What's So Funny?: My Hilarious Life

by Tim Conway

  I yearned to have a proper pet like Oscar the cat, but we watched our pennies pretty closely so I had to make do with other kinds of animals. Over the years I had some rats, a rabbit, a lizard, and a bird. It wasn’t a fancy bird like a canary, but a regular bird, probably a sparrow. I also remember a chicken I named Clucky. I considered him a pet, but he went missing one day and that night we had fried chicken for dinner. Hmmm. There was a dog that strayed into our yard once and stuck around because no one claimed him. I named him Frisky. One day Frisky made a terrible mistake; he bit Dan. Dan immediately whisked Frisky off to live on a farm, assuring me that the dog would be happier there. Dan said we could go visit him from time to time, but we never did. Hmmmm.

  Before I forget, I’ve got to discuss a major part of life in the late 1930s and the 1940s: the movies. You really can’t talk about small towns in those days without mentioning the local movie houses. Ours was The Falls Theatre, a typical Art Deco building, about a mile from our house. Outside stood a freestanding box office beneath a triangular-shaped marquee. You’d get a child’s ticket for a dime (adults paid a whopping twenty-three cents) and go inside. You’d pause at the brightly lit candy counter, get your refreshments (for five or ten cents), show your ticket, and proceed into the dimly lit, red, plush-seat interior that reeked deliriously of freshly popped corn, not nachos or chicken fingers. Television, as we now know it, has obscured the fact that movies were the entertainment lifeline for my generation, and for the previous one, too. I’m here to tell you that nothing has ever matched the thrill of slipping into a darkened theatre, reveling in a newsreel, a selected short, a cartoon, and then, a double feature. It was entertainment with a capital E. I’d sit there laughing and applauding, never imagining that I’d grow up to meet and actually work with some of those bigger-than-life people on the screen. In 1964, I returned to Chagrin for the opening of the movie version of McHale’s Navy. When I arrived at my beloved Falls Theatre, I looked up to see my name above the title on the marquee. Ernie Borgnine was the star, but in my hometown, I got top billing—one of the biggest thrills in my life!

  I loved almost all movies, especially the comedies. Come to think of it, I can remember only one film that I didn’t enjoy watching. I saw it on a Saturday afternoon at The Falls. I met Marty at the box office, and the two of us went in for a matinee featuring a re-release of Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. We bought a nickel box of popcorn to share and took our seats in the first row. There’d been a lot of hype about Frankenstein. We knew that it was about a doctor who rips off body parts, takes them back to his lab, and sews them together to make a monster. Big deal. Did they actually think this was going to scare people?

  Marty and I began nibbling the popcorn as the story unfolded on the screen. It got a bit interesting when Dr. Frankenstein was in the lab putting The Monster together. Marty and I, seasoned moviegoers, took little notice when the music started and then began to build. Who were they kidding? They always used mood music to get you going, to prepare you for the shock of seeing something really terrible. Marty and I were totally prepared for that moment. The music became more and more frenzied, and the scene shifted to a dimly lit cobblestone street. From afar, I could hear the metallic sound of the monster’s hobnail boots dragging on the stones. The rest of the folks in the theatre stopped eating their popcorn. A hushed silence filled the auditorium as everyone around us strained toward the screen.

  “It’s only a movie; people are so gullible,” I thought, although that exact word might not have been in my mind.

  Just then, accompanied by a deafening blast of music, The Monster came around the corner and lurched toward us. I took one look at his huge scar-seamed head held on by bolts on either side of his neck and, popcorn flying, I was up and out of my seat before you could say Jack Robinson. Marty was still sitting and chewing when I bolted, but by the time I reached the last row, he had passed me. We ripped through the doors and hit the sidewalk. Without stopping, Marty continued on his way up the hill to his house, and I was in full flight toward mine. The gray and foreboding sky matched the sky’s color on the screen and, certain that The Monster had burst through that screen and was in hot pursuit, I threw a glance backward. Nothing was there, yet. I raced down Cedar Street, across Maple, cut through the Maraglia’s backyard, jumped over Fram’s Creek, ran up the stairs to our front porch, charged through the door, and, totally exhausted, threw myself on the three-cushioned green couch. Sophia was in the kitchen preparing supper.

  “You back?” she called out. “How was movie?”

  “Good,” I squeaked.

  “Was scary?” asked Sophia as she emerged from the kitchen.

  I took a look over at the front door, made sure it was closed tight, and replied, “Not really.”

  I honestly don’t know what I would have done without those Saturday matinees; they were an essential part of my life. So essential I still remember the shock when the price of a ticket went up from ten to fourteen cents. Even though Sophia and Dan were convinced that the price hike meant people would stop going to movies, I knew better. I was beside myself. How could I live without Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, and Flash Gordon? I wouldn’t let those movie theatre owners deprive me of my beloved movies. I needed dough.

  I’m sure kids today still take odd jobs to get pin money, but in my day it was a way of life. Both of my parents worked hard to make ends meet. Dan had his horses and then various other jobs while Sophia eventually dropped housekeeping and went full-time into making slipcovers. Slipcovers were all the rage, and it had to do with the economy. Maybe you couldn’t buy new furniture, but there was a better chance you could scrape together enough to buy a fresh shroud for a dead chair or sofa. Sophia brought her wages home and then combined them with Dan’s, and don’t for a minute think that anything was deposited in a bank.

  Sophia kept a cardboard box in the kitchen, which contained a bunch of envelopes marked Rent, Water, Phone, Food, Insurance, and Gas. Another envelope, marked Savings, never had anything in it. (Even if a few bucks managed to get tucked away, they’d never make it to the end of the month. Something always came up forcing my mother to rob Savings to pay Emergencies.) Sophia put the monies into their respective envelopes and, at the end of the month, would ceremoniously take out the contents of each one and pay the bills. Our lives were financed out of that cardboard box. If I wanted something that didn’t fall into an envelope category, I had to provide for it.

  I had two sources of income, pocket money from Sophia and Dan, which didn’t amount to much, and what I earned mowing lawns and delivering newspapers, which didn’t amount to much, either. Together they added up to a small something; still, it barely covered the cost of movie tickets. I couldn’t hit up my parents for extras when the ticket price hike came, so I decided to add more lawns. I would have done more paper deliveries, too, but the route and the routine were prescribed. I’d cram the newspapers into a shoulder bag, get on my bike, and shoot up and down the streets, slinging the papers over the lawns and onto the front steps or porches of the subscribers. The delivery drill was always the same except on rainy days. Then, either Dan or Sophia would drive me around the block and wait in the car while, my jacket held over my head, I ran up to the front doors and dropped the news. As far as mowing, I usually could do from four to six (average) lawns in half a day. That is, until people began requesting that I cut the grass into patterns. I was a mower, not a sculptor, and this fussy stuff really slowed me down. Fortunately, another job came along; this one was a pip.

  Answering an ad in the local paper, Marty and I applied for employment with a “government agency.” We were interviewed, immediately hired, and went to work Friday and Saturday evenings in a small factory over a furniture store. What did the factory produce? I still have no idea. The product was “top secret” and rumored to have something to do with the military. We sat at a long table and, with our eyes covered by clear protective glasses, we drilled holes no thicker than a human hair into small pieces o
f plastic. We had to be very, very careful not to press too hard or we’d break the bit. The first night Marty broke at least two dozen and was quickly moved to packaging. I busted some myself, but nowhere near Marty’s total so I remained a driller. Driller or packager, we each earned twenty-five cents an hour, big bread in those days.

  The factory had a cloak-and-dagger atmosphere, and everything was very hush-hush. It was rumored that the plastic with the tiny holes had something to do with periscopes on submarines. Whatever their use, we were warned not to talk to anyone about what we were doing. That didn’t stop Marty. He believed the story about the periscopes and the subs and went around telling everyone that we were doing top-secret work and then gave a blow-by-blow description of our top-secret work. I didn’t get too upset with him for spilling the beans because I didn’t buy the periscope story. Besides, the war was over so his loose lips weren’t going to sink any ships. I realized one thing about my pal, though. If we really were at war, with blabbermouth Marty on my side, my life wouldn’t be worth a nickel.

  After a few months, I left the hole-in-the-plastic factory and found weekend work in one of the local bakeries. I still got twenty-five cents an hour but I got a “raise” in my new job, pun intended. At the end of my workday, I could take home a dozen assorted donuts and two loaves of bread, either white or rye. I opted for two white; rye bread was sticky and got in Dan’s false teeth. The pay and the perks were good, but my working hours weren’t. Again, I worked only Friday and Saturday nights but I had to be at the back door of the bakery at 2:30 A.M., which meant I had to walk through town even earlier. (I can just see some readers shaking their heads and saying to themselves, “a kid out on the streets at that hour?” Don’t forget, this happened a long time ago in a small town. In those days, you were safe 24/7.) Many a frosty winter night found me racing through the streets, and not just because it was cold. The truth is, that old Frankenstein Monster had a habit of popping into my head, and the mere thought of him was enough to send me streaking to the bakery door. Once safely inside, I went about my appointed task, frying donuts. I discovered that, like drilling holes in plastic, it required a bit of dexterity.

  I learned my new trade from a guy named Joe who owned the bakery. The first day, I stood by and watched as Joe put an extra large pan, filled with oil, on the stove. Next, he dropped a large mesh screen, with handles on either side, into the liquid. Finally, he turned on the burner. The prep over, we waited in silence for the oil to reach the proper degree of heat. If the temperature was too low, the donuts absorbed the oil and turned soggy; if it was too high, the donuts burned before they cooked through. The right temperature set the oil to bubbling, and, soon after, the bubbles to popping. If you didn’t watch out, your arms would be peppered with burn spots. Joe took a tray of prepared donuts and, as the bubbles began bursting in air, quickly placed six rows of six donuts into the hot oil. So far, so simple, but now, enter skill. The top and bottom of the finished donut have to be the same color, which means you’ve got to know exactly when to turn over those suckers. Here’s the secret. By the time he dropped number thirty-six into the bubbling oil, number one was ready to be turned. Once he finished dropping, Joe started back at number one and began tapping one edge on each of the fried donuts with a foot-long, pencil-thin stick. The tap sent it into the air where it flipped over and fell back into the boiling grease. He went right down the line, conducting with that skinny baton while the donuts did their somersaults. When the last donut had been turned, Joe whirled around and shouted, “Out of the way!”

  Pushing me aside, he grabbed a couple of beat-up oven mitts from a wooden table, slipped them over his hands, rushed back to the stovetop, and grasped the handles of the mesh liner. In one swift motion, he drew the screen up and out of the oil-filled pan and brought forth three dozen perfect donuts. I burst into applause. The man was a frying genius. I have to say I became pretty good at it myself. I often thought that if the showbiz thing collapsed, I could join the donut-flipping circuit.

  My eighth grade year in school was marked by two significant occurrences. The first happened when we took a class trip to the Cleveland Museum of Art, and someone cut the cheese in the back of the bus. Everyone, including me, blamed it on Joey G. (not his real name) who, despite a history of such incidents, firmly denied that he was the cutter. Joey G., if you’re still alive, forgive me. Okay, I’ve got that off my chest.

  Here’s the other experience.

  I had just begun to notice girls. They were a little scary, and it took me a while to get comfortable with them. Did I say a while? I was twenty-seven years old when I got married the first time, and in those days that was pretty old for a guy to tie the knot. I’ll get to that subject in a later chapter.

  I had never thought about girls, maybe because nobody bothered to tell me the facts of life. Wait, my dad gave it a shot when I was about twelve. We were riding home through the countryside in one of Dan’s fifth-hand Fords. It was fall and the grass was fading, but the trees were alive with changing colors. I looked out the window and noticed a bull and a cow out in a field. Evidently there’d been a strong wind because the bull had been blown up onto the back of the cow. I thought it looked funny and believed that the cow saw the humor in it, too, because she was smiling, or so it seemed.

  “What are they doing?” I asked my father.

  “They’re making cookies,” replied Dr. Kinsey.

  This explanation confused me a bit. When I finally started dating, a girl called up one day and asked me if I wanted to come to her house and make some brownies.

  “Gee, I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s windy enough.”

  With one exception, I had a pretty good time in my growing up years. My biggest disappointment was not realizing my childhood dream of becoming a jockey. I’ve loved horses all my life. Why wouldn’t I? I was surrounded by them when I was a kid. One thing I learned is that you shouldn’t have one as a pet. They’re not bright. And even if they were bright, what can you do with them? You can’t teach them to fetch the evening paper. You can’t put them on your lap and watch TV with them. And you can’t just put a bowl of food on the kitchen floor to feed them. Nope, horses are swell to ride, period.

  When I grew too big to accompany Sophia on her housekeeping rounds, Dan brought me to Mr. White’s stables to help him. Basically my job was to clean the polo ponies’ stalls. Not very exciting work but there was a plus side. Besides his polo ponies, Mr. White owned a couple of racehorses that he ran at Randall Park in Cleveland. My father trained them. Well, he didn’t fully train them because he didn’t have the knowledge, but what he did have was his whip. Just a snap of his wrist and the resounding crack was enough to keep the horses in line. On weekends Dan would take me to Randall Park and let me ride with him while he exercised the horses. I’d be seated on some docile old mare following my father down the track but in my mind, I was up on Man o’ War getting ready for the big race. I’d ridden my pillow and the back of the green sofa to victory after victory; now I was on the real McCoy. Well, more McNag than McCoy, but that didn’t stop me from daydreaming. From time to time, I was allowed to climb on a horse and run him around the training track. What a thrill. Honestly, there’s nothing like it. It’s hard to put the feeling into words. It’s like you own the world. I wanted nothing more than to become a jockey, but a few things stood in the way. First of all, I didn’t have a clue as to what being a jockey meant. I thought you just put on your silks, pulled on your boots, grabbed the crop, hopped on your steed, got in the starting gate, and, bingo, you were off like a shot. Of course, you crossed the finish line first, and then you and your horse were brought to the winner’s circle and the roses were draped over the horse’s neck. Ha.

  The truth is thoroughbred racing jockeys are among the best-trained athletes in the world. They put their lives on the line every time they get a leg up. It’s an unimaginably difficult life. Their days are spent exercising, dieting, lifting weights, running several m
iles, as well as rising at 4 A.M. to work out the horses. In general, a jockey starts his career at around fourteen or fifteen years old, a very early age because they’re restricted to a one-hundred-and-ten-pound limit. Imagine being that age, that weight, and climbing aboard a totally unpredictable one-thousand-pound animal that is not exactly a rocket scientist. A racehorse knows how to run fast and turn left or—if he’s running in Europe—right; the rider supplies everything else. And, he has to do this from the most precarious position imaginable.

  When you’re atop a racehorse, you’re not comfortably seated in an enveloping saddle. You’ve got a thin strip of leather between you and the hard body of your steed. Your butt is in the air and only the toes of your boots are in the stirrup, the soles and the heels are hanging out there just like your rear end. The only thing you have to hold on to is a slender rein. Real jockeys will tell you that you have to be fearless when racing. Your mind has to be dead set on doing your job. The moment your thoughts wander—What am I doing here? How fast is this thing going?—it’s over. I have to confess those were my exact thoughts every time I got on a horse. Even so, I might have stumbled along as a jockey had I not grown too tall (for a jockey). The final blow to my racing career came about by accident.

  I was riding one of Mr. White’s horses at a blistering walk on the outer edge of the training track. In my mind, I was about to win the Kentucky Derby when the starter yelled, “Kid, get that horse in here!”