by Bill Noel
Cal asked, “What’s the deal?”
I knew better than to comment on Charles’s shirts.
“It’s in Boston. The only college in the US of A that has what?”
“One fewer T-shirt?” I said.
“Wrong.”
“I’ll bite,” Cal said. “What?”
“A bachelor’s degree in comedic arts.”
Cal said, “You’re kiddin’.”
“I didn’t go there so I can’t be kiddin’,” Charles said like it made sense. “I got it for tonight.”
I was impressed but didn’t dare tell my friend.
“Wow,” Cal said, “I’d love to hear more, but I’d better start acting like a bartender.”
Charles and I left him grabbing drinks for Kristin then moved to the tables.
Charles looked at the table, where the colorful accountant was talking to the others with him. “I see Vernon made it.”
“You know him?”
“I’m why he’s here. I met him in Mr. John’s Beach Store. He was gabbing with that skinny chick sitting with him. She was laughing at something he said. I didn’t hear what it was, but figured it was funny, so I introduced myself and asked if he was a comedian.”
Charles could get away with something like that. “What’d he say?”
“He looked at me like I was a tarantula he wanted to stomp on, then he grinned. He told me that he was an accountant, although some of the folks in his office told him he should be a stand-up comic. That was coming from accountants, so I didn’t think he had to be funny to impress them. The lady with him, her name’s Tanya, said he should go for it. I told him about open-mic comedy night. There he is.”
“Don’t know how funny he is, but his shirt will get laughs.”
“Ah, ha,” Charles said as he looked at the door. “There’s my other recruit. Maybe I should supplement my private detective income as an agent to the stars.”
He was looking at two women, both appeared to be in their late-twenties, with short, dark hair, wearing white blouses and skinny jeans.
“Both comedians?” I asked.
“Not sure about both. The one on the left is. That’s Franny Foster. She works at Harris-Teeter. Every time I’m in there, she’s talking about her three kids and her worthless husband. She’s downright funny, so I invited her.”
Franny waved at Charles as she followed the lady with her to a table.
There was one vacant table left, and Joy and Kristin were busy. Cal was in a better mood as he looked at his watch before moving to the stage.
He tapped the large, silver microphone. “Guys and gals, listen up. This is a big night for Cal’s. You’re in for quite a treat. We’re going to unplug the jukebox and bring to this here stage some of the finest joke tellers that ever stepped foot on Folly Beach. That’s right, we’ll be opening with some locals who think, no, who know, that they’re as funny as those funny guys you see on TV. Then, as quick as you can shake a hickory stick, you’ll be laughing your as—umm, your rear end off when the true Legends of comedy get here.” He held up both hands like he was holding back the excitement of the crowd.
It worked. No one applauded, laughed, or showed signs of excitement.
“So, let’s get the fun beginning. Raise your hand if you want to share some jokes with us.”
Two hands went up: Vernon and Franny.
“Fantastic,” Cal said. “Let’s begin with the young man who looks like he just got here from Hawaii. Vernon, umm, what’s your last name again?”
The roly-poly man said, “Moore.”
“Bring it on, Vernon Moore.”
The three-other people at Vernon’s table applauded as he moved to the microphone.
He squeezed it like it was a snake trying to wiggle free. “Hi, I’m Vernon Moore, and this is my first appearance here.” He chuckled. “Umm, it’s my first appearance anywhere. I’ve been told that I’m funny, and my sweet wife, Tanya, said I could prove it to you. So here goes.” He hesitated, took a deep breath, then said, “During the day, I’m an accountant in downtown Charleston. Yep, I’m one of them. There are three kinds of accountants in the world, those who can count, and those who can’t.” He nodded his head toward the room.
Two of the three people at his table laughed. They must’ve been accountants.
“Okay,” Vernon continued, “You know the definition of an economist?” Vernon waved his hand at the audience. No one knew. “It’s someone who doesn’t have enough personality to be an accountant.”
Charles leaned over to me. “Is it midnight yet?”
“Do you know when a person decides to be an accountant?” Apparently, no one knew that answer, either. “When he realizes he doesn’t have enough charisma to be an undertaker.”
That elicited chuckles from several people who weren’t sitting at his table.
Vernon was on a roll. He shared a few more accountant jokes, and I was beginning to wonder where the Legends were.
Vernon said, “I’d better finish up so, remember, if you ever want to drive an accountant insane, tie him to a chair, stand in front of him, and fold a roadmap the wrong way. Thank you, thank you.” He bowed and received a standing ovation—from three people at his table.
Polite applause was sprinkled throughout the rest of the room.
Cal put his arm around Vernon and said, “Great job, great job. Let’s hear it again for Vernon Moore.”
Vernon returned to his adoring fans, and Cal motioned to the woman who’d said she wanted to perform.
She walked to the stage like she was stepping on eggshells.
Cal met her, leaned close, while she whispered something to the country crooner.
Cal grabbed the mic and said, “Folks, put your hands together on this historic night. Give a big round of applause for Miss Franny Foster.”
Most of the patrons applauded, and Franny said, “Evening guys, like Vernon, this is my first time behind a microphone. As handsome Cal said, I’m Franny and I’m frazzled. I came out tonight with my friend, Laurie, to get out of the house. You see, I have three tikes at home, actually, it’s four, because my husband’s thirty years old, or ten in kiddie years.” She sighed. “Let me tell you how smart he is. He put a knocker on our front door. Seems he thought it’d help him win the no-bell prize.” It may have been my imagination, but it appeared that most of the women in the room laughed.
“I know, I know,” Franny continued, “I’ve learned never to argue with an idiot. He’ll drag you down to his level then beat you with experience.”
This time, it wasn’t my imagination.
Franny shook her head and frowned. “I don’t know who’s lazier, my hubby, or our dog Darwin. Whenever someone knocks on the door, Darwin looks at me like I should bark.”
More laughter. Franny smiled, and said, “My husband claims I’m always negative. Yesterday, we were halfway to Columbia when he said, ‘All you do is complain. Gee, I remembered the car seat, I remembered the diapers, I remembered the stroller. And all you do is gripe about me forgetting the baby.’”
Even Cal laughed.
Franny started another joke when she was interrupted by the constant blaring of a car horn.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. The Legends had arrived.
Charles asked if I wanted to go out and meet them.
I told him I’d rather slither under the table.
He said it wasn’t a bad idea.
We turned out attention back to Franny who was trying to pretend that the horn wasn’t disrupting her set.
“And kids,” she said. “Don’t get me started about kids. The other night, I came home and saw Timmy, my oldest, who’s nine, sitting on a big stuffed horse and writing something. Now, being a keen observer, I asked him what in the world was he doing. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and said, ‘Our teacher told us to write an essay on our favorite animal. That’s why I’m sitting here and why sis is sitting on the goldfish bowl.’”
Cal’s front door flung
open and, for all practical purposes, Franny’s performance was over.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In walked Sal, shoulders pulled back, looking as confident as LeBron James playing in a middle-school basketball game. His robin-egg blue, three-piece suit was replaced by a shiny, off-white suit and black dress shoes.
Pete was next through the door. Instead of his red sports coat, he wore a bright orange coat with a brown ascot.
I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him followed in by Wallace in a red, white, and blue jumpsuit, with an elephant wearing a top hat. I was disappointed when Wallace walked in the door wearing a black shirt, slacks, and shoes. His wardrobe was black and new; the shirt showing packaging creases. He carried a plastic Walmart bag. It wasn’t black.
Sal looked at Franny, gave her a thumbs-up, and moved, along with his companions, to the table. Their attire was loud enough to make up for his silence.
Franny seemed to lose her place, stammered, and said, “My time’s up. Remember, folks, it’s true that women don’t work as hard as men.” Two women in the audience groaned. Franny held up her hand and smiled. “It’s because we get it right the first time. Thanks.”
Maybe it was because they had a beer or two, or because they thought Franny was funny, the crowd applauded, not just the lady at Franny’s table. Sal yelled, “Bravo!”
He’d heard a grand total of one joke. The comic must’ve figured that if he praised her performance, she’d do the same when he finished.
The reason didn’t matter to Franny, she beamed from ear to ear and nodded in Sal’s direction. After all, how often does a legend of comedy praise a mother with three toddlers, four counting her hubby, after her first gig?
Cal had his arm around Franny. He echoed Sal’s remark when he told the audience that he was taking a fifteen-minute break for everyone to order more drinks before he brought on the world-famous Legends of Comedy.
Theo had parked the Legends’ limo and joined us while Krista and Joy were taking Charles and my reorder plus orders from the others.
“Nice outfits,” Charles said to the Legends.
Sal said, “We wanted to look our best tonight. Wallace thought we could be good role models for the aspiring comics who came out to tell a few jokes. It’s called leading by example.”
“Good idea,” I said, yet thought they looked like examples for aspiring clowns rather than comics.
Joy and Kristin returned with drinks when I noticed Janice Raque seated at the bar. She was by herself, so I went to say hi. She recognized me and said it was good to see me. I was surprised by her good mood. I asked if she was alone.
She said yes, so I asked if she wanted to join our group. She looked over to see who our group was, and said, “Why not?”
Charles saw us coming. He pulled an extra chair from a nearby table and patted its seat for Janice.
I introduced her to the group. If they cared, they hid it well. I wrote it off to nerves, or it could have been they truly didn’t care. Theo, who didn’t have to worry about his comedy performance, said he knew Janice and was glad that she joined us.
“Where’s Horace?” Theo asked like he just realized that Janice was by herself.
“Don’t know, don’t care, don’t ask,” she said, then turned to Wallace. “I was sorry to hear about your son.”
I was surprised that she knew about Ray. Charles beat me to asking, “How’d you hear?”
She hesitated and said, “Can’t keep anything under rocks around here.”
Cryptic, I thought, and so did Charles. “Who told you?”
Before she answered, Cal blew into the microphone, tapped it with his knuckles, and said, “Here’s what we’ve all been waiting for. Let me bring up to the stage Mr. Sal, umm,” he glanced at a piece of paper in his hand. “Salvador Stoll. He’s going to serve as master of ceremonies for the Legends. It’s all yours, Sal.”
Sal looked like a skinny, short version of Colonel Sanders as he grabbed the mic like he owned it. “Thank you, Cal. Let’s have a hand for the best bar owner in this half of the country.”
Mild applause followed, some of it was because the people knew Cal and showed their appreciation, some was muted by people who were probably trying to figure out who the best bar owner was in the other half of the country.
“How about the great performances by the comics who opened for us tonight?”
Applause rang out from the tables where the previous performers were seated. Sal nodded. “Great job, folks.” He paused and smiled. “I was sitting over there a few minutes ago when my good friend, Chris, asked me if there were any famous men born on my birthday. I said, nope, only babies.” Sal laughed at his joke and said, “Speaking of birthdays, I asked my wife what she wanted for her birthday. She said something with diamonds. Being the generous, accommodating husband that I am, I gave her a pack of playing cards.” He laughed again. “And if you think that’s funny, wait until you hear what my good friend, Pete Marvin, will be laying on you. I’ll be back in a little while. Until then, let me present nationally-known comedian, entertainer extraordinaire, Pete Marvin.”
I leaned over to Theo while Pete was making his way to the mic. “Those new outfits must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“Don’t know. They didn’t use my credit card.”
I thought it strange since he’d said he’d been footing all their bills. “Where’d the money come from?”
“Pete said he got a payment he was owed by one of the clubs where they’d played last year.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No reason not to. It was fine with me since I wasn’t forking out the cash.”
No reason other than someone stealing money from his house. I didn’t share that thought.
Pete was introducing himself to the crowd as if Sal hadn’t already.
“I don’t know about you,” Pete said, “I want to die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather.” He paused. “Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.”
Scattered laughter came from some of the tables, along with a spattering of groans. I wondered how sensitive a death joke was this close to Wallace’s son’s demise.
“The other day, I read where four out of five people suffer from diarrhea. Yep, four out of five. Does that mean one person likes it?”
The dead joke wasn’t so bad after all.
“Speaking of my grandfather,” Pete continued without waiting for the silence to die down, “I remember when he gave my grandmother a cemetery plot for her birthday.” He shook his head. “Was she ever pissed. The next year, he didn’t give her anything. That irritated her even more. She asked him why he didn’t get her a gift. Gramps said, ‘You didn’t use what I gave you last year.’”
Three men at a table behind us thought it was funny, probably the reason they were in Cal’s without their wives.
Pete told a few more jokes that received increased amounts of laughter. I could see how he’d been a success on the comedy club circuit. He finished, took a couple of bows, and introduced his “good friend,” Wallace Bentley, the “star of comedy shows, television, and movies.”
The room was full, Cal smiled like he’d discovered a way to increase Sunday business. Joy and Kristin were scurrying around the bar, distributing drinks while earning the kind of tips that they’d anticipated.
Wallace pushed up from the table, grabbed the Walmart sack, and moved toward the stage like he was walking in a pool of Jell-O. He set the bag on the corner of the stage and moved to the microphone. His shiny, black hair glistened in the lone stage light.
“Wasn’t Pete great?” Wallace asked and applauded in the direction of Pete. His face smiled, but his eyes and clenched fist screamed pain.
Pete gave what I suspected was intended to be a humble nod but looked more like he was drifting asleep with his chin bouncing off his chest.
Wallace turned to the crowd and said, “Before I begin, I’d like to dedicate my performance to my son, Ray. He was a wonderful
kid, a fabulous entertainer. He joins me tonight on the stage. He’s gone now but will always be with me during my performances.” Wallace moved away from the mic and stooped down in front of the Walmart bag. He pulled a rectangular, bronze box the size of a shoebox out and set it next to the mic stand.”
A couple of people in the back of the room laughed, two tables of customers moaned, most everyone else didn’t know how to react. Was it a joke? Was he serious? What do we do now? Everyone at our table understood. The comedians bowed their heads. I peeked at Charles and couldn’t tell if he was rolling his eyes or shaking his head.
Janice mumbled, “Shit.”
“Thank you,” Wallace said.
For what, I didn’t know.
He pointed at Pete. “Pete’s a good friend. I love him like a mosquito, but tell you the truth, he comes from a stupid family.” He then pointed to a table on the other side of the room. “How stupid, you ask. In the Civil War, his ancestors fought for the West.”
Nervous laughter from not knowing what to do after Wallace’s introduction of Ray, turned sincere.
“His sister’s so dumb, blondes made jokes about her.”
More laughter.
“Then there’s my good friend, Sal. Wave Sal.”
Sal frowned then waved.
Wallace nodded then gave a stage whisper into the mic. “Don’t tell anyone, but Sal told me that his brother, Theo, the old codger sitting beside him, is so dumb that he once sold his car for gas money.”
Most everyone in the room, except for Theo, Charles, and I, thought it was one of the funniest things they’d ever heard—proof that cigarette smoke wasn’t a requirement for people thinking things were funny. A couple of hours guzzling beer made the difference.
Wallace continued with a couple more jokes about marriage and two about humorous road signs he’d seen.
Most of his jokes were funny, but that’s not what surprised me the most. He’d been on stage for fifteen minutes and transitioned from one joke to the next. Not once had he lost his place. He didn’t drift into the past, and he seemed to have a grasp on reality. This was not the Wallace I’d become accustomed to observing. Instead of listening to his joke about a drunken hippo, my mind wandered back to what Theo had said about Wallace’s lapses in reality coming at times that were convenient. Was it all an act?
