moment I entertained the thought that perhaps he had thought better of this venture. Then again, I thought, Sherlock Holmes had faced dangers that would make the stoutest of men blanch. Surely reciting comic material in a pub before a drunken crowd would not unnerve him?

The master of ceremonies, a coarse, affable type, introduced the first act: an immense matron whose repertoire of light opera ditties enthralled the audience—for two or three songs. After the fifth, she was booed handily and left the stage in tears. She was followed by a dog act, an acrobat, and a man who performed various bird whistles from his posterior. At last, it was time for Holmes. He received hearty applause, for he had acquired some fame in these parts, having solved a missing persons case involving a popular local merchant. My heart sank as I saw him walk on stage. He had the telltale signs of having indulged in his favorite vice. I swore silently to myself. Cocaine and comedy could not be a good mix.

Holmes spoke: “Thank you for the kind welcome. I must admit I didn't think I would get here in time. You see, my dog, a lovely Rottweiler, has a bit of a physical impediment. As a caring master, I took him to the veterinarian. ‘My dog's cross-eyed. Is there anything you can do for him?'

‘Well,' says the vet, ‘let's have a look at him.' He picks the dog up and examines his eyes, then checks his teeth. Finally, he says, ‘I'm going to have to put him down.' I was aghast. ‘What? You have to put my dog down because he's cross-eyed?' ‘No,' said the veterinarian, ‘I have to put him down because he's heavy.'”

The audience laughed robustly. Then Holmes did something I have never seen him do. He giggled. It was quite inappropriate and not a little unmanly. It seemed to take the audience aback. Holmes appeared not to notice as he launched into his second story.

“My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, also had a bit of a health crisis. She told her doctor, ‘I've got a bad back.' The doctor said, ‘It's old age.' She said, ‘I want a second opinion.' So the doctor said, ‘Certainly. You're ugly too.'” Holmes giggled once more.

I have to say I was not in the least amused. Mrs. Hudson, while perhaps not the greatest beauty in London, is nevertheless not ugly. I was quite relieved that she had decided not to see Holmes in his inaugural performance. The next joke did little to appease my growing uneasiness. “As an expert in various subjects, I am often asked to give lectures to committees and the like. Once I was asked by the Women's Institute to give a talk about sex. I didn't mind agreeing to give the talk, but I was a bit worried that my friend and biographer Dr. Watson wouldn't like me doing it. He is very prudish about subjects dealing with intimacy.”

What an outrageous lie! But since I had not a voice in these proceedings, I was forced to sit and bear this gross injustice.

“So as to spare his feelings, I told the dear doctor that I was engaged to talk to the Women's Institute on the subject of sailing. The day after my lecture, Watson bumped into the chairwoman of the Women's Institute. ‘I thought the talk Mr. Holmes gave last night was quite excellent!' said the chairwoman. ‘He certainly seemed an expert on the subject!' ‘Did he?' asked the doctor. ‘I'm quite surprised! He hardly knows anything about it. He's only done it twice. The first time he was sick and the second time his hat blew off!'”

The audience laughed at first, and then the greater implications of the story seemed to dawn on them: that I knew all about Holmes's intimacies either through his confidence or through personal knowledge. Holmes had called into question the nature of our friendship, making it the butt of his joke. He seemed to grasp this at about the same time the audience did. Again he giggled, this time with a higher pitch than before. The more he giggled, the less the audience laughed. But Holmes noticed this too late. Beads of perspiration congregated into rivulets of sweat that rolled down his face.

“Uh. I was…no…A man was…” Holmes stopped, his eyes filled with a panic that I never would have thought possible. He had the stunned expression of a Cockney in Greece. He started to pace.

The audience murmured restlessly. One wag at the back shouted, “Come on, 'Olmes. Get on wi' it!”

Holmes gamely kept on with his performance. But in his agitation he seemed to lose his bearings. He was in the midst of remembering what he was to say when he overstepped the stage. In mid-fall he exclaimed, “Oh sweet dear Lord!” then plummeted to the ground.

I am ashamed to say that I burst out laughing, along with the rest of the patrons. Holmes's proper demeanor, coupled with the pratfall, was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I rushed to help my friend, wiping the tears from my eyes. He looked at me with humiliation etched on his brow and through clenched teeth, growled, “Get me out of here, Watson! Now!”

We left to gales of uncontrolled laughter.

After his disastrous performance, Holmes would not leave his study. My entreaties went unheard; the food left at his door went untouched. Three days after his public humiliation, I lost my temper.

Standing at the door to his hideaway, I spoke: “Holmes! This behavior is childish and petulant. I regret that your attempt at stand-up comedy was not as you planned, but for heaven's sake, man, that is what life is. Not everything can be as you wish it. Can we not look at the positive? You are to be commended for your courage in attempting something that is as foreign to you as fighting a war is to the French. There is no shame in failing in this endeavor, not with all that you have, the many skills that leave men envious of your talent. Buck up, me bucko. Just buck up!”

There was silence from beyond the door, then Holmes's familiar voice rang out. “Buck up, me bucko?” He laughed. A good, long laugh. “I had come to the same conclusion as you, my dear friend,” he called out. “It is foolish to think that I should be a jack of all trades. Best to concentrate on what I do best and leave comedy to those who are expert in it. I want to thank you for the support that you have given me throughout this fool's errand. As a reward, would you be my guest at tonight's performance of the Russian Ballet's highly praised production of
Swan Lake
? The only condition is that we never speak of this again and that you not publish this particular adventure until I'm dead.”

“You have my word, Holmes,” I called through the door.

“Excellent.”

The door opened and Holmes stepped out. Or should I say, Madeline stepped out. She was dressed to the nines and quite attractive (in a most uncanny manner, I should clarify). It was a remarkable disguise, capable of fooling the most discerning gentlemen.

“Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a little dinner on the way?”

INSPIRED BY HERMAN MELVILLE'S

MOBY-DICK

“Call me, Ishmael.”

It took Ishmael a few seconds to recognize who had left the truncated message on his cell phone. His agent, Jeff, he realized, with a mixture of relief and indigestion. (He'd hoovered a cup of probiotic yogurt outside the Pilates studio. He wasn't sure if it was the Activia or the roll-ups and single-leg circles that had brought on the nausea.) It had been almost a month since Ishmael had been out on an audition. It had been a slow year, a very slow year. A corpse on
CSI
, a one-line waiter part on
Bones
, and a crying mourner on
House
were all the credits he had to show for twelve months of auditions, play readings, and showcase variety gigs. It was
ridiculous
. He looked into the rear-view mirror and stretched his lips. “It
was
ridiculous.
It
was ridiculous.” He smoothed an unruly, Andy Rooney–esque eyebrow and signaled a left-hand turn on Augusta. There were times Ishmael had trouble accepting the fact that his chosen profession was so unfair. He was a very good actor, had gotten great reviews in recent local productions, was a master of pretending at getting along with people, and yet he still had to hustle for decent parts. Part of him, at least a full three-quarters, had trouble believing he wasn't ranked alongside De Niro, Pacino, and Streep by now. The journey to superstardom starts with one small step, he reminded himself. At least he was getting another audition.

He autodialed Jeff. After he repeated his name to the receptionist, she put him through.

“Hey, Ish. Last-minute audition for today, two o'clock at Caster's. Commercial, national. Pretty straightforward. Spokesperson, warm, friendly, blah blah blah. For Chicken in a Can.”

“Oh, a commercial?”

“Well, beggars can't be choosy.” Jeff had a way with clichés.

“All right. What's the spot about?”

“A young man and his father open up emotionally over a hearty helping of Chicken in a Can. The usual. You're reading for the father.”

It took a few seconds for Ishmael to register what Jeff meant. “Father? How old is the son?”

“Mid-twenties.”

“Mid-twenties? But I'm only thirty-four. Is my character a hillbilly? I can't have a son that old.”

“Logically, yeah. But, you know…you do look older.”

“I look perfectly good. I look younger than thirty-four in my opinion…and others…have that opinion…”

“Ish, face it. You're just one of those guys who look older when they lose their… When they become…You know…”

“Bald?” Ishmael exclaimed shrilly. “What, I lose my hair and I'm Wilford Brimley all of a sudden? So what's left for me? Quaker Oats ads and Viagra infomercials?”

“Hey, life's unfair. Suck it up. You want this audition?”

“Yes,” he said, a tad petulantly.

“Okay, then. I'll email you the script and the details. Good luck.”

Jeff hung up on him.

When he got home, Ishmael was still incensed. This is how I'm being defined as an actor, he thought incredulously, stepping into the shower. The bald guy who looks older than his years. Maybe I should update my résumé. Ishmael Moby—Caucasian, brown eyes, bald. Under his special skills (which included juggling, horseback riding, and squash—three things he had never done in his life), he could add: Can play twice my chronological age.

As he toweled off, Ishmael wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and took a long, hard look at his reflection. I do look older. If I could only afford a better exfoliant, he thought. That's the only reason I look a little weathered. But mostly, he had to admit, the aging was due to the premature grey. More salt than pepper now. The horseshoe haircut didn't help. He was a good-looking man with a strong chin, great cheekbones, and flawless skin. Unfortunately, the skin went a little higher on his head than he would have liked. Ishmael thought that he had come to terms with his hair loss, but obviously he had been fooling himself. But he wasn't the one who needed to come to terms with it. Casting directors were. It was unfair that society couldn't look past a lack of hair, even more unfair that the entertainment industry couldn't. Ishmael equated his struggle with that of Hattie McDaniel, the first African American to win an Oscar. Except for the major differences, their stories were identical.

Ishmael's audition was only a fifteen-minute walk away, but he started to make his way there an hour before his scheduled time. He was notoriously early for everything—auditions, parties, medical appointments. Partly because he thought it showed enthusiasm and a willingness to get down to it, partly because he usually had the time.

As he turned onto Macauley, a tree-lined boulevard full of shops and cafés, he noticed a store that hadn't been there before. Under a green-and-blue striped awning, the sign on the window read “Hair by Rachel” in a lovely serif font. Ishmael looked through the leaded panes at artfully displayed mannequin heads, bedecked with toupees, wigs, and extensions. They were unlike anything Ishmael had ever seen before. They looked incredibly real—no,
better
than real. They looked alive. Silky, glossy hair, of every color and style. One took Ishmael's interest right away. It matched his natural Manila Ice Chocolate brown shade perfectly and looked so luxurious he was overcome with a desire to walk barefoot through it. Ishmael stood there for a full thirty minutes transfixed by its beauty. The sign on the door said “Closed,” or else he might have gone in. He finally managed to tear himself away and reluctantly crossed the street to his audition.

Ishmael's heart sank when he walked into Caster's. It looked like Yul Brynner Tribute Day. About thirty men, in various stages of hair loss, paced around, practicing varied interpretations of the line “It's Chicken in a Can!” On the other side of the room, another group waited for a different audition. Not a chrome-dome in the bunch. In fact, if you put a line straight down the middle of the room, it looked like a before-and-after shot for Rogaine. The only thing both groups had in common was the reek of desperation.

“Hey, Moby!”

Ishmael cringed. Jackie Fleming! Fleming was a constant pain in Ishmael's ass. He was always competing for the same parts, though he was a completely different physical type. Fleming was a big man, close to three hundred pounds, if not more. Three of those pounds may have been actual muscle; the rest was two hundred and ninety-seven pounds of comfortable living. His head was the size of a baby Rottweiler and was stuck onto a body that looked similar to the Pillsbury Doughboy's, if Poppin' Fresh had totally let himself go. Ishmael didn't know how the two of them actually ended up competing for the same parts, but it seemed to happen all the time. Fleming usually came out on top, and he was never a gracious winner. Ishmael despised him.

“Hey, Fleming. What are you auditioning for?”

“Movie of the Week. Third billed. Could be really good.”

“Great,” Ishmael said, relieved. He forced his lips into what he hoped was a supportive smile.

“You part of the Shiny Brigade?”

Ishmael's blood began to boil. His hands clenched and unclenched as he tried to control his temper. “Yes. I am part of that group.” He started to turn away.

“No kidding. Should have worn my sunglasses. The glare…my God, the glare.”

Ishmael whipped around and thrust his head a few inches from Fleming's. “Really, Fatso?”

Someone gasped. One of the hirsute group. Ishmael spun on them.

“Really? That was worth a gasp, was it? He does five minutes of bald jokes and that's okay? But I make one fat joke and I'm the insensitive one?”

“It's genetic,” Fleming mumbled.

“Genetic if your parents hated salads!” Ishmael pointed to his head. “What do you think this is? You think I shave my head every day into this lovely horseshoe pattern because I'm a Secretariat fan? Why is it fine to make fun of us? Why aren't bald people protected by the politically correct!”

Shouts of “Tell it, brother!” and “Shame the hairies!” rang out from the other side of the room. All of a sudden, Ishmael didn't care about the audition; he just wanted to get out of there before he started beating on Fleming with one of the folding chairs in the corner. He ran from the room.

Out on the sidewalk, Ishmael braced his hands on his knees and took long breaths trying to calm himself down. He started for home but then saw that the sign on Rachel's door had been flipped around to “Open.” He crossed the street and stood beneath the awning to gaze in the window. The exquisite hairpiece called to him, like a siren seducing an ancient mariner, “Try me, try me, try me.”

What the hell, Ishmael thought, I just screamed at a fat man in a room full of people. Walking into a hair store is going to embarrass me? He pushed the door open, and the bell over the door tinkled merrily. There was no one around. Good, he thought. Last thing I need is a pushy salesperson.

The toupee was even more breathtaking up close. The light from the window caught the strands and made it shimmer. He wanted it. He touched it, and his hand shook with desire.

“Nice, isn't it?”

Ishmael spun around. Behind the counter stood a woman who could have been anywhere between forty and seventy. Her eyes were black as coal and shifted rapidly from side to side. She had the most untrustworthy face he had ever seen, but her hair was spellbinding. Definitely her best feature, though to be truthful, it didn't have much competition. It was jet black, full, and silky, and it moved with an almost lyrical beauty with every head tilt. She was like a better-coiffed Medusa.

“Beautiful,” she said, pointing to the toupee. “That one's my baby.”

“Your baby?”

“All of them are my babies. I gave birth to them. Metaphorically speaking.” Her eyes ceased their roving and bored into his. “It took months to make them, strand by strand.”

“You must be Rachel.”

“Yes, I must.” She grinned lopsidedly, flashing dull teeth. “Are you interested in adoption?”

“Adoption?”

“Yes. You do not buy my babies, you must adopt them. They give so much more when they know they are loved. It's just simple paperwork. A quick signature and presto.”

Hmm, Ishmael thought, loony-toon. He smiled slowly so as not to alarm her.

“Well, I am interested in…uh…adopting. How much does this one cost?”

Rachel stroked the side of her face. “Ten thousand.” Ishmael's heart stopped. “Ten thousand dollars?”

“My babies are of the highest quality. This little beauty will be the only hairpiece you will need for the rest of your life. It will grow with you, go gray with you.”

“How is that possible?”

“It's possible.” Rachel looked away and her eyes resumed their flickering.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Ishmael repeated. “I can't. That's…a little beyond my budget.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” Rachel picked up a newspaper and trained her eyes on the text. Ishmael wondered how she could read. He turned and headed to the exit and his eyes took in the toupee one last time. His heart beat like a snare drum as he pulled open the door. Rachel laughed softly behind him.

For the rest of the day Ishmael was consumed by thoughts of the toupee. He thought about it as he ran off some new résumé shots. He worried about it all through his shift at the Steer and Stein. He obsessed about it during his “Audition with Balls” workshop. I've got to have it, Ishmael thought, but ten thousand dollars! He'd have to forget about it. He had no access to that kind of money.

But he couldn't forget about it. He dreamt about it that night. Dreams of how it could transform his life.

The next day Ishmael decided to go back to Rachel's and see if he could set up a payment plan. The worst that could happen was that she might say no. As he turned onto Macauley, he saw Rachel on the sidewalk in front of the store sweeping up broken glass.

“What happened?”

She turned to him with ping-pong hate-filled eyes. “Robbery. Someone stole my babies.”

Technically, that would be kidnapping, but Ishmael felt that Rachel wouldn't care for the distinction. He looked into the store through the smashed window. His toupee no longer occupied its prime spot. Most of the inventory was gone.

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

Rachel kept her eyes still long enough to look at him disdainfully. “A ring of bald thieves, I suppose. I saw many of
your kind
across the street there, yesterday. Perhaps the lure of luxuriant hair overcame them.”

“Don't be ridiculous! They're actors. Actors don't steal.” Rachel smiled coldly and made Ishmael shiver. “It makes no nevermind. I will get them back. All my babies will be returned. Every single one of them.” She snorted and went back to sweeping glass.

Ishmael walked back the way he had come, confused and depressed. It wasn't so much the theft of beautiful toupees that saddened him, but the thought that someone else would be wearing his hair. The thought that someone else had taken his baby and would be sharing those special father/baby hair moments filled him with deep despair.

As he passed an alley, he heard a familiar voice. “Try me.”

He stopped and peered down the alley but saw no one. He was just about to move on when he noticed a box partly obscured by a recycling bin. He could make out the lettering on the side of the box: “achel.” He ran to the box, squatted, and with trembling hands opened it. His toupee gleamed softly inside. Ishmael could swear it purred for a second. But how? And what of that voice that called out to him? Could it have been …? Ishmael laughed. Yeah, that's it, he thought, the hair called out to me. It wants me. He laughed again, a little desperately, a little afraid. But full of hope. Holding the box tightly to his chest, he ran all the way home. It wasn't till he was inside the apartment and standing at his kitchen counter, breathless, that he thought perhaps he should have returned the hair to Rachel. He felt a little sick to his stomach.