by Gary K. Wolf
“I’d love to, Prof, but I’m in a hurry. Gimme a rain check.”
“Anytime, Eddie. Anytime.”
I went back to the hotel.
This was a big day for Roger. Tonight was Toontown’s major hoopla, the annual Toonie Awards. The Toonies recognized the year’s best performances in cartoons.
Roger was up for Best Supporter for his role in Jockstrap Whippersnap, a cartoon in which Roger and Baby Herman wreaked their usual brand of infantile and hare-brained havoc during a Toontown football game. Since Hollywood stars rarely missed an opportunity to rub the nap off a twenty foot run of red carpet, Cooper was going to the festivities.
Sands was going to film Cooper and Roger’s appearance. Since I was the designated bodyguard, I would also have to tag along.
The affair was formal dress.
Cooper called me into his room. He said he wanted my opinion.
I’ve got plenty of those, and I’m always happy to share them.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Cooper was only willing to take his new man-of-the-people method persona so far. In words of one syllable and sentences of two words, he explained to me that he wasn’t about to attend Toontown’s highest style affair decked out in a torn t-shirt and motorcycle jacket. With forethought that led me to wonder if Cooper was really serious about his image recalibration, Cooper had instructed Reggie to pack formal wear.
Reggie had not one, not two, but three tuxedos of different styles set out on the bed.
“Which one?” asked Cooper.
Choosing formal wear was far outside my areas of expertise. I was the guy you went to when you couldn’t decide which gat to bring to a shootout. Still, Cooper was my client, he needed help, so I did what I could.
I fingered the fabrics. “I would go with black instead of midnight blue. The darkness will soften your silhouette and highlight your dark, soulful eyes, which I would say are your best feature. I would go shawl collar over peaked. The shawl collar will give you a smoother line. I also like the grosgrain finish better than the satin. When the photos of this affair get published, you don’t want your face looking like a week-dead cadaver. Grosgrain won’t reflect the photo flashes up into your puss and give you deep shadows the way satin does.”
I held up my selection. “This one.”
“Agreed,” said Cooper. “Shirt?”
He had brought twelve of various fabrics and collar styles.
I picked one at random.
Cooper held my selection next to the tux. He nodded. “Perfect choice.”
Cooper pointed to my sport coat. “You?”
“What you see is what I’m wearing. Eddie Valiant ain’t getting decked out in no monkey suit. Not for nothing or nobody.”
Turned out I got that a little wrong which I discovered when I got back to my room and found Roger there waiting for me with my evening’s apparel.
The Toonies was a strictly formal affair. I had to go. A monkey suit was a requirement.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said when I took a gander at the outfit Roger had rented for me. “That’s a monkey suit!”
“Well of course, Eddie,” said Roger “What did you expect?”
Being in Toontown, I should have expected exactly what I got. A big, hairy, slightly stinky monkey suit, the kind of outlandish outfit you’d wear to a Halloween party in my world.
I was stuck between a rock and a monkey place.
I had to go to the Toonies.
I wasn’t a big star like Cooper or Roger. Stars could wear whatever they wanted. As could directors. If you were a nothing doing, never-heard-of-you kind of guy like me, you wore an outfit that enhanced the frolic instead of yourself.
My monkey suit covered me head to toe. The suit included a pair of gorilla-hand gloves and a monkey face head.
I figured the only silver lining in this dress-up hoedown was that I would be unrecognizable.
No such luck. My costume included a sign attached by a chain to the dog collar around my neck. The sign read “Hi, my name is Eddie Valiant, private eye.”
So much for spending the night basking in anonymity.
Sands wore a conservatively cut and styled double-breasted black tux. He seemed happiest that the pants came with a pair of suspenders, allowing him to depart from his saggy baggy look for one night.
Roger, being Roger, took his outfit to the outer limits and beyond. Roger wore full tails, an ironic choice in my opinion for a guy who wore a full tail every day of his life.
Roger wore a top hat, another ironic choice since the rabbit usually popped out of the top hat. He didn’t pop the top hat on himself.
Roger completed his outfit with a silver-headed cane.
I wished my outfit had come with a cane. I would have used the stick to beat myself to death so I wouldn’t be seen in public dressed like a monkey.
We stopped off to pick up Jessica.
Naturally, she looked sensational. She always looked sensational.
Jessica wore her trademark red dress.
“Hello, boys,” she said out loud in that sultry, sexy voice that conjured up wanton images of cool nights and hot patty cakes. “Got room in there for little old me?”
We were in the Rolls. Me and Sands sat up front with Reggie. Roger and Cooper sat in back.
I figured this was one lottery which I stood zero of winning. Still, you never knew. Some women liked their men a bit on the animal side. I at least looked the part.
I was ready to offer the services of my lap when Jessica said, “I’ll slip between you two handsome devils.”
I prayed she meant me and Sands, but no such luck.
She got into the back seat, wedging herself between her husband and Cooper.
I angled the rear view mirror for a better view.
She scootched around to make herself comfortable.
That involved putting one hand on Roger’s paw, the other hand on Cooper’s thigh, intimately close to his crotch.
I looked, I lusted, I lived vicariously.
Jessica glanced up and caught me checking her out. She winked at me, pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss.
Her smooch butterflied across the seat and landed ker-smack! on my enormous simian schnozzola.
I reached up, peeled off the smacker, rolled down the window, and released her kiss into the slipstream. Let that smacker fly off, touch the sky, and collide with my soaring imagination.
We arrived at the Toontown Hippodrome, site of the Toonies.
The Hippo was shaped like a, well, you can guess-what-kind-of-animal. The entryway occupied that part of the building corresponding to the hippo’s horn.
A phalanx of photographers and reporters lined either side of the red carpet. Stanchions and a velvet rope kept the fifth estaters separated from the first classies.
A resourceful reporter stuck a bamboo fishing pole over the rope. A microphone dangled from the end. The reporter positioned the microphone directly above Jessica’s head. “Inquiring minds want to know,” the reporter shouted out. “What do you wear to bed?”
Jessica had been down this road, and this red carpet before. She responded with a sexy wink. “My rabbit nightly,” said Jessica sweetly.
“You mean nightie,” corrected the reporter.
“No,” answered Jessica with a wicked smile.
Roger blushed.
Another reporter, a long-armed octopus probably hired specifically for occasions like this, reached out with one of his eight arms and stuck a mike in Cooper’s face. “Mister Cooper, Mister Cooper!” he yelled, “Explain the secret of your success.”
“Nothing special,” said Cooper. “Just average.”
A teenaged girl ducked under the rope and ran up to Cooper. “Mister Cooper, I�
��m your biggest fan,” she said. “Could I please have your autograph?” She handed him an autograph book.
“Sure,” he said. “Name?”
“Make it to Cora.”
He signed it “To Cora, with best regards, Gary Cooper.”
When he handed the book back to her, Cora fainted dead away. A team of medical technicians were on hand for just this kind of emergency. Two techs stepped in and revived the girl.
“Can’t understand,” said Cooper.
“Me either,” said Roger. “Why did she faint like that? What do you suppose brought that on? Sure never happens to my fans when I give one of them a paw print.”
“I get it,” cooed Jessica. She slipped her arm through Cooper’s. “Indeed I do.”
We entered the outer hall.
Delancey Duck was present, wearing a custom tailored tuxedo. He didn’t exactly ooze refinement. Hard to project a cultivated aura when your tail feathers are poking out from under your coat.
“How about that?” said Roger. “A duck in a penguin suit.”
Delancey waddled over to us. “I heard the cops found Clabber Clown’s body. Congratulations. You were right. He was murdered. How are you doing on your case?”
“I’m getting there,” I told him. “I’m very close to hanging Clabber’s murder on Willy Prosciutto. I could still use your help.”
“Sorry,” said Delancey. “Still not interested. Way too hot for me to handle.” He drifted off into the crowd.
A massive hand grabbed my shoulder. “Great outfit, Valiant” said a balloon reeking of bananas and the rank odor of jungle rot.
I turned around to find myself facing good old Ask Me My Name, the Toontown customs agent.
“You make a mighty fine-looking baboon,” said Ask Me.
“I thought I was a great ape.”
He studied me up and down, especially down, around, and behind. “Naw, baboon. No question. You can always tell by the bulbous red butt.”
“I don’t generally check myself out from that angle.”
“No kidding? I do all the time. You ought to try. Helps you stay hygienic and great exercise to boot. You in touch with that hot cha cha lady was driving you around?”
Miss Ethyl and the ape man. A perfect match. No sense ruining two families.
“I see her from time to time.”
“Give her my regards, would ya? Tell her I’m still waiting for that call she promised me.”
“I’ll deliver the message.”
The gorilla drifted off into the crowd.
I returned to my gang to find Cooper being buttonholed by Willy P’s main squeeze, the delectable Honey Graham.
In Toontown’s female galaxy, Jessica’s star shined biggest and brightest. If Jessica was Cassiopeia, Honey Graham would be The Big Dipper. Heavenly, but not sparkling quite as brightly. Honey was slimmer than Jessica and not as curvy. A dead straight drag strip rather than a twisty high mountain road. Her hair matched her name, honey, a sweetly luscious shade of light tan that dripped to her shoulders. Nuzzling that hair would probably satisfy my sugar cravings for a month.
Honey wore a long green gown that appeared to have been crafted by a spray painter. Not that I was complaining. In female fashion, I always opted for floozy over flouncy.
“Oh, Mister Cooper,” Honey said using a balloon so filled with naked admiration as to be inappropriate reading matter for children.
“Gary, please.” Cooper kissed her hand.
“You’re the biggest movie star I’ve ever met.”
She clutched his hand tightly in both of hers and drew his hand to the deep cleft between her breasts. Another perk of being a famous male film star. Was I too late to change careers? Change my looks? Change my voice? Change my body? Wasn’t going to happen. not in this life. I made a note to myself to come back in my next incarnation taller, handsomer, suaver, and named Gary Cooper.
Honey continued to fawn. “I’m trying to break into the movies myself. I have about a million questions I’d like to ask you. Would that be all right?”
“Ask away.”
She stepped in so close to Cooper I couldn’t see daylight between their bodies. “Do acting lessons justify the cost and time?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She wiggled her hips slightly. A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on Cooper’s upper lip. “Do I need an agent?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her upper levels joined in the wiggling. Cooper’s brow wetted. Dark circles of moisture appeared at his armpits. Nice to know that underneath Cooper’s cool, seemingly imperturbable exterior he was every bit the horn dog as the envious guy standing beside him in a gorilla suit. “What about a publicist?”
“No, ma’am.”
Honey leaned in close and whispered out a small, lacy, pink balloon, the kind lingerie manufacturers turn into Victorian secrets. “You’re so down to Earth and extremely helpful. Can I give you a call?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So we can get together later and talk more?” Another pink balloon, this one even smaller and lacier.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I like that. Most men are all talk and no action. I like action in my men. Lots of action if you get my drift.”
If Cooper didn’t, I sure did. I would be willing and happy to drift away with her any time she wanted to hop on my raft.
“What’s going on here?” said Honey’s dearly beloved, Willy P. “Waddya doing talking to these creeps?”
“I’m just getting some acting advice,” said Honey.
“Yeah, I can see that, said Willy P. “Advice on acting like a tramp.”
“Why must you always do that?” said Honey. “Why do you always insult me in public and make me feel small?”
“If you don’t like the way I treat you, you’re welcome to rejoin the hoochy coochy line you was dancing in before we got engaged.”
“You made me quit dancing. I loved dancing. I was a great dancer.”
“What you was good at was tossing your bare baubles around in the faces of dirty old men.”
“Right,” she said “and they don’t come any dirtier than you.”
“We ain’t discussing my personal hygiene here. What we’re talking about is the fact that I told you to stay away from these bozos. They ain’t welcome in Toontown. I don’t want ’em in Toontown. I don’t want my girlfriend making ’em feel welcome. Or, knowing you the way I do, making ’em feel more than that.”
Willy P grabbed Honey’s wrist. Her jerked her away from Cooper and to his side.
Cooper took a step forward, his fists clenched.
Louie Louie, standing behind Willy P, also stepped forward.
I grabbed Cooper and held him back. “Relax,” I said. “This ain’t the time or the place.”
“Good advice, Valiant,” said Prosciutto. “Maybe you’re finally getting smart. You oughta dress up like a monkey more often. Ups your IQ a couple of points.” Prosciutto raised up his hooves and scratched himself under his armpits. “Ooga booga.”
Taking a firm grasp on Honey’s arm, Willy Prosciutto hustled her away. I could still read their balloons.
“I’m getting real tired of you belittling me in public,” said Honey in a balloon an iron mongrel would have no trouble forging into a chastity belt.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all I hear from you anymore.”
“You ever think that might be your fault, not mine?”
The overlapping crowd balloons swallowed Willy P’s reply.
Louie Louie hung back, making sure we weren’t going to follow and make trouble. Then he turned and scuttled after them.
“Swine,” said Cooper.
“You can say that again.”
So he did.
“I’d like to say it too,” said Roger. “And then say it again.”
Which he also did.
I needed a calming drink.
The joker tending bar would only serve me a banana daiquiri. I told the bartender to peel me a bunch.
Last year, Roger won the Toonie for Best Supporting Performance for the way he held up Baby Herman in Opportoonity Knocks. That meant that this year he got to hand out the Toonie award for Best Performance By An Actor.
Roger opened the envelope containing the winner’s name. He read the name to himself. His sour expression indicated to one and all that the rabbit wasn’t pleased with the outcome.
“The award for best actor goes to…” His lumpy balloon resembled a wicker basket full of dirty laundry. “…Willy Prosciutto for his starring role in Scarf Face, The Masked Hoodlum.”
Prosciutto’s performance in that film had been widely regarded as a joke, and not in the funny ha-ha sense. Prosciutto hadn’t appeared in a cartoon for so many years that his equity card was going to expire. That meant Prosciutto would lose his union health benefits, a potentially costly proposition for someone prone to regular and debilitating bouts of swine flu and pickled pig’s feet.
Prosciutto had funded the movie himself and took the starring role. The reviews were horrible. The best one was headlined “Pig Stymied.” Toontowners were amazed when Willy P got a Toonie nomination. The rumblings were that the fix was in.
Nobody expected Willy P to win.
Shows that there’s nothing money and a ham-handed thug couldn’t buy.
Roger shrugged and held up his hands, palms up, at shoulder level. After a slightly embarrassing moment of silence, the audience began to applaud.
Willy P got out of his seat and walked up on stage.
