The Funny Man

by John Warner

  “Sommeliers,” the therapist said.

  “Yeah, we’ll need toothpaste sommeliers, toothpaste consultants just to figure out the right goddamn toothpaste. I’m telling you, doc, the choice is killing me.”

  “Is this in your act?” the therapist asked.

  “No,” I said, “should it be?”

  “It’s very funny.”

  “But you’re not laughing.”

  “I don’t laugh because I understand what’s behind the joking, which isn’t a laughing matter, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t funny.”

  He is and always has been a buzz kill. If I was going to kill anyone, it should’ve been him.

  “Anyway, you’re not a sex addict,” he said.

  “Then what am I?”

  “A man.”

  WHEN THE JUDGE enters this time, I take care to focus on her face, which is undeniably pretty. Normally, middle age is not attractive to me, but this woman has kept it together and the age lines around her eyes and mouth are charming. Barry has warned me about this kind of thing, this appearing to be what people think I am. He said that there are two key things to know about juries: Number one, they notice everything, and number two, they’ve got nothing to do but talk to each other, particularly when a jury is sequestered, as they are in this trial. According to the focus groups, I’m supposed to be demonstrating respect for the process, an understanding of what’s at stake, and a fundamental trust in the American system of jurisprudence, and staring at the judge’s legs or grinning at the thought of her serious, but charming face are likely not in sync with those values. Under no circumstances should a man in my circumstances be grinning.

  “Pinch your sack if you have to,” Barry counseled.

  With a brief wave of her hand the judge indicates that everyone should be seated as she settles in her high-backed chair behind the bench high above us. The judge’s clerk approaches from the side to privately confer on something with the judge as the court reporter, just to the right of the witness chair, cracks his knuckles in anticipation of going back on the record. For the last week or so I’ve had this urge to tell the judge how impressed I am with her, how good she is at what she does. She appears overwhelmingly comfortable with each and every action, like the way she unhurriedly takes her chair, even though she must know the entire room is waiting for and looking at her, that she is the focal point. Or how she accepts a file from her clerk with a graceful flick of one wrist, while the other hand moves the stylish reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck into place on the bridge of her nose. She has a nod she gives the court reporter that signals it’s time to go back on the record that I couldn’t even see until I took care to look extremely closely, but somehow it always snaps the court reporter from his dazed inactivity into a straight-backed virtuoso of the steno machine.

  But what is most impressive is how she handles the lawyers. Even Barry is a lapdog in the presence of the judge. During testimony, she rarely looks directly at the witness or the questioning attorney and yet she is apparently always attentive, as demonstrated by the speed of her rulings when one of the lawyers offers an objection, followed by a slight smile to herself that seems to say, “I knew you were going to say that.” When she looks at me—which is not often, mind you—I see total dispassion, which strikes me as completely right while also being probably difficult to pull off. After all, I am untalented, successful, a bad husband and father. Three-quarters of those surveyed think so. The other 25 percent likely think something worse. She must feel something about me. Everyone else does. I’d just like to tell her how much I appreciate the fine job she’s doing, that in her work I recognize a true professional, that I get it.

  There is at least one period during each day where it seems possible that I could say these things to her. It comes when it is just me and Barry and the prosecutor with the judge in her chambers when something needs discussing out of earshot of the jury. It is mostly Barry and the prosecutor who do the talking with the judge listening, but I still have to be there, and at the end of each conference when whatever it is that had to be decided is decided, from behind her desk the judge will look up at me over her reading glasses, he small mouth on her charming face moving and say, “Is that agreeable to you?” and I will say, “Yes, Your Honor,” just as Barry has instructed me, but what I want to say, or more accurately what I want to ask, is how she got so comfortable in her own skin, how she is capable of such authenticity, because I would really like to know what that feels like again.

  As I think about it, I’ve actually been very impressed by everyone involved with the trial, the judge, the bustling prosecutor, the court reporter, the sketch artist, even the jury. And Barry, of course. He has not disappointed. They’ve all played their roles marvelously. I just hope I’ve done my part. I may be untalented, but I try to be a pro.

  At these thoughts I feel a smile playing at the corners of my mouth and I am not sure if this is my appreciation for all these jobs well done or simple nervousness that any moment this whole thing could be over. Barry has explained to me that after the prosecution completes its case it is usual for the defense to request a directed verdict of not guilty for lack of prima facie evidence. If no reasonable person could believe me to be guilty, then I will go free without having to mount any defense whatsoever. I had never heard of this before until Barry told me about this particular judicial wrinkle the day after the blowup in the town car, a salve for the wounds inflicted thus far.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I asked.

  “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

  “Then why are you telling me now?”

  “It seems like the right thing to do at this time, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “Considering your apparent emotional distress.”

  “And could we get that, the directed verdict?” I asked. There was a surprising amount of hope in my voice. There have been periods during this time where I honestly felt like I didn’t care which way this whole thing went.

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly or probably?” My conversations with Barry sometimes remind me of an Abbott and Costello routine. Truthfully, I’ve never cared for Abbott and Costello, never found them funny, though I’d never admitted it publicly since these thoughts were blasphemous for any “real” comic. Seeing those two stupid assholes do “Who’s on First?” makes me want to leap through the television and knock their heads together. Draw a diagram, fuckwads.

  “It’s unusual to win on a directed verdict on a jury trial, but not unheard of.”

  “How not unheard of?”

  Barry sighed. Usually Barry does not like to show irritation because irritation is weakness, but there it was, him briefly pinching his thumb and index finger at the bridge of his nose. I felt immediately sorry that I was such a pain in the ass. I wish I could blame it on me not being myself, but I fear it’s the opposite.

  “It’s rare,” he said.

  “How rare?”

  “Rare.”

  “Halley’s Comet rare? Cubs winning the World Series rare? Rare rare? Or medium rare?”

  “That’s very funny,” Barry replied. “The answer is rare. It could happen, but it’s not likely.”

  But is it going to happen? Barry said that the ruling should come quickly, that the judge will know the motion is coming and as such will have an answer ready. Regardless of how it turns out, I know that this judge will make the right decision. She is very wise, this judge. She is very wise and very good at placing her reading glasses on her nose and she also understands the importance of attractive shoes on a woman. Sweat pools behind my knees. If I’d known this was going to happen, I would’ve taken an extra pill this morning. I feel rooted to the chair. If the case is dismissed I may not be able to leap with joy because the chair holds me down so strongly. If the case is dismissed, as we planned prior to the shooting, Bonnie and I will be able to be together, maybe. It was going to be difficult before and now, eve
n with an acquittal, I will be further damaged goods, but love conquers all. (Except when it doesn’t.)

  I look over and see that, for once, the prosecutor is still, waiting to see if any more activity is actually going to be necessary. The jury is not present because hearing the judge’s answer will prejudice their future opinions. Finally, the judge looks up at Barry and says, “I understand you have a motion for me.”

  4

  AT THE OFFICES, the clapping man’s partner sits behind a desk with arms folded, face silent and stony as the funny man demonstrates his “thing.” Despite the assurances of his deceased partner, he appears skeptical when it comes to the funny man’s charms. His look says, “I’ve seen your kind before.”

  The funny man rolls his head around his shoulders and blows out his cheeks and shakes out his arms before pausing and saying, “Jimmy Cagney with his hand all the way inside his mouth.” He has decided to dispense with any patter. The “thing” is the “thing” and he doesn’t want anything clouding this fact.

  The funny man turns his back, puts a trench coat on, turns up the collar and shoves his hand all the way inside his mouth. The funny man turns back around and says, “You dirty rat,” only it sounds like, “Whooar arghl whab,” because his hand is shoved all the way inside his mouth. The clapping man’s partner does nothing. Face stony, arms still folded.

  The funny man removes his hand, says, “John Wayne with his hand all the way inside his mouth,” then quickly turns his back again, takes off the trench coat, puts on a cowboy hat and toy sixgun shooters around his waist and shoves his hand all the way back inside his mouth. He returns to face the clapping man’s partner.

  “Whalks whake wah gok inunh grhuble,” (Looks like we got injun trouble) the funny man says with his hand all the way inside his mouth while swaggering at the hips and using the barrel of one of the six-guns to tilt his cowboy hat slightly upward.

  The funny man again removes his hand and says, “Richard Nixon with his hand all the way inside his mouth,” turns back around, takes the cowboy hat and six-shooters off, puts on a suit coat and presses play on a small cassette player. The sound of helicopter blades cutting the air fills the room. The funny man faces the clapping man’s partner again, ducks his head into his shoulders, furrows his brow, and makes the peace sign with the hand that is not shoved inside his mouth.

  “Foy hant tont uh crulkh,” (I am not a crook), he says. The clapping man’s partner’s face breaks. He chuckles. His folded arms bounce on his chest. The funny man remains standing in his Nixon costume.

  “Whool ownt ave ixon oo ick rowned nymoor,” (You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore).

  The clapping man’s partner laughs out loud. “Ha!” he says. “Ha!”

  The funny man does John F. Kennedy (“Fsk ot aht oour untree an oo or oo, fsk aht oo an oo or ouyor untree”), John Lennon (“Ive eece a hance”), and Norma Desmond (“Eyein eddie or eye ohsut,”) and with each one, the clapping man’s partner laughs a little louder.

  Finally, the funny man takes his hand from his mouth and holds a single finger up, asking for silence.

  Something big is coming.

  The funny man turns his back and puts on a frilly shirt and pirate hat. The funny man faces the clapping man’s partner briefly, says, “Captain Hook with his hand all the way in his mouth.” The funny man pauses and slyly arches his brow beneath the pirate hat before turning away again. He places a (fake) metal hook on one hand and a small blood packet between cheek and gum and turns to face the clapping man’s partner. The funny man jams the hook into his mouth and screams, “Motherfucker!” Fake blood sprays over the desk at the clapping man’s partner, who in turn opens one of the desk drawers and withdraws a sheet of paper and a small stack of money.

  “This is two thousand dollars,” he says. He wipes a mirthful tear from his eye. “And this is your contract. For television, we’ll kill the foul language, but the kids’ll love it. They want everyone working blue these days.”

  The funny man nods, signs the sheet of paper, and takes the money. The two shake hands.

  “I am now your agent,” the agent says.

  THE FUNNY MAN sits in the kitchen, bouncing the child on his knee when the wife comes home. When he’s bounced, the flesh on the child’s cheeks jiggles in a funny way that the funny man enjoys, so they do this often. When he proposed to his wife, not long after she revealed her pregnancy and only minutes after she had deposited her breakfast in the toilet, the funny man had gotten on one knee and presented the small diamond, purchased on a 100 percent installment plan and said, “It may not be easy, but I promise it will always be fun.” He has held up the bargain thus far and he has something very exciting and he thinks fun planned for her.

  “Honey, could you get me some cornflakes?” the funny man says. He smiles and nods toward the cupboard. He turns the child to face toward his wife so there’s an audience of two. She looks at the funny man like he might actually be the extremely stupid person he is acting like.

  “Could you get yourself royally fucked?” she says.

  “But I’d really like some cornflakes. Maybe you would too,” he says. He wiggles his eyebrows at her Groucho-style. This is going better than the funny man could have hoped. The setup and reversal are really well constructed. He has learned quite a bit performing for those drunks in those clubs.

  The wife storms to the cupboard, grabs the cereal and two bowls, slams them down to the table and pours. Five one-hundred dollar bills fall out. She holds her hand over her mouth like she’s received a great surprise. He knows it is not about the money, that the money itself doesn’t matter (though it is a great help). It is about the fulfilling of the compact they made with their partnership. He has come through for them.

  “You might also want to check the diaper pail,” the funny man says. “I think it needs emptying.” The wife runs to the bedroom and sprints back, fanning five hundred more dollars in her hand. She starts to smile.

  “I think something fell behind the toilet,” the funny man says. The wife leaves and returns again, holding the jewelry box open. The small, diamond earrings sparkle from inside. Her hands shake so hard she cannot place them successfully in her ears. The funny man takes them from her and carefully removes the hoops that occupy the spot where the diamonds belong.

  “Did you rob a bank?” she says.

  “I did not. But I would if you wanted me to.” The funny man leans in closely as he pulls the final earring free. He kisses her on the lobe and can feel her shudder.

  “It’s like some kind of movie,” she says.

  “Hang up your apron, Rosie, your hash-slinging days are over,” the funny man says.

  “You know my name’s not Rosie.”

  The funny man carefully places the diamonds in his wife’s ears and watches them sparkle. “Whatever,” he says.

  5

  “WHAT ARE WE going to do now?” I say to Barry. We are in one of the private courthouse consultation rooms. I sit slumped in a chair at a small conference table, the knot of my tie pulled down so it hangs around my head like a noose. I stare at the carpet, a dark burgundy, with large, even darker stains. I imagine this is a spot where many a man’s stomach has upended onto the floor. I for sure feel like that could be me any moment. I have been lower in my life, but this is pretty damn low.

  Barry stands in front of me, arms folded, and gives a big smile. “Why, we put on our defense, of course!” he says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “A vigorous, spirited defense!”

  “As in the best defense is a good offense?”

  “No,” Barry says, frowning. I am clearly getting on his nerves. My act is growing stale, even with him. “That’s one of the dumbest things someone can say. The best defense isn’t a good offense. Why do people say that? The best defense is a good defense. Offense is offense and defense is defense. Saying the best defense is a good offense is like saying the best polar bear is an ostrich. They aren’t the same thing at all. One is a fl
ightless fowl and the other is a massive, carnivorous mammal.”

  “Like Tom Arnold,” I say.

  Barry ignores me and plows forward. “Now, our defense is multipronged, the first prong being that it’s going to be a very lengthy, very thorough defense.”

  This sounds wretched. Thirty minutes ago I dared to imagine my freedom, the possibilities for a reborn man, my second rebirth, and now my own lawyer is telling me that even if we win the trial, victory is in the distant future. Barry continues.

  “One thing our defense will do is make them forget the offense ever existed. We will erase their memories of those coroner’s pictures and the victim’s mother sobbing so hard she couldn’t manage to answer any questions, and those ear-witness accounts claiming that you yelled ‘die motherfucker,’ (this is not true, by the way) either right before or right after pulling the trigger, and of the six bullets that were recovered from the victim’s body. Certainly the prosecutor will try to remind the jury of these things in his closing, but they will be so distant they will sound more like rumor than fact, as in, ‘I think I heard that, but it can’t be right, can it?’”

  Barry warms to the task, more animated than I’ve ever seen him. The cool courtroom customer has been replaced by something different, something giddy. He must’ve been rooting against his own motion for dismissal.

  “The second prong is putting you, your life, your times, the very moment you killed that man in context. Right now, what does our jury know and think about you? Untalented, successful, bad husband and father.” Barry ticks the items off on his fingers, one by one.