Not QUITE the Classics

by Colin Mochrie

  “Spit it out, man!”

  “You’re not funny.”

  Holmes looked as though he had found a centipede in his cock-a-leekie. “Not. Funny?”

  “Well, not in a humorous way, certainly. Your sarcasm can be amusing sometimes, if one is not the target of its venomous bite. But I certainly don’t think of you as one of the great wits in my social sphere.”

  “You laughed at something I said only a few days ago at the grocers,” Holmes said indignantly.

  “Um. No. No, it was not what you said. It was when you banged your knee against the coconuts. It made a funny sound.”

  “Coconuts?”

  “Yes, coconuts.”

  Holmes inspected his shoes for a few moments. “I must confess, Watson, you have hurt me in a manner I did not think possible.”

  “I do apologize …”

  “No. No need. It just spurs me on to prove you wrong. I believe I am up to the challenge.” He ran to the calendar on the wall and circled a date. “On this day, a mere three weeks from now, I shall prove to you that I am, in fact, quite humorous. I shall expect you to be in the audience when I take to the stage.”

  “Certainly, Holmes, certainly.”

  “Then as the cannibal toymaker said to his friend, ‘The game’s a foot!’” Holmes stood there awaiting a reaction.

  I could not give him the one he desired. “Perhaps you should stay away from puns.” I smiled weakly.

  Holmes glared and then made his way to his study, leaving me with a burgeoning sense of foreboding.

  In the following days, Holmes kept to his study, writing furiously, collecting or discarding premises, joke structures, and other mysterious fancies. After one three-hour period hunkered down in his room, he bounded out with such vigor that I expected him to shout “Eureka!” and explain Archimedes’ principle to me.

  “It’s mathematical, Watson! All mathematical!”

  “I’m sure I would agree, Holmes, if in fact I knew what you were talking about.”

  “Comedy! It follows the same mathematical principles as music. It’s all about rhythm and emphasis. Dah dah dah dah dah…dah dah dah dah.” He laughed.

  “It might be funnier with actual words.”

  Before Holmes could dispatch a withering riposte, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door.

  “Mr. Holmes, a package has just come for—”

  Before the poor woman could finish, Holmes had leapt towards her, grabbed the package, and begun ripping it open.

  “Well, I never,” she gasped.

  “Now, Mrs. Hudson, I’m almost positive that that isn’t true,” Holmes retorted.

  I’m not sure why, but I burst into laughter and was at once mortified. “Please excuse us, Mrs. Hudson, but we are in the middle of a case that is quite—”

  “I don’t want to know about it,” she said. “I should have rented to accountants. They know how to treat a landlady, I’m sure.” She left in a huff.

  “Watson, it’s come!” Holmes held aloft a leather-bound book, quite thick and possessing that intoxicatingly musty odor exuded by only the most ancient of tomes.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  “This, my dear Watson, is the oldest joke book in existence. Philogelos: The Laugh Addict. Attributed to a pair of Greeks named Hierocles and Philagrius.”

  “Surely you can’t be thinking of using these jokes! They were written centuries ago! How could any of this be relatable today? This certainly will not help your erected comedy.”

  “Stand-up comedy, Watson, stand-up. And you may be surprised to know that many of these jokes are still relatable to modern times. For example…” He quickly leafed through the book.

  “Ha! No, no… That would only work if one knew that the ancients believed lettuce to be an aphrodisiac.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You didn’t happen to know that, did you?”

  “No, Holmes, I didn’t. Is there any reason I should?”

  “No, no, of course not. Oh, here we go. ‘A misogynist is attending to the burial of his wife, who has just died, when someone asks: “Who is it who rests in peace here?” He answers: “Me, of course, now that I’m rid of her!”’”

  I allowed myself a chuckle. “Yes, I see, Holmes. I suppose drolleries about matrimonial life remain relevant regardless of the age.”

  Holmes continued to leaf through the book. “Not only matrimony but family relations, stupidity…” He stopped at a page. “Even flatulence. Things still relevant today.”

  A notion struck me. “I have to say, though—harkening back to your mathematical theory of joke telling—that particular quip you just relayed seemed to have too many beats. It seems to have thrown off the rhythm.”

  “Well done, Watson! We’ll make a thinking man of you yet.”

  “Now, there’s no reason to—”

  “I’m joking. You are right, there were too many syllables. Of course, I was translating from the original Greek, so I should be allowed some latitude. Watson, with my theories and with the aid of this learned tome, I may be on the brink of being funny.”

  “Dear God, Holmes, if this discovery falls into the wrong hands, civilization as we know it could end.”

  Holmes punctured the awkward silence. “Ah yes. Exaggerism: an exaggerated witticism that overstates the features, defects, or the strangeness of someone or something. Well played, Doctor, well played.” And with that, he sprinted to his study.

  I did not see him until two o’clock the next afternoon. He leapt out of his room. (During the period leading up to his performance, Holmes never just walked out of his study. He bounded, leapt, bobbed, hurtled, sprung, pounced, and one time, he gamboled.)

  “Tell me, Doctor. Which is funnier: a goat or a duck?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a simple query. Goat or duck?”

  “Well…duck.”

  At that, Holmes dropped down as if dodging a projectile. A few seconds later, he popped up. “Did you see what I did there? I mistook your meaning of duck and turned it into a humorous situation.”

  “Holmes, have you had any sleep?”

  “No time. Awake or asleep, the duck misunderstanding is highly amusing. And you are right, duck is funnier. Do you know why?” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

  “Because its alternative meaning allows you to do physical comedy.”

  “No, because it has a k in it.”

  “The letter k is funny, is it?”

  “Not in and of itself. It’s the k sound that prompts amusement. When a mouth forms the k in any word, it widens into a grin, subconsciously making those observing this smile along. Many words that are endowed with the k factor are among the most amusing in the English language. Think of it: knickers, scuttlebutt, spelunking.”

  “I have to admit, I always have to conceal a smirk when introduced to a Kenneth.”

  I studied Holmes’s tired face. “Would you like me to make you something to eat? I can’t remember the last time I saw you indulge in foodstuffs.”

  “Thank you, Watson, that is very considerate.”

  “What would you like?”

  “It’s obvious.” He smiled. “Kippers, of course!”

  The next day, as I was going over some particularly intriguing anatomical texts, Holmes barreled out of his room.

  “Watson! Knock, knock.”

  “Ah! Ha ha …yes, very funny, Holmes.”

  “What is?”

  “Your two k sounds. Yes, quite amusing.”

  “No, no, this is a different thing altogether. Knock, knock.”

  I stared at him.

  “Knock, knock,” Holmes repeated.

  “Why do you keep saying ‘Knock, knock?’”

  “It’s something I have just invented. Well, to be truthful, I borrowed it from Shakespeare. The Porter…from Macbeth. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes, Holmes, I am. I’m not illiterate, you know. I have read plays and books. You may
have seen me with a newspaper at times.”

  “All right, all right. No need to get your dander up. The Porter in the Scottish play pretends to be the porter to the gates of hell welcoming sinners of different professions. All follow the pattern of ‘Knock, knock,’ to which comes the reply ‘Who’s there?’ Then comes the joke. In the play it was a monologue, but I have devised it so that the audience can become part of the fun.”

  “How will they know to say ‘Who’s there?’”

  Holmes seemed nonplussed. “What?”

  “How,” I said, unconsciously slowing down as if talking to a Frenchman or a somewhat addled cocker spaniel, “will the audience know to say ‘Who’s there?’”

  “I shall tell them. That does not matter at the moment. I am trying to work the concept to see if the format is successful.”

  “All right. Who’s there?”

  “Wait for the set-up, will you? Knock, knock.”

  “Yes?”

  “Not ‘yes.’ ‘Who’s there?’ Let’s start again, shall we?” Holmes sighed loudly. “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” I said.

  “’Tis I, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you recognize me?”

  I stood stock-still, not knowing how to respond. Holmes, too, seemed a little uncertain.

  “Hmm,” he said. “There’s something missing…but what? What? Of course! There’s no familiarity with the concept, so there can be no deconstruction at this particular…hmm.” He trailed off, lost in thought. “Watson, after I say who is at the door, repeat the name I give you, adding the word ‘who.’”

  “All right, Holmes.”

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sherlock.”

  “Sherlock who?”

  Affecting a perfect Irish accent, Holmes replied, “Sure, lock the door so I can’t get in.”

  I laughed. Heaven help me, I laughed. I have never seen Holmes’s face so lit up as when he heard that laugh. It worried me.

  And so it was for the days leading up to Holmes’s debut as a standing up comedian. Just as I was growing accustomed to his prolonged absences, he would launch himself from his study talking about the science of eliciting laughter. If you have never had to sit through such a lecture, I can tell you it is the driest, most mind-numbing subject ever. The worst part of the whole process was that Holmes seemed physically unable to let any word, phrase, or idea pass by without turning it into a joke. It was most annoying. The closer the day of his performance drew, the more high-strung he became. The foreboding I felt would not leave me.

  The fateful day arrived. Holmes was not about when I made my way to breakfast. A cursory search of the flat did not turn him up. There was, however, a note.

  Watson

  I shall see you tonight at the show. Please wish good thoughts for me.

  I fear that all may not go according to plan.

  The sick feeling in my stomach grew acute.

  That evening I made my way to the Lambkin and Puffin. It was not located in the most savory of neighborhoods, yet it was pleasantly appointed and the ale was better than many of the higher-class public houses I frequented. I looked around for Holmes, but he was nowhere to be seen. For a brief moment I entertained the thought that perhaps he had thought better of this venture. Then again, I thought, Sherlock Holmes had faced dangers that would make the stoutest of men blanch. Surely reciting comic material in a pub before a drunken crowd would not unnerve him?

  The master of ceremonies, a coarse, affable type, introduced the first act: an immense matron whose repertoire of light opera ditties enthralled the audience—for two or three songs. After the fifth, she was booed handily and left the stage in tears. She was followed by a dog act, an acrobat, and a man who performed various bird whistles from his posterior. At last, it was time for Holmes. He received hearty applause, for he had acquired some fame in these parts, having solved a missing persons case involving a popular local merchant. My heart sank as I saw him walk on stage. He had the telltale signs of having indulged in his favorite vice. I swore silently to myself. Cocaine and comedy could not be a good mix.

  Holmes spoke: “Thank you for the kind welcome. I must admit I didn’t think I would get here in time. You see, my dog, a lovely Rottweiler, has a bit of a physical impediment. As a caring master, I took him to the veterinarian. ‘My dog’s cross-eyed. Is there anything you can do for him?’

  ‘Well,’ says the vet, ‘let’s have a look at him.’ He picks the dog up and examines his eyes, then checks his teeth. Finally, he says, ‘I’m going to have to put him down.’ I was aghast. ‘What? You have to put my dog down because he’s cross-eyed?’ ‘No,’ said the veterinarian, ‘I have to put him down because he’s heavy.’”

  The audience laughed robustly. Then Holmes did something I have never seen him do. He giggled. It was quite inappropriate and not a little unmanly. It seemed to take the audience aback. Holmes appeared not to notice as he launched into his second story.

  “My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, also had a bit of a health crisis. She told her doctor, ‘I’ve got a bad back.’ The doctor said, ‘It’s old age.’ She said, ‘I want a second opinion.’ So the doctor said, ‘Certainly. You’re ugly too.’” Holmes giggled once more.

  I have to say I was not in the least amused. Mrs. Hudson, while perhaps not the greatest beauty in London, is nevertheless not ugly. I was quite relieved that she had decided not to see Holmes in his inaugural performance. The next joke did little to appease my growing uneasiness. “As an expert in various subjects, I am often asked to give lectures to committees and the like. Once I was asked by the Women’s Institute to give a talk about sex. I didn’t mind agreeing to give the talk, but I was a bit worried that my friend and biographer Dr. Watson wouldn’t like me doing it. He is very prudish about subjects dealing with intimacy.”

  What an outrageous lie! But since I had not a voice in these proceedings, I was forced to sit and bear this gross injustice.

  “So as to spare his feelings, I told the dear doctor that I was engaged to talk to the Women’s Institute on the subject of sailing. The day after my lecture, Watson bumped into the chairwoman of the Women’s Institute. ‘I thought the talk Mr. Holmes gave last night was quite excellent!’ said the chairwoman. ‘He certainly seemed an expert on the subject!’ ‘Did he?’ asked the doctor. ‘I’m quite surprised! He hardly knows anything about it. He’s only done it twice. The first time he was sick and the second time his hat blew off!’”

  The audience laughed at first, and then the greater implications of the story seemed to dawn on them: that I knew all about Holmes’s intimacies either through his confidence or through personal knowledge. Holmes had called into question the nature of our friendship, making it the butt of his joke. He seemed to grasp this at about the same time the audience did. Again he giggled, this time with a higher pitch than before. The more he giggled, the less the audience laughed. But Holmes noticed this too late. Beads of perspiration congregated into rivulets of sweat that rolled down his face.

  “Uh. I was…no…A man was…” Holmes stopped, his eyes filled with a panic that I never would have thought possible. He had the stunned expression of a Cockney in Greece. He started to pace.

  The audience murmured restlessly. One wag at the back shouted, “Come on, ’Olmes. Get on wi’ it!”

  Holmes gamely kept on with his performance. But in his agitation he seemed to lose his bearings. He was in the midst of remembering what he was to say when he overstepped the stage. In mid-fall he exclaimed, “Oh sweet dear Lord!” then plummeted to the ground.

  I am ashamed to say that I burst out laughing, along with the rest of the patrons. Holmes’s proper demeanor, coupled with the pratfall, was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I rushed to help my friend, wiping the tears from my eyes. He looked at me with humiliation etched on his brow and through clenched teeth, growled, “Get me out of here, Watson! Now!”

 
We left to gales of uncontrolled laughter.

  After his disastrous performance, Holmes would not leave his study. My entreaties went unheard; the food left at his door went untouched. Three days after his public humiliation, I lost my temper.

  Standing at the door to his hideaway, I spoke: “Holmes! This behavior is childish and petulant. I regret that your attempt at stand-up comedy was not as you planned, but for heaven’s sake, man, that is what life is. Not everything can be as you wish it. Can we not look at the positive? You are to be commended for your courage in attempting something that is as foreign to you as fighting a war is to the French. There is no shame in failing in this endeavor, not with all that you have, the many skills that leave men envious of your talent. Buck up, me bucko. Just buck up!”

  There was silence from beyond the door, then Holmes’s familiar voice rang out. “Buck up, me bucko?” He laughed. A good, long laugh. “I had come to the same conclusion as you, my dear friend,” he called out. “It is foolish to think that I should be a jack of all trades. Best to concentrate on what I do best and leave comedy to those who are expert in it. I want to thank you for the support that you have given me throughout this fool’s errand. As a reward, would you be my guest at tonight’s performance of the Russian Ballet’s highly praised production of Swan Lake? The only condition is that we never speak of this again and that you not publish this particular adventure until I’m dead.”

  “You have my word, Holmes,” I called through the door.

  “Excellent.”

  The door opened and Holmes stepped out. Or should I say, Madeline stepped out. She was dressed to the nines and quite attractive (in a most uncanny manner, I should clarify). It was a remarkable disguise, capable of fooling the most discerning gentlemen.

  “Might I trouble you then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner on the way?”

  Moby

  INSPIRED BY HERMAN MELVILLE’S

  MOBY-DICK

  “Call me, Ishmael.”

  It took Ishmael a few seconds to recognize who had left the truncated message on his cell phone. His agent, Jeff, he realized, with a mixture of relief and indigestion. (He’d hoovered a cup of probiotic yogurt outside the Pilates studio. He wasn’t sure if it was the Activia or the roll-ups and single-leg circles that had brought on the nausea.) It had been almost a month since Ishmael had been out on an audition. It had been a slow year, a very slow year. A corpse on CSI, a one-line waiter part on Bones, and a crying mourner on House were all the credits he had to show for twelve months of auditions, play readings, and showcase variety gigs. It was ridiculous. He looked into the rear-view mirror and stretched his lips. “It was ridiculous. It was ridiculous.” He smoothed an unruly, Andy Rooney–esque eyebrow and signaled a left-hand turn on Augusta. There were times Ishmael had trouble accepting the fact that his chosen profession was so unfair. He was a very good actor, had gotten great reviews in recent local productions, was a master of pretending at getting along with people, and yet he still had to hustle for decent parts. Part of him, at least a full three-quarters, had trouble believing he wasn’t ranked alongside De Niro, Pacino, and Streep by now. The journey to superstardom starts with one small step, he reminded himself. At least he was getting another audition.