Jake the Fake Goes for Laughs

by Craig Robinson

  “They’re my favorite band in the world!” she told me, panting, when she stopped. “I watched their video like fifty times last night! How in the world did you get them?”

  “Uh…you know Conceptual Art Band is just my sister and Pierre, right? And that’s me and Evan in the video, dressed like eggs.”

  Azure screwed up her face. “Really?”

  “Yeah, dude. You watched the video fifty times and you didn’t recognize any of us?”

  Azure looked puzzled. “Were you wearing makeup or something?”

  “Well, Lisa and Pierre have wigs on. And you can’t see much more than Evan’s and my legs. But it’s us.”

  “Holy cow. Your sister’s famous, man.”

  “I know. So you’ll come?”

  “I’ll come. But not because of Conceptual Art Band.”

  “That’s—” I started to say, but Azure hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re a good egg, Jake,” she said when she let go. “And I don’t just mean in the video.” Then she walked away.

  By lunch (goat cheese and roasted bell pepper frittata, sunchoke soup), I had handed out the invitations, and the room had definitely thawed, in terms of how my friends were treating me. I was still sensing a hint of skepticism from Bin-Bin and Zenobia and a few others, probably because, like Azure said, it was a little weird to apologize for being full of myself by inviting everybody back to the place where I’d gotten that way. But maybe there was also something appropriate about it.

  There were two things I still had to do. One was plan the entertainment for the evening, besides asking Conceptual Art Band to perform. I had some ideas about that. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it would probably take all the money I had left after renting the Yuk-Yuk, but I thought I could pull it off.

  The second and more difficult thing was apologizing to Evan and making sure he came. I’d been the jerkiest to him by far, and Evan was kind of a stubborn guy.

  For example, when we were in second grade, we’d had a contest to see who could wear the same shirt longer. I think we bet, like, fifty cents or something, which was a lot of money back then. Not only did Evan win, but just to prove a point he wore the shirt for an additional two weeks after the contest was over. He kept it hidden under a can of motor oil in his garage, and after he left the house for school every morning, he’d sneak in there and put it on. By the end, it was covered in so many food stains that he probably could have survived a week in the wilderness just by sucking on it. The point being, once Evan sets his mind on something, changing it is not the easiest thing. But he was my oldest friend and I had to try, so I went straight to his house after school and rang the bell.

  His mom answered. Her name is Celia. She’s almost like my second mom, I’ve spent so much time at Evan’s house.

  “Jake. Hi.” She looked surprised to see me, which probably meant that Evan had told her about our fight.

  “Hi,” I said. “Is Evan home?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then opened it. “He is.” Long pause. “I’m sorry, Jake. He saw you coming up the walk, and he told me to tell you he doesn’t want to see you.” It looked like it was breaking her heart to say it.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling my own heart crack open a little.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know how he can be. But I’m sure he’ll come around. Is there anything you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him I’m sorry for missing his game,” I said. “And that I know friendship is a two-way street, and I won’t forget it again. And tell him he should come to this.” I handed her the last invitation to Friend Appreciation Night.

  “I will,” she said.

  “Thanks. Oh, and tell him that my sister has a bunch of money for him, from the video. I don’t know if you heard, but the song kind of blew up.”

  “I sure did!” Evan’s mom said. She looked at the invitation. “I’ll give this to him right now, Jake.”

  She waved goodbye and shut the door. I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the closed door. Then I looked up at Evan’s bedroom window and waved, just in case he was watching.

  Nobody except the invited guests was supposed to know that Conceptual Art Band was playing at the Yuk-Yuk, but somehow word got out. When we arrived to load in all their equipment, there were about four dozen reporters waiting, and this time there was no avoiding them.

  “I guess it’s time to talk,” Lisa said to Pierre.

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed. “Let’s do it.” They high-fived and turned to face the throng.

  “Howdy,” Lisa said. “So, uh, we’re Conceptual Art Band. I’m Lisa, and this is my boyfriend, Pierre.”

  “Hi,” said Pierre. “I’m Pierre, and this is my girlfriend, Lisa. We’re Conceptual Art Band.”

  The reporters all started screaming questions at once: How does it feel to have a hit? Why the duck-billed platypus? What’s next for the band? Blah blah blah. Considering how long Lisa and Pierre had made them wait, I thought they’d come up with more interesting questions.

  Apparently, Lisa agreed. “No offense,” she said, “but those are all pretty boring questions. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Yeah,” said Pierre. “I mean, we don’t really know what’s next. But you know what’s fascinating? Mushrooms. Did you know that there are mushrooms underground that are miles long? They’re the biggest life-forms on the planet. Isn’t that cool?”

  The reporters didn’t really know what to make of that. I guess they were used to bands wanting to talk about themselves.

  “Super cool,” said Lisa. “Hey, you know what that reminds me of? The weight of all the ants in the world is equal to the weight of all the humans. Crazy, right?”

  “No way,” said Pierre.

  “Yes way,” said Lisa.

  “Far out,” said Pierre.

  “Without a doubt, Cub Scout,” said Lisa.

  “Shout, don’t pout,” said Pierre.

  “About grout, you lout,” said Lisa.

  The reporters were quiet. I think they weren’t really sure what was going on. Maybe they suspected that they were watching some sort of conceptual art piece right now. But I knew that was just how Pierre and Lisa talked.

  Finally, we all managed to get inside. There were a lot of Conceptual Art Band fans lined up outside, too, but when the club manager told them this was a private show, they started to drift away.

  Pretty soon after that, my friends started to arrive.

  They took their seats, and I went around greeting everyone. All the food was on the house, and the waitresses brought out a ton of appetizers for everybody, until all the tables looked like Maury’s and Mr. Allen’s had last week. Speaking of Mr. Allen, he showed up, too, along with my whole class, my parents, and a bunch of Lisa’s and Pierre’s buddies. It turned out that after a few crazy days of fame, they felt like they needed to show some appreciation for their friends, too, for keeping them sane in the middle of all the madness. Which was fine by me. The crowd was rounded out by some of the disgruntled neighbors my dad had promised tickets to. They weren’t disgruntled anymore. In fact, they were totally gruntled.

  When everybody was stuffed full of delicious, unhealthy comedy club food, I jumped onstage and grabbed the mic.

  “Welcome to Friend Appreciation Night!” I howled. “I’m your host, Jake Liston, and tonight I will not be performing. I’m only up here for one reason: to tell you guys that from now on, I’m gonna be the best friend I can to each and every one of you. Last week you all came out to support me, and what did I do? I took it for granted. I didn’t pay it back. I—”

  “Enough already!” shouted Azure. “We forgive you, dude. Now stop being boring, and tell some jokes or something.”

  Everybody whooped and hollered, and I figured the point had been made. And that maybe going on and on about it
was actually just as egotistical as anything I’d done all week.

  “I have something better than jokes,” I said.

  “There’s nothing better than jokes,” somebody called back. I wasn’t sure who, and the stage lights made it hard to see. Maybe Forrest, although it was hard to imagine him shouting like that.

  In any case, I reckoned I’d better tell a couple, at least. “Okay,” I said, “I was just going to introduce my sister and her boyfriend, otherwise known as Conceptual Art Band”—the crowd exploded into cheers, and I had to wait it out—“but I guess I can tell you a little about what it’s like when somebody you live with suddenly becomes famous.” I took a pause, not really for effect but because I didn’t know what the heck I was going to say. “I guess I always knew Lisa would be famous,” I started, because it was true. “I just never thought it would happen overnight. I thought I’d have time to prepare, but I got caught totally flat-footed. I haven’t written one single chapter of my tell-all memoir.”

  I got some laughs, especially from the neighbors. “The worst part,” I went on, “is that I’m in the video, but nobody knows it, because I’m wearing an egg costume. For the rest of my life, I’m going to be that guy claiming he did something, but he can’t prove it, and nobody believes him. Like all those old hippies claiming they were at Woodstock, showing you a photo with four thousand naked people writhing around in the mud and saying ‘Look, I swear, that’s my butt.’ ”

  “I do not underztand vhy he ees talkink about hees butt!” Klaus whispered to Azure, so loudly that the whole club heard it. He got a bigger laugh than I did.

  “And now,” I said when it died down, “I have a special treat for you all. I’d like to introduce a man who is one of my personal heroes. A man who has forgotten more about comedy than I’ll ever know. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure he also forgot to shower today.”

  I heard a loud chuckle to my left and saw Maury Kovalski shuffling toward me. I guess he’d decided that was enough of an introduction.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll take it from here, sonny boy,” he said, shooing me away. I handed him the mic and stepped down into the audience to watch. Maury had said no the first three times I’d asked him to perform, but I knew he was just being difficult. You didn’t go around telling that story about Henny Youngman and the pigeon like it was the key to life itself, and then turn down a chance to get onstage.

  “Hello there,” Maury began, giving the crowd a little wave. “Boy, oh boy. It’s been about thirty years since I’ve stood on a stage like this. And by a stage like this, I mean a stage that might collapse at any minute and kill me. Would it hurt them to spruce this joint up a little bit? I swear, backstage they got an ashtray with half a cigar smooshed in it that Sammy Davis Jr. left there in 1971.”

  He paused and cocked an eyebrow at my friends in the front row. “What am I talking about Sammy Davis for? When were you born? Thursday? Wednesday? I’m surprised you can even dress yourself. I’ve got cartons of Chinese takeout in my fridge older than you.” He threw his hands up. “That’s what I get for getting old. Nobody knows what the heck I’m talking about anymore. But the nice thing is, when you’re old you can get away with anything. I can go to the grocery store in a bathrobe and bunny slippers, and nobody says a word. They think I’m senile! It’s great! Sometimes I walk up to people on the street and ask them for directions to their houses, just to see what they say. Sometimes I take my cane and put it right on top of their shoe, and press down as hard as I can, and watch their faces contort in pain—but they don’t say anything! They don’t want to be rude to an old fart like me!”

  By this point, we were all laughing so hard we were crying. But Maury was just getting warmed up.

  “I wasn’t always this old, you know. I used to be younger. Just yesterday I was younger, as a matter of fact. And believe it or not, I used to be really young! To give you an idea, when I got started in comedy, my first bit was an impression of Abraham Lincoln. The problem was, at that point in time Abraham Lincoln was just a goofy-looking kid a couple years behind me in grade school.”

  Just then, I heard a noise behind me that I would have recognized anywhere. It sounded like a hyena barfing up three dozen medium-sized Lego pieces, but really it was the way Evan Joseph Healey laughed when he thought something was really, really funny.

  I turned and there he was, with tears streaming down his face.

  “You came!” I said. Which was pretty much in the category of Extremely Obvious.

  “I came,” he said, wiping the tears away.

  “I was a jerk,” I said, and offered him a hand.

  “Yup,” he said, looking down at my hand as if it was a mackerel or something. “I’m not gonna shake your hand, dude.”

  “I understand,” I said sadly, and dropped it to my side. “I…”

  “I’m gonna give you a hug, you big dummy.”

  “Oh!” I said, not sadly. The opposite of sadly, in fact.

  He hugged me. It wasn’t something we usually did, me and Evan. But it felt good. I hugged him back and felt a tightness in my chest fade away that I hadn’t even realized was there. For the first time in a long time, I was at ease. Like all the wrongs had been righted, and everything was a-okay in the world.

  But that wasn’t entirely true. There was still one major wrong to right, and it was up to me to make it happen. I told Evan I had some business to take care of, and walked back toward the stage.

  Maury was still going strong when I climbed onto the side of the stage, and it took him a few moments to notice me. When he did, he ignored me and kept on telling jokes. That wasn’t surprising. I would have done the same thing if some bozo walked onstage during my set.

  “So I say to him, ‘How much land you got here anyway, mister?’ And he says, ‘I’ll put it like this: if I get in my car and start driving around my property at eight in the morning, I won’t get back until eight at night.’ ‘And so I say, yeah, I used to have a car like that myself.’ ”

  The audience erupted, and Maury covered the microphone with his hand and hissed at me, “Get outta here, kid. Whaddaya trying to do?”

  Now everybody else had noticed me onstage, too. I waved my arms for their attention. Maury waved his hands at me to stop. We looked like a pair of crazy cheerleaders.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I have one more big surprise, seeing as it’s Friend Appreciation Night.” I turned to Maury. “This one is for you, Mr. Kovalski.”

  “Don’t tell me—you’re gonna pay me for my time,” he said, and the crowd chuckled.

  “Even better,” I said. I lifted my eyes to the back of the room and made a beckoning motion.

  At my cue, a very large man stood up and began walking toward the stage.

  Maury had no idea what was going on. I decided to help him out.

  “All the way from South Florida,” I said, “may I present…Little Abie Mendelson!”

  Little Abie walked onstage and took a bow.

  “Hiya, Maury,” he said. “Long time, eh?”

  For a second, I thought Maury was going to keel over. Then he said, “I’m sorry, my hearing’s not so good these days. You are Little Abie Mendelson? Or you ate Little Abie Mendelson?”

  Little Abie didn’t miss a beat. He folded his arms behind his back, rocked back and forth on his heels, and spoke in a loud, clear voice:

  The Spaceman: Ladies and gentlemen, today is a day that shall be remembered throughout the history of mankind. For today, we have reached the planet Mars—and even more astonishing, we have found sophisticated life! I am only a humble spaceman, ladies and gentlemen, but it is my honor to bring you the first interview ever with a real, live Martian!

  From the back of the room, Mr. Allen was applauding madly. So were my parents and our neighbors. Suddenly, it hit me that they knew this routine. They had grown up on Maury and Little Abie.


  For a few moments, nothing happened. And then I saw a tear streak down Maury’s cheek. He wiped it away so fast that I was probably the only one to see it. Me and Little Abie Mendelson, I mean. The two of them exchanged a look, and I knew something had been communicated between them. Apology, forgiveness, good to see you, I can’t believe how long it’s been, boy are you fat, ah shove it. Something.

  And then, just like that, the look was over. Because these guys were professionals, and there was a show to do.

  The Spaceman: How are you, sir?

  The Martian: Eh, I’m okay, I guess. I just ran out of strudel, which is kind of a bummer. Who are you again? Agnes’s nephew?

  The Spaceman: No, sir—I am an earthling. A visitor to your planet. Do you mean to say, sir, that you have strudel here on Mars?

  The Martian: Well, not anymore. We just ran out. Why, did you bring some? (turns and shouts behind him) Mabel, there’s a strudel delivery guy here!

  The Spaceman: No, no, sir—I am from Earth! I’ve traveled many million miles, and I have to tell you, I’m astounded to find life here on Mars!

  The Martian (shrugging): If you call this life.

  The Spaceman: What is your name, sir?

  The Martian: My name is Zygbabagadoogagadaklooblazoo.

  The Spaceman: Z-Zygbabagadoogagadaklooblazoo?

  The Martian: Yes, that’s right.

  The Spaceman: And do you have a last name?