the troupe all the time.”
The next thing I knew, Renee was gone and I was scrunched up in that van with Neil, three clowns, a shitload of party stuff, and a haggard-looking fairy princess named Julie. A seat would have been wasted on me, so I made a nest out of a pile of painted backdrop. As we tooled down Sunset toward Bel Air, Neil broke the ice by announcing to all and sundry that the newest member of the troupe had made her debut in the movies playing you-know-who.
“Shit,” said Julie. “I could die tomorrow if I had a role like that.”
I told her it hadn’t exactly changed my life.
“Still,” she said, “it’s a legend .”
One of the guys, a gawky red-whiskered clown named Tread, looked over his shoulder at me and said, “I really got off on that part where Mr. Woods eats the loaded brownie.”
“And gets the munchies!” said someone else.
“That was way cool,” said another.
“They wouldn’t even make that scene now.”
“Fuck no, man. No fuckin’ way.”
Neil gave Tread a funny sideways glance.
“Hey,” said Tread. “I’m clean.”
“Just not at the house,” said Neil. “That’s all I ask.”
“Jeez,” muttered Tread.
“Hey.” Neil’s expression was pleasant yet pained. “Do I look like Marilyn Quayle?”
“Totally!” Julie emitted a froggy laugh, then reached over the seat and slapped Neil’s shoulder. “Especially when you do that little pursing thing with your mouth.”
“What little pursing thing?”
“You know.” Julie squinched her mouth up, prompting Tread and another clown to follow suit, to the enormous merriment of everyone but Neil.
“Guys,” he said, drawing the word out in a sort of Valley whine. “Not in front of the new person.”
Julie hooted, then lunged into a real get-down Janis Joplin coughing jag. Emmett Kelly regarded her in doleful silence, then thumped her on the back a few times, to no avail. Neil gazed back at me and winked. “It’s not too late to back out.”
“Hey,” I told him. “No problem here.”
The obstetrician’s house was a low-slung fieldstone affair with a pristine gravel drive, crisp lawns, and a blood-red front door that seemed higher than the house itself. The caterers were erecting a tent on the lawn when we arrived. Neil received his orders from the obstetrician’s wife—a nervous anorexic with one of those carefully windswept lopsided hairdos so popular in Bel Air—then parked the van, as instructed, in a space next to the tennis court.
On my feet again, I stretched and took several deep breaths. My left foot had gone to sleep during the trip, so I stamped it a fewtimes in the gravel, like an old vaudeville horse doing arithmetic. Neil caught this action and grinned at me. “You OK?”
“Yeah.”
“Whatcha wanna blow?”
“Pardon me?”
His lip flickered. “Balloons or bubbles?”
“None of the above?”
He chuckled, then dug into the back of the van and handed me a bottle of bubbles. “Give it a try. It works well with the little kids.”
I asked him how little they were.
“Five or so. It’s a fifth-birthday party.”
“Check.”
“We’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ bring out the cake.”
I smiled at him. “Want me to jump out of it?”
He took that as nervous humor, I guess, because he smiled back and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”
Anyone else who’d reassured me about this mickey-mouse gig would have caught some shit, but Neil was different. As the day wore on, I saw how much he loved his work and how much he wanted me to love it as well. He was terrific with the kids, never condescending, dealing with their minicrises like someone who remembered how it felt. Here’s the image that remains with me: Neil at his keyboard, onyx eyes aglimmer, serenading the birthday girl with an up-tempo rendition of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.” When I jumped in unannounced for the second verse, he was surprised I could sing so well, but he winked at me and
The next thing I knew, Renee was gone and I was scrunched up in that van with Neil, three clowns, a shitload of party stuff, and a haggard-looking fairy princess named Julie. A seat would have been wasted on me, so I made a nest out of a pile of painted backdrop. As we tooled down Sunset toward Bel Air, Neil broke the ice by announcing to all and sundry that the newest member of the troupe had made her debut in the movies playing you-know-who.
“Shit,” said Julie. “I could die tomorrow if I had a role like that.”
I told her it hadn’t exactly changed my life.
“Still,” she said, “it’s a legend .”
One of the guys, a gawky red-whiskered clown named Tread, looked over his shoulder at me and said, “I really got off on that part where Mr. Woods eats the loaded brownie.”
“And gets the munchies!” said someone else.
“That was way cool,” said another.
“They wouldn’t even make that scene now.”
“Fuck no, man. No fuckin’ way.”
Neil gave Tread a funny sideways glance.
“Hey,” said Tread. “I’m clean.”
“Just not at the house,” said Neil. “That’s all I ask.”
“Jeez,” muttered Tread.
“Hey.” Neil’s expression was pleasant yet pained. “Do I look like Marilyn Quayle?”
“Totally!” Julie emitted a froggy laugh, then reached over the seat and slapped Neil’s shoulder. “Especially when you do that little pursing thing with your mouth.”
“What little pursing thing?”
“You know.” Julie squinched her mouth up, prompting Tread and another clown to follow suit, to the enormous merriment of everyone but Neil.
“Guys,” he said, drawing the word out in a sort of Valley whine. “Not in front of the new person.”
Julie hooted, then lunged into a real get-down Janis Joplin coughing jag. Emmett Kelly regarded her in doleful silence, then thumped her on the back a few times, to no avail. Neil gazed back at me and winked. “It’s not too late to back out.”
“Hey,” I told him. “No problem here.”
The obstetrician’s house was a low-slung fieldstone affair with a pristine gravel drive, crisp lawns, and a blood-red front door that seemed higher than the house itself. The caterers were erecting a tent on the lawn when we arrived. Neil received his orders from the obstetrician’s wife—a nervous anorexic with one of those carefully windswept lopsided hairdos so popular in Bel Air—then parked the van, as instructed, in a space next to the tennis court.
On my feet again, I stretched and took several deep breaths. My left foot had gone to sleep during the trip, so I stamped it a fewtimes in the gravel, like an old vaudeville horse doing arithmetic. Neil caught this action and grinned at me. “You OK?”
“Yeah.”
“Whatcha wanna blow?”
“Pardon me?”
His lip flickered. “Balloons or bubbles?”
“None of the above?”
He chuckled, then dug into the back of the van and handed me a bottle of bubbles. “Give it a try. It works well with the little kids.”
I asked him how little they were.
“Five or so. It’s a fifth-birthday party.”
“Check.”
“We’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ bring out the cake.”
I smiled at him. “Want me to jump out of it?”
He took that as nervous humor, I guess, because he smiled back and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll do great.”
Anyone else who’d reassured me about this mickey-mouse gig would have caught some shit, but Neil was different. As the day wore on, I saw how much he loved his work and how much he wanted me to love it as well. He was terrific with the kids, never condescending, dealing with their minicrises like someone who remembered how it felt. Here’s the image that remains with me: Neil at his keyboard, onyx eyes aglimmer, serenading the birthday girl with an up-tempo rendition of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby.” When I jumped in unannounced for the second verse, he was surprised I could sing so well, but he winked at me and
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