The Masked Man: A Memoir And Fantasy Of Hollywood

by Tom Wilson

  "Alright, I'll get you in," I said.

  "I can come as your guest?" he beamed.

  "Yeah… as my guest," I said.

  "I'm much obliged, friend."

  We walked back toward the solid, cubic doormen and the bigger one stepped in front of us.

  "Hey, Jon," I said, "Can we seat my friend here?"

  "Not with the guns," the doorman squinted.

  "The guns?" I squeaked.

  I surprised myself with my own surprise, and still couldn't believe that this guy came to the show, and that I still looked at him as an imaginary phantom of some kind, with his imaginary pair of matching Colt .45s. With a head-jerk, I motioned him over to the curb next to me.

  "You can't go in with your guns," I said.

  "Pardon me?" he said, confused.

  "The guns. They're not allowed in there."

  He stared at me for a few seconds. "Why not?"

  "Because they're guns! You know…guns?" I whispered, trying not to attract too much attention from the audience filing in behind us.

  His face was in complete shadow under the brim of his hat, but I could make out disappointed eyes through the holes in his satin mask. "They're Peacemakers," he said, "I would never use them for anything but good. When I –"

  I wheeled around to the doorman. "They're props!"

  "They're what?" Jon said.

  "Props! It's a new bit."

  The Ranger smiled behind me, nodding and tipping his hat.

  "It's alright! He's a performer!"

  "This guy is a performer?" the doorman grunted.

  "We're working on some new material together," I said, shrugging.

  "You betcha!" the Ranger said, striding toward the showroom.

  I slipped back into the booth, sucking down Coke and watching the confused doorman escort him through the crowd and into the showroom. Even on crowded nights, the tables next to the stage stay empty for a while, since nobody wants to sit in the front for fear of being psychologically skinned alive by a bored, sadistic onstage savage. With one table for two left in the room, Jon made his way through the tables with a tall, smiling cowboy hero in tow, two silver guns holstered near his gloved hands. The Ranger sat right in front, three feet from the stage, his white Stetson splashed with red and blue spotlights and a flickering candle in a glass snifter sparkling in his eyes, waiting for the show to start.

  Hundreds of votive candles shimmered in the darkness, their devotional glow diverted from their intended churches. In comedy clubs, a candle isn't a symbol of a rosary clutching matron's flickering prayer, but a handy cigarette lighter and very weak light source for squinting in the dark at astronomical checks at the end of the night. From backstage I peeled the black curtain aside and saw the Lone Ranger, palming the glowing, red candle holder at the center of the table and shaking his head. The smoky darkness in clubs helps the audience hide from each other and allows them to laugh at the vicious, guttural cries passing for standup comedy that would normally embarrass them, but the eyes behind the mask pierced the smoke and sorrow and stared at the stage far too honestly. The "feature act" was onstage, after the opener went on with ten minutes of derivative material and announcements about tipping the waitresses and where the bathrooms are, and wasn't doing well. "Feature acts" fall into two categories; a guy on his way up, working on material and stage presence, trying to get a shot on T.V., or a guy on his way down, who's decided quite a while ago that working for a half hour a night and getting free beer in nightclubs is not a bad way to spend a life.

  The "free beer, on the way down" guy was onstage, seriously challenging the old equation "tragedy plus time equals comedy," since things were looking tragic. He paced the small stage in a wrinkled shirt, talking about his ex-wife and using the "F" word like Jackson Pollock used house paint. All over the place, no telling where, or what he was talking about other than a boozy sneer. The Lone Ranger was too mannerly to turn away from the stage, or get up and leave, but he squinted at the comic with a pained wince, occasionally glancing over his shoulder toward the ladies at the tables behind him. A cocktail waitress squeezed through the bobbing heads, gliding physics experiments carrying fifteen drinks on an eight drink tray, serving souvenir goblets of frothy, pink liquor to clean, smiling couples, laughing hysterically at what an evil, promiscuous, stupid, selfish, horrible woman this guy was stupid enough to marry.

  I closed the curtain and stared into the melting slush of my Coke. I hadn't been nervous before a set in years, except for the show in front of a thousand salesmen where I was only afraid that they would be too drunk to pay me, but I was oddly nervous this time. I still didn't really believe it was him, but I couldn't help hoping that the Lone Ranger would like my act. The feature act closed the show as most of them do, with a long crescendo of shouted lite material. Like the beer, it's weaker than the original stuff, but shouted into a microphone with a few references to something that everyone has seen on T.V., and they drink it up. "Whoo! Give it up for Justin Bonkers!" the emcee shouted, pointing to his back as he stepped offstage toward the bar.

  To avoid embarrassment, or some deadly incident with the guns, I used the headliner's prerogative and asked the performers before me to ignore the large cowboy sitting in front because he was a part of my act. This didn't keep the opener from staring at the white hat bobbing a foot above the rest of the front row and doing endless eyeball rolls and double takes, trying to milk laughs out of the silence his jokes were getting.

  "Alright, people, are you ready for your headliner?!" he shouted into the mike, inspiring a tepid smattering of applause. "Come on, folks, are you ready…for your HEADLINER?!" he croaked through the crusty sound system, receiving the exact same level of reaction, helped out by the club manager in back screaming an overdone "WHOO!!" "Let's bring up your headliner! You've seen him on talk shows, and on…uh …lots of T.V…

  At this point in my introduction they usually freeze, unable to remember any other credit that I've suggested they might use, giving the audience a rounded view of my work before this show, and skip to the only thing they can remember;

  "AND HE WAS BIFF IN BACK TO THE FUTURE! HO!! … tom wilson…"

  I took the stage with a warm punch of applause and forced whoops from the back. Before going onstage I swore I wouldn't look at him, but as I took the last step above the crowd I flat out locked eyes with the Lone Ranger, who was smiling and clapping expectantly, the baritone thuds of his gloved hands popping under the treble clatter. The room fell to glass-clinking near silence as most of the room waited for me to talk, and a few sloping foreheads in the back shouted "Biiiiiiiifffff!!" followed by a drunken "AAAaahhhhhhhh!!" When I perform standup comedy I have a brief moment to let my pupils dilate in the stage lights and settle my feet into the foul carpet onstage before echoes of pop culture bounce around the room and hecklers begin shouting lines from the movie at me. I have no choice but to deal with the elephant in the room.

  "Hey! Good evening!"

  "Whoo! Butthead!" and a muffled belch from somewhere.

  "Okay! Thanks, there in back!"

  "Buttheaaaaahhhhhhhh!!"

  "Oh, welcome to the show!"

  "buaaahhh!!"

  Ignore him. Move on. Talk faster.

  "I dreamed of being an actor," I said, and from a table of four in front one girl shouted "whoo," trying to seem dramatic and artsy. "I went to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts… yes,on a football scholarship, thank you very much."

  A chuckle. Precisely what it deserves, but I was hoping for a bit more.

  "I studied Shakespeare, voice, ballet. I dreamed of saving the American Theatre…ended up moving to California and," I leaned threateningly toward the crowd, lowering my eyebrows to send my eyes into shadow and jutting my lower lip forward to change my face into the ape-like threat of Biff himself.

  "What are you lookin' at…Butthead?!"

  Ka…boom. Screams of recognition. That's the guy they know, the one they've seen, the dufus they think I am. In the
sea of whoops and barks and arms upraised in two fisted victory, the Lone Ranger turned around at his seat taking in the big rush of approval, turning back to give me a big thumbs up.

  "I know, I know," I said, "But let's get a few things straight…My real name is not Biff."

  "Biiiiffff!!" a drunken rebuttal from my left.

  "My name is Tom. Movies are pretend. Cars don't fly. Time travel doesn't exist, and when a five foot two inch guy punches me in the face …I DON'T GET KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS!!"

  It got a good laugh and the Lone Ranger guffawed. "Ha! Good one!" he said, looking at the table next to him before folding his hands on the table and listening intently.

  "But I've written a song to help save some time after shows, maybe it'll help us over the speed bump and get on with the rest of the show!" I slung the guitar on, and played the "Question Song," my musical answer to the entire tsunami.

  "When I'm flying in a plane or I'm on the street

  There are a lot of friendly people that I like to meet

  They shake my hand, but never ask my name

  And they start asking questions that are always the same:

  What's Michael J, Fox like? He's nice.

  What's Christopher Lloyd like? Kinda quiet.

  What's Crispin Glover like? …unusual. Stop asking me the question.

  I went to the Bar Mitzvah of my nephew, Josh

  I'm not Jewish, but I like to nosh

  Put on my yarmulke and started to pray

  When the rabbi leaned over and I heard him say:

  Was that real manure? No, it wasn't.

  How was that DeLorean? A piece of garbage.

  Do those hoverboards really fly? …It's a movie! Stop asking me the question.

  Can we take your picture? Come on, look mean!

  Will you call my friend a butthead on his answering machine?

  Questions, questions fill my head

  I went to my doctor and my doctor said:

  Do you all hang out together? No, we don't.

  How's Crispin Glover? I never talk to him.

  Back To The Future "Four?" Not happening. Stop asking me the question."

  Clayton Moore tapped a gloved finger on the tabletop, looking at the smiling faces around him. He gave me another thumbs up and clapped along with the beat.

  "Who's the nicest famous guy you know? Adam Sandler

  Who is the biggest jerk? Gary Busey

  How much money do you make? More than you do, so stop asking me the question!"

  A few big strums on the guitar signaled that they should clap because the song was over, and I glided over the Back To The Future speed bump, heading in the right direction, the direction that leads to the end of the show and back to my hotel room. I jumped, shouted, acted out and mugged the place with loud jokes and fake passion for close to an hour, and closed with more psychotic autobiography.

  "I have four kids. Three daughters. That's right, three teenaged girls!" Ohhh's bubbled up from tables full of empty beer bottles celebrating Cousin Gina's twenty first birthday. "Three girls. Yes, I live in Malibu Barbie's Dream House! There's a pink, fluffy thing on every surface in the house. My son and I huddle in a corner, covered in steer blood and chanting!" I chanted in comedy caveman language, moving to the front of the stage, a bit faster and louder.

  "Three girls first, and then I had a boy…but I'll tell you what, I'm raising him as a girl, 'cause I'm not buying all new stuff!"

  An explosion of guffaws meant good news. This but will go well and get a big enough laugh that I can use it as an exit line to get offstage.

  "I'm not buying anything else – You'll put on that pink jumper and you'll like it, buddy! Pink is a macho color, put it on!" A bit louder and faster for the next one.

  "No, that's not a skirt, it's a kilt! PUT ON YOUR KILT!!"

  The joke is rolling. Even louder, leaning over the front row. "Maxi pads?! Those aren't maxi pads! They're knee pads! STICK THEM BACK ON AND GET BACK ON THAT SOCCER FIELD!!"

  "OOHHHH!!!!!!" they yelled, chortling and coughing on last sips of vodka.

  "THANK YOU! GOOD NIGHT!"

  I stepped offstage through a happy explosion of applause, whoops, and backslaps, and the Lone Ranger rose to his feet, giving me a standing ovation, glancing at the tables around him for eager followers. A few people did stand up, but he was forced to clap even louder when it was obvious they were standing up to pull jackets from the backs of their chairs.

  On Sunday night, nightclubs empty so quickly that the vacuum left can make your ears pop. The customers and the staff all have to get to day jobs in less than seven hours, and the comics still haven't been paid and want to get out of there with a check that doesn't bounce. I elbowed my way upstream through the throng yelling "Butthead!" over their shoulders, hopped over a case of cheap vodka and stumbled into the manager's tiny office.

  "Thanks, Tom. Great week," the manager said.

  "Yeah, thanks," I said.

  He tore a check out of a large binder and slipped it into an envelope, as the Lone Ranger walked up to the office door, hovering near the bar as waitresses clattered empty bottles into a trash can.

  "I thought you said he was in your act," the manager said, pointing out the door.

  "Oh, him? Yeah, I didn't get to that part. It's a new bit," I said.

  By the look on his face, he wasn't buying it. "You doing rope tricks or something?"

  "No," I said, standing up to leave, "nothing like that, but thanks for taking care of him."

  "No problem," he said, from a nightclub owner's special place where fatigue and cynicism meet in perfect harmony.

  I walked toward the Ranger as he dodged a cart full of dirty plates, extending his hand.

  "Now that was something to see," he said, "something to see!"

  "Well, something good, I hope," I said, picking up my guitar, headed for the door.

  "You, sir, really put on a show!"

  "Thanks," I said.

  "Isn't he something?" he said to a couple wrestling with coats and a purse. "Yeah, thanks," I said again, moving toward the door.

  The manager walked out of the office and looked the Ranger over one more time. "I was looking forward to seeing your act," he said.

  "Oh, I couldn't hold a candle to this one" the Ranger said, pointing at me.

  "Uh, okay. Well, I hope you had a good time. Thanks for coming, he said.

  He turned back toward the office, full of cocktail waitresses waiting to settle their bills, as the Ranger stepped in his way.

  "If I was being honest, friend, I didn't appreciate the language the young fellows were using that went on a bit earlier. The opening acts."

  The manager wheeled around to look at me, then smirked back at the Ranger. "Well, it's a comedy club. That's comedy, partner." He spun a derisive about face, and he'd hit the word "partner" a little bit too hard.

  "Well," the Ranger called out after him, "I've done some performing myself, and I don't think it's necessary."

  "Is that so?" the guy huffed, "What clubs have you performed at?"

  "I was a circus performer in the days of the western frontier."

  There couldn't possibly have been a worse thing to say late on a Sunday night at a comedy club. The manager repeated it, stressing every syllable. "A cir-cus-per-for-mer in the days of the wes-tern-fron-tier?"

  "I don't find it a bit funny, friend," the Ranger said, "You asked my opinion."

  The manager waved a dismissive hand and walked away. "Okay, FRIEND!" he said. The Ranger said nothing for a moment, shaking his head slowly and watching the man's every step as he walked away.

  "Well, alright then," I piped up, "I've got to go."

  I walked away from the club quickly, mistakenly thinking that if I walked fast and said goodbye enough times in a row – for example, at the end of every response:

  "Hey, that's some song you wrote about that movie!"

  "Okay, thanks! Good night!"

  I thought that he would slow down and
give up. I took the same route back to the hotel, so he knew where I was heading, and he clicked his boots along the pavement just as quickly, or as slowly as I did. Bizarre is what it was, shooting myself incredulous looks in every storefront window I passed, and shadowed by the Lone Ranger for the second time in two nights. It was either the Lone Ranger or a very, very insane man who underwent miraculous cosmetic surgery.

  Lots of actors have stalkers, but I'd never had a stalker of my very own. I know how nutty stalkers can be, these crazy people who think they're distant family, or an imagined intimate friend, or even the sad, deranged ladies who believe they're the beloved spouse of a confused superstar. An actor I know had an entire crazy stalker family who climbed a fence at his house. Yes, Dad, Mom, and the kids fired up the barbecue and jumped in the pool, waiting for him to come home. He heard splashing out back and ran to the yard, where the family he'd never met greeted him warmly and offered him a hot dog from his own barbecue. Another hunky actor heard footsteps outside his bedroom in the middle of the night and got his gun, tip-toeing through the ferns outside to surprise the creep. He turned the corner and pointed the .45 into the face of a teenaged girl, who greeted the barrel of the gun with a sunny "Oh, I knew it! You do live here!" I've never had a real stalker because, lucky for me, they're crazy and think I'm big and mean and will beat them up. And lucky for them, they're not wrong.

  "That really was some show," the Ranger said, clicking along with me.

  "Thanks. Okay, well…goodnight!" I said, still walking.

  "I've got to say I disagree with the boss man there," he said, pointing back toward the club, "Those young fellows don't need to use language like that. They just don't need it."

  "Believe me," I said, "they need it."

  "That's where you're wrong, friend," he said.

  "I mean without the cursing they wouldn't have an act at all. They'd be making hoagies here," I said, pointing at a neon hoagie in a storefront window, its blinking green lettuce turning the Ranger's shirt to silky aquamarine. "Okay, goodnight!" I said, turning a corner and jumping across a manhole cover like a sprinter out of the starting blocks. There were a few hurried thumps behind me before he pulled up beside me again. "There's no place for filth onstage," he said, "Lord knows I've been onstage before in all kinds of places, and—"