It Happened One Knife

by JEFFREY COHEN

  “You didn’t like it?” I had to be sure; my confidence was shaken.

  “Like it? I’m amazed I kept my dinner down!” Thank god, someone who hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid. “What the hell was that?”

  “It was She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, as it might have been seen by Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor,” I told her. “What did you expect?”

  “A story would have been nice.”

  “I’m starting to remember why I fell in love with you,” I told her.

  “That’s funny,” she told me. “I’m remembering other things.”

  I was about to comment on her flattering turn of phrase when applause broke out from my right. Anthony was descending the stairs from the balcony, and his Rutgers University friends—most of whom hadn’t become his friends until word had gotten around that he’d managed to get a movie made—began to salaam before him and prostrate themselves on the carpet. I thought of mentioning what the carpet had cost, but decided it wouldn’t impress them. College kids.

  I’d offered to man the projector so Anthony could be in the auditorium while Killin’ Time was running, but he’d refused to turn over custody of his baby (the film, that is, not the projector) to anyone, particularly given the cantankerous nature of our ancient projector, a contraption only Anthony truly understands. So he’d run the movie himself, rewound it, and was now walking down to the level of his adoring public.

  And by god, they were adoring. The fifty or so Rutgers students Anthony had invited for this special closed-to-the-public event did everything but throw rose petals in his path. Even some of the “adults” whom I had invited, like Sharon, Leo (well, actually I’d tried to dissuade Leo, but I still get credit for his presence), and Bobo Kaminsky, the owner of the local bike shop I practically keep in business single-handedly, were shouting bravo. I think Sharon’s bravos were strictly out of politeness, though. Tall, thin, and positively wan, Anthony looked more amazed than proud as the Rutgers crowd declared him Lord of All He Surveyed. In short, it was the most enthusiastic response any film had ever gotten from an audience at Comedy Tonight, and yes, I resented it, but hey, give the kid his night. I nodded to Sophie, who began to pass out plastic flutes of fake champagne (some in the room were underage, and I don’t have a liquor license). I’d poured them right after the second decapitation, though, so the “wine” was probably flat as a piece of paper by now.

  Anthony’s semi-girlfriend (she thinks so; he’s not sure) Carla Singelese appeared from somewhere and gave him a huge kiss to much woooooo-ing from the crowd. Anthony, who’s usually as serious as a triple bypass, even smiled.

  I noticed Anthony’s roommate Danton up the stairs a few steps, looking down on the main event, without a drink in his hand (the only such person in the room), and I tried to get Sophie’s attention, but she was back at the snack bar and away from the tray of “wine.” I took a flute from the tray and handed it to Danton, then walked back to Sharon’s side. When all the “champagne” had been distributed, I called for quiet. Then I called for quiet again, because no one had heard me the first time. When I was about to try an unprecedented third time, I heard a piercing whistle come from my immediate left. As the crowd fell into a sudden hush, I saw Sharon taking her thumb and index finger out of her mouth. She grinned at me sheepishly.

  “Well, somebody had to do it,” she said.

  I raised my glass in Anthony’s direction. “To Anthony,” I said, “who wowed us all with his talent tonight, and who will no doubt grow as a filmmaker as he learns his craft at school. This is indeed a fine beginning. Congratulations.”

  Anthony’s eyes narrowed a bit, as if that wasn’t effusive enough praise, but he sipped from his glass (okay, his plastic ) and turned his head toward Carla, who was holding her drink up for the next toast.

  “Um . . . I’ve never made a toast before, but this is such a special night . . . I’m so proud of Anthony, and the amazing film he just showed us!” (This may be the place to note that Carla said it with at least three exclamation points, but I’m including only one at a time out of a sense of restraint.) “I’m sure he’s going to become a big director, like, right away, and I’m just glad to be right here by his side, now and forever! I love you, Anthony!”

  There was a large ovation for that one, and Anthony reached over and kissed Carla, even though he looked a little taken aback by her toast. Anthony isn’t much given to public displays of . . . anything, really. He’s not a cold person, but he always seems to be thinking about something else.

  A few more toasts were made, largely by people I didn’t know (and who seemed to know Anthony only peripherally) . I took Sharon to one side, near my office door, where the din was a little lower, and where I couldn’t see people spilling cheap, fake bubbly on my new carpet before the paying public even got a chance to walk on it.

  Bobo rumbled by on his way out of the theatre. Bobo doesn’t spend much time doing anything other than selling bicycles—certainly not riding one. If it were possible, he would keep the cycle shop open 24/7. But he’s a large man, in every direction, and needs to maintain his largeness by ingesting titanic amounts of carbohydrates, which takes time out of the day. He gave me a thumbs-up on the movie and kept walking, probably to go home and dream about gearshifts and fried chicken.

  “How are you doing?” Sharon asked me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’ve been out of business for four months, you spent most of that time watching this place get rebuilt, and you’ve been driving me out of my mind with your impatience. So I’m saying, now that it’s over and you can get back to your mission in life, how does that feel?”

  I looked at her. “Don’t hold back, baby. Tell me what you really think.”

  “Elliot. No matter what’s happened between us, we’ve always been able to talk to each other.” She saw the look I was starting to give her, and said, “Okay, except right before you filed for divorce. But still, I’m proud that we managed to split up and stay friendly. Now, you’re going through a big moment in your life, and I want to know how you’re doing.”

  “I’m doing fine,” I said.

  She waited. “That’s it?”

  I shrugged. “I’m doing fine, ma’am?”

  Sharon’s lips twisted into the shape of Yosemite Sam’s moustache. “Look, Elliot, if you don’t want to talk about it . . .”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to talk. It’s that I have nothing to say.”

  She was about to prove me wrong—one of her favorite activities—when Vic appeared out of the crowd, rushed toward us, and grabbed me by the arm. “Elliot,” he said. “Where can we talk?”

  “Pretty much anywhere we have vocal cords,” I told him.

  “Privately,” he said.

  Sharon gave me a look that said, “To be continued . . .” and excused herself for the ladies’ room. I opened my office door and ushered Vic inside. “Okay,” I said. “What’s so urgent?”

  I sat in my creaky, understuffed swivel chair, which had not been replaced in the renovation, damn it, and looked at Vic. He held up his cell phone. I waited a moment, then picked up a stapler to show him, figuring this was a new game.

  Turned out it wasn’t. “I’ve been on the phone,” Vic said. “Got in touch with a few guys I know in the city.”

  “Organizing a poker game?” I asked. It was worth a shot.

  “Guys from film distributors. Indie studios,” he said.

  It took me a moment. A long moment. “Oh Vic, don’t tell me . . .”

  “Yeah. I think I can set the kid up with a deal. Get the movie distributed.”

  “You’re a classic comedy distributor. What does your company want with Hannibal Lecter at the O.K. Corral?”

  Vic sneered. No, really. “It’s not for the company,” he said. “We don’t make prints and book theatres like a studio; we handle a catalogue. You know that.” I did, but he was confusing me with this talk of distributing Killin’ Time. “I think I can work out a deal for t
he kid with a real studio, or at least an indie.”

  “And pocket a tidy finder’s fee for yourself?” I asked.

  “If they think I deserve it,” Vic grinned.

  “You sincerely believe that the festival of disembowelment we just saw could be attractive to a real movie studio, and be shown in actual theatres?” I’d seen more complicated stories told in books with titles like Pat the Bunny.

  He grinned, and almost bit through his unlit cigar. “I think I’ve got him set up at Monitor Films,” Vic said.

  I stood up and closed the door behind him. Considering the size of my office, Vic might have thought I was trying to get a little more intimate than he considered comfortable, because he said, “Hey, Elliot . . .”

  “You’ve got to do me a favor, Vic. Don’t tell Anthony about Monitor yet.”

  You might have thought I’d asked him to set his pants on fire and sing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” “Are you crazy?”

  “Vic, Anthony’s a twenty-year-old kid who’s riding high on the rush of showing his movie to an audience that loves him and was going to say it was great no matter what. He’ll be stupid tonight and do anything that feels good. Let him have some time to think, some time to realize this isn’t Citizen Kane he’s got on his hands here. Just give him a week, okay?”

  “Elliot,” Vic said, “there are many fine decaffeinated brands on the market.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “That’s what worries me. Nobody’s even offering him a deal, for crissakes. We’re talking about him taking a meeting .” Vic sneered at me with the exact expression he’d use on someone who told him Plan 9 from Outer Space was a better movie than Duck Soup.

  “What’s worse—he takes the meeting and gets a small-time deal that’ll push him out of the nest way before he’s ready, or he takes the meeting and gets shot down, and blows his self-esteem all to hell? Show me how this plays out well.”

  “What are you, jealous?”

  “Oh, please. I did the Hollywood thing, and didn’t like it,” I told him, remembering Split Personality, the movie made from my one-and-only novel, despite it not having even a shred of resemblance to the original story. “Besides, where do you get contacts outside a catalog of fifty-year-old comedies?”

  “What, I can’t have friends?”

  “I’m your friend,” I told him. “And I’m asking you as a friend, don’t tell Anthony about the Monitor thing, just for a week or two.”

  “No chance, Elliot. I’m not going to ruin my credibility with Monitor because you’re worried the kid is ‘too happy’ tonight.” Vic scowled, and turned to push open the door; which would be a cute trick, since the door opens in, and it is, as I might have mentioned, a very small room.

  My mind raced, and I had to catch up with it in a hurry. There had to be some way to get Vic off this obsession for a minute. I figured that if I changed the subject to business, Vic would be distracted, but the first thing it occurred to me to say was: “You guys don’t have Cracked Ice, do you?”

  It was a desperation move. Cracked Ice (1956), the crowning achievement of the comedy team of Harry Lillis and Les Townes, was a rarity in 35mm prints. It was a favorite of mine, but not something that there could be much demand for, even in comparison to the vintage movies I usually order from Vic and his company.

  The ploy had the effect I’d hoped for; Vic’s hand slipped off the doorknob, and he turned to me with a major grin on his face. “Sure, we have it,” he said, without having to check his BlackBerry. That’s why I like Vic. “But that’s not the half of it.”

  I knew that tone. “Okay, what’s the half of it?”

  “You’re a Lillis and Townes fan?” he asked.

  That was a question? Harry Lillis and Les Townes were the bright shining light in one of comedy’s most bleak periods, the mid-1950s to early 1960s. In reality, Lillis himself was the comedic genius, while Townes was an unparalleled straight man, a decent singer (his recording of “Rainy Day Love” was a number one hit for six weeks in 1954), and the romantic lead in their movies, or at least the ones that had romantic leads. Townes wasn’t the most handsome man who ever lived, but he had great charm, absolutely perfect timing, and he knew a good thing when he saw it.

  And Lillis—well, Lillis was a force of nature.

  Combining Groucho’s rapid-fire wit with Harpo’s brilliant physical comedy, Harry Lillis was the Marx Brother who should have been, if Zeppo hadn’t been selfish about being born into the family. Not to mention that Lillis was a good thirty years younger than the youngest Marx frere.

  Was I a Lillis and Townes fan?

  “You could say that,” I told Vic. “My mother threatened to disown me in high school if I didn’t stop talking like Harry Lillis. So, spill. What’s the big story?”

  Vic’s grin was all the more smug. “I met Harry Lillis,” he said.

  “When you were a kid?”

  He shook his head. “Last Wednesday.”

  I can be cool when I put my mind to it. This wasn’t one of those times. My mouth dropped open a couple of feet, and I stammered “Wha . . . wha . . . wha” for a few moments. “Where?” I managed to croak.

  “He’s living in Englewood, at the Actors’ Home.” Vic was so in control now that he could have lit his cigar with the deed to my theatre and I wouldn’t have stopped him. “Guy’s gotta be pushing eighty, from one side or another. But if you squint and imagine a little, it’s like being on the set of Cracked Ice.”

  “What were you doing in Englewood?”

  “I went up to the home. They want to have a little entertainment for the residents, you know, and there aren’t a lot of distributors have the catalog we do, so they asked about a few films. They can’t get everything they want on DVD. I went up to talk to the guy in charge, and sitting there in the dining room, large as life, was Harry Lillis.”

  I wanted to simultaneously touch Vic’s hand, the one that must have shook Lillis’s, and strangle him for living out my fantasy. “What’s he like?” I asked.

  “Just like you’d imagine. You know, they didn’t get those nicknames for nothing.” In the trade press, Lillis and Townes were known as “Arsenic and Old Lace,” because Lillis would never compromise and was constantly at war with whatever studio the team was contracted to, while Townes was the peacemaker, smoothing out the rough spots in negotiations and relations with the press.

  “A little acerbic?” I guessed.

  “He told me I looked like a beach ball smoking a cigar,” Vic said.

  “Wow! An insult from Harry Lillis! You’re so lucky!”

  “I know,” he said, too cool to exist in my universe. “Told some great stories, too. Did you know he dated Vivian Reynolds before she married Townes?”

  I waved a hand. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Yeah, well here’s something everybody doesn’t know: Lillis and Townes are planning a comeback.”

  That salvo did some damage. I sat, stunned, for what seemed like an hour. “Lillis and Townes are coming back? At their age?”

  Vic nodded, and rotated his cigar. “He’s got some idea for a movie about two old guys robbing a bank, and he says Townes is interested.”

  I couldn’t believe it: either Lillis had one masterstroke left in him, or this would be the most embarrassing coda to a brilliant career since Ethel Merman recorded a disco album. Oh yes, she did.

  But the wheels in my head were turning. “Cancel Back to the Future, Vic,” I told him. “Get me Cracked Ice. I’ve got an idea. And think about what I said regarding Anthony. ” And before he could protest, I maneuvered my way around him and out into the lobby.

  Most of the guests had left. Sharon approached when I entered the lobby. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” she said, and then saw my expression. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I said. “Lunch at C’est Moi!?” She nodded.

  Anthony was still near the staircase to the balcony, talking to a man I recognized as his father, Michael.
The conversation didn’t appear to be a happy one, despite the occasion.

  “All I’m saying is, take some time and think,” Pagliarulo the elder told his son as I approached. “Don’t do something rash.”

  “I’m not being rash; I’m seizing the moment,” Anthony said, a contemptuous tone in his voice that the young reserve only for their parents.

  “Ant’ny . . .” his father began.

  “It’s Anthony!” my projectionist hollered. “You gave me my name; pronounce all the letters in it!”

  Michael shook his head sadly and walked toward the outside door. I stood next to Anthony and spoke quietly. “He’s your father,” I said.

  “He wants me to deny who I am,” Anthony said.

  “Really? Who are you?”

  “I’m a filmmaker,” said my employee. “Not a student.”

  “Anthony. You’re not thinking of leaving school, are you?”

  Anthony looked away. “John Ford never got a degree,” he said.

  “Neither did Charles Manson, and look how well he did. Look, it’s a big night for you,” I told him. “Don’t let it be the night you fought with your father. Go make up with him.”

  “I can’t. I have to close up the projection booth. I rewound the film, but it’s not in the cans yet.”

  I sputtered. “I’ll do it. Go.”

  Anthony started to answer (I’m convinced he was worried about leaving his baby in the care of a philistine like me), thought better of it, and I watched as he walked quickly toward the door to the theatre. I could see Carla waiting for him at the front, and then the two of them hurried toward where Michael Pagliarulo must have been.

  Sophie was closing up the snack bar when I walked over. She’d never admit it, but she took great pride in her high-caloric domain, and was very fussy about where everything was kept. I watched for a moment while she wiped down the top of the counter, where a bit of popcorn butter had left tiny smears. When it was spotless, she smiled a private smile.