Not QUITE the Classics

by Colin Mochrie

  Not QUITE the Classics

  Colin Mochrie

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Colin Mochrie

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover photograph © 2013 by Aaron Cobb.

  www.AaronCobb.com

  Styled by Jeff Andrews.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition July 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-626811-12-6

  To Deb and Luke

  For making life easier than it’s supposed to be

  Contents

  Introduction

  A Study in Ha Ha

  Moby

  Casey at the Bar

  The Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Fourth

  A Tale of Two Critters

  The Cat and my Dad

  Franken’s Time

  Waterhouse Five

  ’Twas Not Right Before Christmas

  The Grateful Gatsby

  Re: Becker

  Faren Heights Bin 451

  Introduction

  Writing is a lot of work, and as it happens, I am not a fan of work. One of the reasons I became an improviser was so that my workload would be light. I don’t have to learn lines or go for wardrobe fittings. I don’t have to travel with equipment or an entourage (mainly because no one wants to do things for me). I just need a stage, and someone to work with, and off I go. Simple. Easy. No heavy lifting. The best thing about writing is that I am sitting down while I do it. The worst thing, and I cannot stress this enough, is that it is work.

  If you were to transcribe any of the scenes we did on Whose Line is it Anyway?, they would rarely, if ever, make sense. Each scene was a mixture of suggestions from the audience, our own creativity, and sometimes, liquor. Improvisation is an art form of the moment, and each moment can lead to a multitude of tangents that for that brief time make absolute sense. Writing a book, though, means making sense forever. That’s work. And don’t get me started on punctuation and spelling…(Those three little dots that lead to nowhere? It’s called an ellipsis. Who knew? Who needs to know?)

  I never wanted to write a book. (Period.)

  Don’t get me wrong. I love books. From the very first classic I read—The Cat in the Hat—I was hooked. Books made up the bulk of my birthday and Christmas presents. Then I discovered the public library. Having been blessed with the ability to read quickly, and early, I’d take out seven books every week, finish them, then head back for more. Every genre intrigued me. Louis L’Amour westerns, Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy, Dashiell Hammett’s crime novels, Peanuts and Doonesbury comic-strip collections. Books taught me everything from how to stickhandle a puck and build models to how to cook dinner, mix a cocktail, and find a cheap hotel in Paris. Books were invaluable to me during the raging hormones of puberty. Finding a quiet corner in the library and perusing The Happy Hooker, Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask, and The Sensuous Man readied me for the onset of manhood that I was sure was just around the corner. It wasn’t, but that’s another story.

  Then I discovered used-book stores—the best places to get discounted second-hand comics. (Those were the days when a giant Superman went for a quarter and vendors didn’t know how valuable the vintage titles were.) Soon I was scanning the shelves for hidden treasures: a dog-eared copy of David Niven’s exceptional memoir The Moon’s a Balloon; Agatha Christie’s last Poirot book, Curtain, missing its cover, but thankfully none of its pages; Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot, filled with what I hope were coffee stains. (By the way, Steve, how can you write a thousand-page book every year? Come on. It’s insane!) I can still smell that strange book smell that made me feel I had been transported back in time. There is no aroma that takes me back to a time of my life more vividly than the scent of a musty tome. Yeah, you read that right. Musty tome. Not only my rap name, but also an example of the only kind of writing I thought I was capable of before Not Quite the Classics.

  Write a book? Me? (Question mark.)

  It all started with my manager, Jeff Andrews, saying, “Col, why don’t you write a book?” Jeff is constantly trying to get me to work. In the twenty years that he has represented me, he’s never steered me wrong (except for that time he got me involved in a three-day New York dance recital where I had to play one of Cinderella’s stepsisters in drag). It’s one of the reasons I love him. Another reason is that he’s the only person in the world I can say no to. So naturally when he brought up this idea, I said no. What would I write about? My life? I have been very fortunate and have had a wonderful life, but to be honest, it’s really not that interesting. It would go something like this:

  I was born. Grew up in the normal way. Got married to a beautiful woman, had a wonderful kid. Got a British TV show called Whose Line is it Anyway?, which became successful and moved to the U.S. All the cast members were good friends, so no Hollywood gossip there. It led to other work. The marriage is still happy, the boy is now a lovely young man, and … here we are.

  See? At most I could stretch it into a pamphlet. Undeterred, Jeff got me a literary agent, who secured a book deal.

  I had to write a book. Damn. (Expletive.)

  I knew for sure that this “book” would not be a novel. I wanted to incorporate my improv skills into this terrifying adventure, and as a practitioner of short scenes, short stories seemed the way to go. Then I was hit with a stroke of, if not genius, at the very least, high-functioning smarty-pantedness.

  There is an improv game called First Line, Last Line, in which the beginning and the ending are supplied by the audience and the improvisers make up the rest. I could do that in a book. Take the first and last line of famous novels, make up the middle, and voila! So I found twelve classics with first and last lines that inspired me. That was tougher than it sounds. Many great novels have a terrific first line, but the last line can be a killer. Take, for example, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility.

  First line: “The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex.”

  Nice. Vague enough to go anywhere, but still has characters and a location.

  Last line: “Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.”

  That’s pretty specific. It’s also lengthy and dull.

  So I went back to my first favorite: Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat. My zombie version flowed out of me like one of those rare, perfectly improvised scenes. Other stories lurched and buckled. No flow. They were the dreaded work. Some surprised me, like the Sherlock Holmes tale, which needed the least amount of editing and was the most fun to write. Through it all, I learned something: I despised writing. Not the conjuring of the story, but the actual typing. My fingers could never keep up with my mind. (I believe this is what one would call a First World problem.) Still, I got through it, and with the end of every story came a feeling of accomplishment.

  I couldn’t have done it alone. Thanks to my wife, Debra McGrath, whose support and undying love definitely colored some of the women found in this book. Thanks to my son, Luke, without question my best work, who thinks I’m funny even w
hen I’m not. To Jeff Andrews, for pushing me into this. To Carly Watters, my ever-supportive literary agent, whose notes and advice on my first three test stories were invaluable. To Adrienne Kerr, my editor, whose enthusiasm and gentle critique took me further than I thought I could go. To every author, published and unpublished, just for doing the work. Kudos!

  And finally, to the writers whose lines I appropriated, thanks. I may not have read all your books, but I have seen all the movies.

  So there you go. All the groaning and moaning, all the rewriting and editing, all the deadlines, missed and otherwise, are done.

  I wrote a book! (Exclamation point.)

  A Study in Ha Ha

  INSPIRED BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE’S

  A STUDY IN SCARLET

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. His back was to me, but I could ascertain from his posture and almost preternatural stillness that he was working through some problem with that incredibly nimble mind of his. Mindful of how interruptions during this process would annoy the great consulting detective, I strove to show no sign of occupying the room.

  “Watson, do sit down!” Holmes barked, in a tone equal parts irritation and patronizing dismissiveness. “You are one of the few people I know who can actually be more disruptive being stealthy. You’re louder than a bagpiper at a Scottish wedding.”

  “I do apologize, Holmes, for disturbing you. But to be fair, I too am a tenant here and should be allowed space to breathe. Would you not agree?”

  “It was not your breathing that alerted me to your presence,” Holmes said dryly.

  “What was it, then? Please do tell, so that I can endeavor to eradicate this predilection from my repertoire.”

  “Your sarcasm is duly noted. Those Oxfords you’re wearing emitted a C-sharp identical to a note that was misplayed during a performance by the Lower Slaughter String Quartet at a charity ball I was unfortunate enough to attend a fortnight ago.”

  I stood still for a moment processing the information. “Oh, you mean my shoes squeaked! Dear Lord in heaven, Holmes! It is a fortunate thing that our life expectancy is not shortened with each word we use, otherwise you would not have made it out of the nursery.”

  Holmes, quite surprisingly, smiled. “That was amusing, Watson.”

  “Oh. Ah … thank you.”

  “Yes, quite amusing. The premise that life expectancy is inversely proportionate to loquaciousness, paired with the obviously silly supposition that I was a verbose toddler—yes. Quite amusing…” Holmes trailed off, making some notes.

  “Is there tea?” I inquired.

  “Yes,” Holmes muttered. “Here.” He gestured to a side table.

  I poured myself a cup and sat across from him. “Since I have interrupted you anyway, I suppose no harm could come of my asking you what is it that concerns you so. A new case, perhaps? Is Moriarty up to his old tricks? Or could it be some family crisis with Mycroft?”

  “Watson,” Holmes said, impatiently tapping his pipe in the ashtray, “would you like me to answer, or do you wish to make endless suppositions based on not one fact in your possession?”

  My sheepish silence was answer enough.

  “Fine, then, let me illuminate you.” With that, he bounded out of his chair and, grabbing me by the arm, led me to the lamp on the far wall. Then he leaned back, crossed his arms, and laughed.

  “Holmes, have you taken leave of your senses? What are you doing?”

  “Why, Watson, I am illuminating you!”

  I sneered. “Oh, I see. A pun, is it? I suppose you think that hilarious?”

  “No. Though I was hoping for a more favorable reaction from you. What with the pun being the basest of all humor, I was sure that you would be affected in a highly positive way.”

  “Now look here, Holmes…” Before I could continue my protestation, he rushed back to his breakfast table and proceeded to scribble feverishly on some foolscap. I must confess that his behavior was becoming increasingly irritating. I thought I had become quite inured to the eccentricities of my friend, but these ramblings, followed by bursts of physical exertion, were beyond the pale. “Holmes! I must insist that you inform me as to what the blazes is going on!”

  Holmes looked up at me and, for the briefest of moments, smiled. He jumped from the chair and made his way to the fireplace, then whipped around to face me. Quite often, Holmes became very dramatic in the lead-up to one of his pronouncements. In this instance, he reminded me of Sarah Bernhardt about to launch into the “To be or not to be” soliloquy.

  Holmes seemed to make a mental note of that, then spoke. “Watson, as you know, I get bored quite easily. Since there has been a paucity of truly challenging cases lately, I have been dabbling in various experiments to keep my mind limber.”

  My eyes involuntarily darted to the spot where I had hidden his needles.

  “I am not speaking of the remedies I employ to keep my spirits up.”

  I glanced at the liquor cabinet.

  “Nor have I overindulged in any other vice, Watson. I think you shall be surprised when I tell you what has ignited my interest.”

  My eyes strayed to the spot where I had secreted some reading material that, though in my possession purely for scientific reasons, may be considered inappropriate even for gentlemen of the medical sciences.

  “Watson, are you hiding anything else in our rooms? Your eyes are bulging and darting about like that of a stroke victim. It is very off-putting.”

  “Holmes, what is it? What is this new fascination?”

  “Humor!”

  “Humor?”

  “Humor!”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “Last night, after supper, I became quite restless.” His eyes fixed upon me with his customary intensity. “I tell you, Watson, you will never grasp what torture it is when I have nothing to occupy my mind. I cannot rest. I must always have something percolating. As I’m sure you are aware, I am often trying to perfect my ability to blend in at any event, in any location.”

  “Ah yes, your penchant for disguises.”

  “Correct. I had perfected a camouflage that would allow me to go anywhere in the city and fit right in. I made my way to—”

  “What was the disguise?” I asked.

  “It makes no difference to what I’m about to tell you. I made my way to the Lambkin and Puffin, a boisterous pub in—”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t a beggar.”

  “What?”

  “Your disguise. Not a beggar. You said it could get you anywhere. Being done up like a beggar would make you stand out in most quarters. A postman! No…not at night, surely.”

  “As I said before, the disguise matters not. May I get on with my story, Watson?”

  “A dog? A dog could be most places. Were you camouflaged as a dog?”

  “Think, man! How could I pass as a dog?”

  “Well, you’d have to remove your pipe.”

  “Madeline!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Madeline was my disguise. A lady! Watson, I was dressed as a lady whom I have named Madeline. In this guise I could be anything from a lowly streetwalker to the wife of a well-to-do banker. Depending on station or location, of course.”

  At the thought of Holmes dressed as a woman, I became slightly ill. “Depending more on the amount of light, I should think.”

  “I’ll have you know the disguise was a resounding success! I had many an admiring glance tossed my way … Are you all right, old boy? You look a trifle green.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Please finish your story.”

  “To test my disguise, I walked around joining various groups of revelers in escalating stages of drunkenness—the revelers, not I—and was drawn to one group in particular whose members were enthralled, listening to a large, portly fellow telling stories
.” Holmes paused, and his eyes seemed to burrow right through me. “Funny stories. Watson, I don’t know if the stories were true, but they seemed so. They illumined our social mores, our intimate relationships with others, and all with a comical twist that quite accentuated our human foibles. Even I chortled at least twice and outright guffawed three times.” Holmes fell silent.

  I felt that I should add to the conversation. “Oh.” It wasn’t much, but it seemed to urge Holmes on.

  “Then the most amazing thing happened! Amazing and infuriating. I said something in reply to one of the monologues, and the crowd, as if they were a single organism, laughed. A loud laugh. Watson, I have never experienced such a feeling. Every nerve ending seemed on fire, and I was flushed with some emotion that I still can’t put a name to. It was as if some euphoric drug had just entered my bloodstream. It was …”

  It was the first time I could recall Holmes ever being speechless. It was most disturbing.

  “Holmes, you said it was amazing and infuriating. Why infuriating?”

  Holmes looked at me with almost haunted eyes. “I can’t remember what I said. Not one part of it.” He paused. “But this experience has spurred me on to a new endeavor. One that might actually bring me happiness. I call it…stand-up comedy!”

  “Stand-up comedy?”

  “Yes. On the first Saturday of every month, the Lambkin and Puffin stages a talent show made up of the locals performing whatever party tricks they can devise. I will write ten to twenty minutes of highly humorous material and I will perform three weeks hence. I will write comedy and I will stand up as I interpret it. Stand-up comedy!”

  A look of skepticism must have traveled my countenance, for Holmes fixed his gaze upon me.

  “Yes, Watson? You have something to say?”

  “Well, Holmes, I think that—What I mean to say is that—And this is coming from a place of friendship and nothing else. I certainly don’t want to—”