“You didn’t like Hostel? Really?”
“Get the trailers spliced.” There was no sense in discussing this further, and besides, I was still nervous, so I went back downstairs and found Jonathan unmoved from his lookout post at the front door.
I checked my watch again. “Where is he?” I said aloud.
“I don’t know,” Jonathan answered in all earnestness.
“Go help Sophie with the snack bar,” I said. Jonathan glanced longingly at the front door, but walked toward the snack bar as told. Sophie would probably bounce him to Anthony after a minute, and then he’d be back with me, watching the door for signs of Harry Lillis.
Tonight, though, Jonathan was the least of my worries. I was wearing a rented tuxedo (something that comes as naturally to me as advanced trigonometry comes to your average plankton) and the guest of honor was now officially twenty minutes late. I walked out the front door, no doubt looking like a displaced maitre d’, and looked up both sides of Edison Avenue. There was no limousine. I went back inside before someone in a wedding dress could run down the street and stand me on top of a huge cake.
The local papers had promised to send reporters, who also weren’t here yet, and News 12 New Jersey, the local cable access TV channel, had sounded interested about sending a crew if there wasn’t a fire in Middlesex County that night. Harry Lillis was a god to people like me, and a vague memory to everyone else. The publicity would be negligible, at best, and I had no idea if a crowd would show up or not. Hence, the butterflies in my digestive system.
It was still forty minutes until the advertised time for his appearance, ten minutes before I’d open the doors to the public, but Lillis wasn’t here yet, and that couldn’t be good. Traffic at this hour on a Friday night could be to blame—which would explain why my father and Vic Testalone hadn’t shown up yet, either—but I’d told the limo company to get to the Lillian Booth Actors’ Home in plenty of time. I reached for my cell phone.
Before I could dial, Jonathan came ambling back over to me from the stairs. He stopped in front of me, ignored the fact that I was dialing my cell phone, and said, “Anthony says the limo company just called and said Harry Lillis told them not to come.” Anthony was using Jonathan to send me a message, rather than talk directly to the man he had decided had stolen his film. This message had come through loud and clear.
“What?”
Jonathan nodded. “They said Mr. Lillis had told them he didn’t need it.”
“Does that mean he’s not coming?”
Jonathan shrugged.
My breathing was starting to get heavy. “What do you want me to do?” Jonathan asked.
“Go sweep up the auditorium.”
“I did that already.” Maybe I didn’t need the extra help after all.
“Go outside and make sure the marquee is lit up,” I said. I just needed a moment to think. Jonathan looked at me like I had told him to do something insane—which I had—but he went outside.
As he swung the door open to go out, Sharon came in. She was dressed to the nines, or at the very least the eight-and-a-halves, but tastefully, showing nothing she didn’t want you to see. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and she made a show of looking me up and down.
“Well, we’re looking dapper,” Sharon said. She walked to me and picked a thread off my shoulder, then brushed it. I have dandruff. Now you know.
I heard a siren in the distance and actually found myself envying the poor soul being driven to the hospital. At least someone was trying to help him.
“Us looking dapper might have to be the entertainment, ” I said. “Lillis isn’t here, and it sounds like he’s not coming.” I told her about the phone call.
Sharon’s upper lip vanished into her mouth as I talked. “Oh my,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Depends. Did you bring your hara-kiri knife?”
“Left it in my other pants,” my ex-wife said.
The siren got louder as Jonathan opened the front door and walked toward us. He gave me his usual puzzled look when he reached Sharon and me. “The marquee lights are turned on,” Jonathan said.
Sharon gave me a glance that said, “Shame on you for making fun of that boy,” and I countered with one that said, “I gave him a job, and mind your own business.” We have very expressive glances.
“Oh yeah,” Jonathan continued. “And there’s an ambulance pulling up in front of the theatre.”
I stood there, absorbing that information for a few seconds, then I ran for the front door, Sharon only a step or two ahead of me.
At the curb of Edison Avenue, in front of Comedy Tonight, was a private ambulance bearing the logo JERSEY MEDICAL TRANSPORT, with its rear doors open. And being lowered to the sidewalk was Harry Lillis. In a tuxedo.
And in a wheelchair.
6
"IT’S nothing,” Lillis said. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” I answered. “Last time I saw you, you could stand up.”
“I can still stand up,” he said as a burly looking African-American male nurse named Mitchell (according to his embroidered white coat) rolled him into the theatre. “It’s walking that presents a problem.”
“Mr. Lillis had what you might call an unfortunate occurrence, ” Mitchell said in tones that spoke of an upbringing in Coney Island. “He slipped in the common room and did some damage to his hip.”
“Mr. Lillis!” I moaned.
“Harry,” he corrected. “Or I get Man Mountain Dean here to put me back in the ambulance.”
“Okay, Harry. Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” Lillis snapped. “I could get up and dance the merengue, if I felt like it. I just like having someone push me around.” He looked up at Mitchell. “My luck it couldn’t be the little blonde from the nursing home side.”
“You’re not sick enough for her,” Mitchell deadpanned.
“No, I’m not healthy enough for her,” Lillis shot back. Then he looked at Sharon and said, “You’re a doctor?” I’d introduced them at curbside.
“Yes, Mr. Lillis.”
“I’m healthy enough for you.” He did an eyebrow wiggle Groucho himself would have envied. “And did you miss the part about calling me Harry?”
Jonathan had yet to speak. His mouth opened and closed every once in a while, but no sound came out. I could empathize.
We reached the auditorium doors, and I was careful to get in front of the wheelchair so I could open them ahead of Mitchell. He nodded as he wheeled Lillis into the theatre.
“Are you sure you can go on tonight, Harry?” I asked.
“I tried to convince him he shouldn’t,” Mitchell said, clucking like a mother hen. “But you don’t think anybody but you knows anything, do you, Harry?”
Harry wasn’t listening. He looked around the theatre as he rode down the center aisle toward the stage, taking in the miraculous work done to restore the balcony, the massive amount of restoration Dad and I (mostly Dad) had supervised, the new seats, the old seats, the plaster gargoyles over the auditorium exits, the cupola with the enormous chandelier, and the painting above it. I had to admit, it was quite a sight.
“What a dump!” Lillis spouted, in a perfect Bette Davis impression. I had to admire his technique: Lillis was one of the few impressionists who didn’t exaggerate the voice he was doing—he went for accuracy. In the Lillis and Townes films, he had spoken lines as Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Dean Martin, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and on one occasion, his partner. He was so good that there were many who argued that Townes had dubbed the line later on, but both comedians had always insisted it was Lillis who did the voice.
“It’s still under restoration,” I said meekly.
“It looks like it’s still under condemnation,” Lillis replied when Mitchell had successfully navigated him to the base of the stage. He must have seen my look, because he added, “But our picture will class up the joint, kid. Don’t you worry.”
“Harr
y,” Sharon admonished.
He looked surprised. “What?”
Jonathan broke in, finally able to speak, as long as he didn’t have to speak to Lillis: “How are we going to get him up on the stage?” he asked Mitchell.
We looked at each other for a moment, and then Lillis simply lifted his arms, and Mitchell picked him up out of the chair like a large bag of charcoal, threw him over his shoulder, and walked up onstage. Jonathan carried the chair, and once both were on the same plane, they were reunited.
“Now you know why they didn’t send the little blonde,” I told Lillis.
“I don’t know if she could have lifted me,” he said, “but it would have been fun to let her try.”
When Jonathan opened the theatre doors precisely at seven, there were already people waiting. Miraculously, Lillis and Townes weren’t quite the forgotten antiques I had feared. The theatre filled quickly, and even the balcony was packed. Normally, that would make me nervous, but the sight of a full house—a really full house—was enough to dispel fears of a structural collapse; besides, the construction crew had done a really thorough job. By seven thirty, Sophie had sold a week’s worth of snacks, despite her scowling at every male who ordered anything (I’d have to talk to her about the five-year-old boys, who shouldn’t have to share the blame), and Jonathan had torn more tickets than we’d ever sold before. This was the first time we’d sold out every single seat, balcony and all. A few hearty souls even bought tickets to stand in the back. It was a good thing the Midland Heights fire chief hadn’t shown up, or he’d have seen we were exceeding our legal capacity.
Clearly, I’d have to find a way to get a comedy legend to show up every night.
I stood behind the screen with Lillis, Mitchell, Sharon, and Vic, who had shown up just a few minutes earlier. We spoke quietly, despite the fact that the crowd couldn’t hear us over their own conversations. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father approaching from the wings of the stage.
Vic looked at me with something resembling distaste and asked, “So, what are you doing about the missing film?”
Missing film? Did our copy of Cracked Ice go . . . oh yeah, that missing film!
“Anthony’s movie? I told the cops, and they’re investigating. What do you mean, what am I doing about it?”
“You know the kid can’t afford to make another print,” Vic countered. “You know this means I can’t make a deal with a studio. You don’t seem too concerned.”
“When did I get the responsibility for this? I’m not his father, or his agent.” I almost took the cigar out of Vic’s mouth just out of spite.
“Two people you know well could profit from recovering that film, and you could care less,” he said.
“If you want to get technical,” I told him, “that expression should be ‘you couldn’t care less.’ If I could care less, that would indicate that I care.”
“I don’t want to get technical,” Vic said with great finality. We stood quietly for a few moments, and I refocused my attention on the evening at hand. But Vic, while not physically resembling a Jewish mother in any way, had nonetheless managed to make me feel just a tad guilty.
“I’ll go out and do a short introduction, and then I’ll call for you, Harry,” I said to Lillis. “Do you want me to come back and get you?”
Lillis shook his head. “No, this guy can do it.” He tilted his head in Mitchell’s direction. “If I keel over from the exertion, he’s more qualified to carry me to the ambulance.” Then he turned to Sharon. “Unless the doctor would be willing. If I went into cardiac arrest, she could take off her shirt and examine me.”
Sharon had spent enough years married to me to know when she was needed as a straight man. “If you go into cardiac arrest, Harry, what good would it do for me to take off my shirt?”
Lillis smiled. “At least I’d die happy,” he said.
I stepped out in front of the screen and Anthony, up in the booth, turned on a spotlight we have for just such occasions. We’d also found an old podium in the basement when I’d bought the place, and we’d wheeled it out to use for the introductions. This was the first time we’d ever used it.
“Good evening,” I said, and the crowd immediately quieted. Sharon didn’t have to whistle like a construction worker this time. “Welcome to Comedy Tonight. We’re very excited to have you all here for a very special evening. Tonight, we are being visited by a legend of film comedy whose work is unparalleled, a man who clearly stands among Groucho Marx, W. C. Fields, Charlie Chaplin, and Gene Wilder as a master in his field.”
“Larry the Cable Guy!” a teenager called from the crowd, and there was laughter.
“Yeah, him, too,” I said, plowing on. “Just a quick explanation. Mr. Lillis will come out and speak for a few minutes, and then we’ll have the first New Jersey showing of Cracked Ice in twenty years . . .” There was applause from the crowd. “And at the end of the evening, Mr. Lillis will appear again for a Q-and-A session. So please save your questions. We’ll send around cards for you to write them down during the film.”
I couldn’t see a thing beyond the first row with the spotlight in my face. Leo Munson, wearing his captain’s hat, which meant it was a formal occasion, was seated next to the woman who’d been laughing at Lillis’s jokes when I first met him at the Booth Actors’ Home, with a corsage pinned to her very tasteful lapel. I wondered if she was Harry’s date for the evening, but before I had the chance to speculate further, I heard the voice of an older man call out, “Why do we need cards? Can’t he hear?”
There was a murmur from the area of the shout. I thought I’d recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it. Trying to avoid an ugly scene, I turned toward the wings and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, a true comedy legend: Harry Lillis! ”
The audience broke into loud applause, and Mitchell wheeled Lillis onto the stage. The audience, or at least those that I could see clearly, leapt to their feet, and Lillis, positively beaming, waved to them. The ovation went on for a good number of minutes; I wasn’t counting, but the thrill I got from that moment was enough to keep me grinning for a long time.
Or more to the point, it would have kept me grinning for a long time if, as soon as the din died down and the audience took their seats, that same voice hadn’t screamed out, “My god; he’s in a wheelchair!”
Lillis’s eyes narrowed, and he put a hand up to shield his eyes from the spotlight. If I hadn’t been standing immediately to his left, I wouldn’t have heard him mutter, “Son of a bitch.”
“You sick, Lillis, or are you just old?”
I tried to step forward to address the voice, but Lillis reached out and grabbed my right arm. “Don’t,” he said. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
And, suddenly, I did. I reached out my left arm, and shouted to the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, Les Townes!”
Sure enough, Townes, dressed in a blazer and slacks and looking fit, walked up to the skirt of the stage, where we had built two small steps, and I helped him onto the stage. The audience, aware of the entertainment history they were witnessing, stood and applauded some more. Townes took a deep bow.
If I was speechless when I met Lillis, I was mortified when I met Townes. Here was yet another of my boyhood idols, and I’d almost exploded at him a moment before. It flashed on me at that moment that I should have sought Townes out when I’d found Lillis, and asked him to the screening tonight. But, given his reputation for being a gentleman, I hoped Townes would let me off the hook. He took a second bow, and then as he stood, gestured that I should lean in; he wanted to tell me something
“What’s the matter,” he asked. “I’m not a legend?”
7
WATCHING Cracked Ice with the two men who made it was an education. The small elite group of us: Sharon, Dad (Mom had seen enough of Harry Lillis during my teenage years, but sent her regrets, along with a batch of cookies guaranteed to cause heartburn if used as anything but coasters), Vic, Anthony (when he wasn’t changin
g reels), Mitchell, and I, sat silently while the two old pros watched their crowning work, their pinnacle of achievement, the highlight of their careers . . . and trashed it mercilessly.
It took me a shorter while to get over my awe at being in the same room with Les Townes, mostly because he and Lillis were busy taking verbal shots at each other that were as funny as they were pointed. Not that I wasn’t amazed at listening to the team, but after a while, you started to feel like part of the club. I almost felt like taking a couple of shots at the movie myself, but it was one of my all-time favorites, and I couldn’t bring myself to criticize it.
In case you haven’t seen it (and I strongly suggest you do), Cracked Ice is a brilliant comedy based on the idea that a prehistoric man—shown in a brief opening sequence fleeing a rear-projection brontosaurus left over from King Dinosaur (1955)—falls into one of the many glaciers that were available at the time, only to be discovered, and thawed, in 1956 (otherwise known as “modern times”). He is examined and taken in by an eccentric doctor, and eventually learns to become a smooth, Brylcreemed playboy who does well with the ladies.
The genius evident in the handling of this rather pedestrian plotline (beaten to a bloody pulp, for example, by Pauly Shore in Encino Man) was that any other comedy team in history would have had the stronger comic presence—in this case, Harry Lillis—play the caveman. Lillis and Townes knew better. The caveman would spend much of the movie grunting, and that would rob Lillis of his verbal wit, perhaps his greatest comic weapon. And after “evolving,” the caveman (eventually named Bob) would be a charming, if oily, ladies’ man, something that would again keep Lillis from cutting loose.
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