Lost in the Funhouse

by Bill Zehme

  “My parents would say, ‘Why don’t you go out and play?’ And I would say, ‘I can’t! I’m putting on my shows!’”

  Having gone inward when his grandfather died, he stayed inward, coming out only when alone. But he had also found a friend who lived across the backyard—she was real; her name was Cathy Bernard-and he showed her the magic of inwardness, how to find secret places, the thrill of shared sanctuary, of hiding from. “He had a great imagination. We’d make tunnels in the backyard. This kid across the street had a tree house and we’d hang out there and make up stories and play house. There was another kid who lived next door to me who we hated. Andy would come up with all kinds of ways to torment him. We would make different bird sounds from the tree to confuse him. We’d say he could come over to play and then we’d hide. The kid would just go nuts. Andy liked finding ways to keep people from knowing where we were. He was into getting people wound up. My family had a basement with catacombs and we were always going in there. Sometimes he’d sneak down there unbeknownst to me and he’d make weird noises to scare us. One time, a house down the block caught fire and Andy said, ‘Let’s go jump on the fire engine!’ So we hid on the engine while the firemen were putting out the fire. They didn’t find us until they had pulled away and gone a few blocks.

  “Mostly, I remember a lot of hiding in the family cars, then scaring the hell out of his parents when they looked inside. We’d crouch down in the back and his parents would be yelling, ‘Andy, where are you!’ They had someplace to go or something to do. And he’d say, ‘Let ’em go crazy, let ’em find us!’ And his mother—she was a funny lady, too—she used to get so mad, and then she’d laugh because we were right there all along. The truly funny part was she never figured out that that’s where we always were!”

  Michael: “One Saturday night, we were outside playing with Margaret. My parents were going to a formal dance in Manhattan and it’s getting dusky and Margaret told us it’s time to come in. Suddenly, ‘Where is Andy?’ She couldn’t find Andy.” Margaret: “His mother and pop left for their dinner and it’s dark and no Andy. I’m going around to different houses saying, ‘Andy! Andy!’ Nobody’d seen Andy. I got frightened.” Stanley: “As we’re just about to go over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Manhattan, I look in my rearview mirror—and I see this dirty little face popping up with a big, big grin, like, ‘Surprise!’ I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do. I said, ‘Janice, guess who’s in the car with us?’ She turns around and screams! What are we gonna do? We’re late to this dinner dance, this kid is in the car, we’re thirty-five minutes from home, Margaret’s got to be frantic. So we immediately go to a telephone, call Margaret and tell her we have Andy with us. And then we call my mother-in-law, who now had an apartment in the city, and thank God she’s home. Of course, she’s thrilled because we bring her little grandson over to her. But Andy was so pleased that he had put this one over on us. So it all started very early, didn’t it?”

  “Cut the kiddin’, Kid McCoy!”

  Was what Grandma Pearl always told him.

  He never listened.

  He loved to play for her.

  (And for Grandpa Paul and sometimes Grandma Lillie.)

  But most of all for Grandma Pearl, who lost Papu.

  Like him.

  Stanley and Janice noticed that he still had that sad face.

  Somber almost. Sullen.

  Unless he was making those noises behind that door.

  (Or when he hid on them. Him with the surprises always.)

  Or when he was with Pearl. “Cut the comedy, Kid McCoy!”

  “Cut the clownin’, Kid McCoy!”

  Pearl loved it, really.

  Such energy, enthusiasm! A delight!

  Then later the withdrawal, the shell, the lonesome eyes.

  Janice: very concerned, then—

  Preschool teacher said he’s not right maybe.

  Worriedly mentioned “imagination” to Janice.

  Imagination = Delusional?

  Teacher had glimpsed him alone, happily flailing-jabbering.

  Like he was somewhere/someone else.

  Then back again, so quiet again.

  Perhaps and only if she would like….

  The name of a reputable child’s psychologist in the area?

  Little tests could tell things….

  It was probably nothing at all.

  Was what Janice told herself.

  He was four the first time. “When we saw that sad little face, we couldn’t stand it, and we took him for psychological testing,” his mother remembered. “Apparently, he was playacting all the time, really a showman.” Which was to say, he was playacting even for the doctor lady, so how could anyone know the truth? “I would play with the toys the psychiatrist had. There were toy guns. I especially liked this air gun with red Ping-Pong balls. You pump it up and then you shoot it. I used to aim it at the psychiatrist. And she’d say, ‘Now, you don’t want to shoot me with that.’ So I said, ‘Okay.’ “He always left the sessions smiling brightly—as though he had spun good ones in there. His father thought little of such examinations —since when is imagination a bad thing? The only conclusion that emerged was that, well, here was quite the lively lively mind! But where oh where oh where did he get such fanciful ideas?

  Hi, Howdy.

  Ho-ho! Well, hi, Andy!

  How are you?

  Ho, boy! I’m fine. And how about you?

  I’m fine, thank you. Wow—thanks for coming on my show.

  Oh, well, thank you for having me on your show, Andy. Boy, it sure feels great to be here!

  Well, it’s great having you. You know, Howdy, I was watching you ever since I was a real little boy. I used to every day go into the living room and I’d sit down before the television and turn on your show, at five-thirty. Every day. And I just thought it was great.

  Ho, gosh! Well, thank you, Andy.

  You know, you’re even older than me. Your show came on in 1947, and I was born a couple years after that. So that means I was watching you since the time I could just first perceive images or sounds. Before I ever even knew what a television set was, I was watching you! So, like, you’re the first friend from television I ever had—and probably the closest, I think. And, uh, I always wanted to meet you, and now I finally am.

  Well, Andy, I … I’m glad to meet you, too.

  (Laughter. Why are they laughing?)

  You know, I was once in your Peanut Gallery, when I was five years old. You know? And I was just sitting there, and … I was kind of depressed, because I could see the man who was working your strings. And, I must say, even though I could see your strings and everything—to me you’re just as real as anyone else who’s on this show. And I feel like I’m really talking to a real person. But, anyway, one thing I wanted to do that day—and they wouldn’t let us ’cause there was too many kids—and I always wanted to do this. And I’m wondering if maybe I could. And that was to touch you. Do you think I could maybe touch you?

  Sure, Andy, go ahead—you can touch me.

  Okay…. (Laughter. What’s so funny?) Wow. You know, another thing that I always wanted to do was shake your hand. Do you think maybe I could shake your hand?

  Ho-ho! Sure, Andy!

  Okay … (Laughing again—why?) You know, this is just like a fantasy fulfilled for me. ’Cause I always used to want to be on your show. (And again.) And I thought that your show—you know, in Doodyville? That’s where your show was … (And again—please don’t, okay?) And I thought Doodyville was inside of the television. You know, like if television was this box—and if I went inside the box that was a television, I’d be in Doodyville. And I always wanted to be on your show. Now, here it is about, I guess, twenty-five years later, and I have my own show, and you’re on my show!

  That’s right, Andy….

  Kindergarten. Trauma.

  [As depicted in epic semiautobiographical novel always and ever in progress—these portions written October 25, 1979, one w
eek after the author had wrestled women on Saturday Night Live for the first time.]

  Um.

  First day of class. Mommy had fed him breakfast, got him dressed neatly. “Hold it, honey,” she said, and fixed his collar and buttoned his top button. “There you go … fit as a fiddle.” Always hated top button buttoned. Mommy made him always. She waved as bus pulled away. He wanted to cry, but was too shy in front of all these strangers. At school, teacher goes around room asking each child to introduce him/herself. As it got closer to the little boy’s turn, he became very very extremely nervous, repeating his name in his head over and over again so he would get it right. Finally, when it was his turn, he couldn’t do it. A little voice in his head said, “Come on, just say your name,” and he wanted to very much, but no voice would come out of his mouth.

  “And what’s your name?” The teacher was looking directly at him. “No? Not today? Oh, all right.” And she smiled understandingly at him and directed her attention to the next child. “And what’s your name?”

  If he had ever felt like crying, now was really the time. He had never felt such embarrassment in his whole five-year-old life. He sat there, forcing his jaw to stay open, knowing that if he let it close, he would definitely cry and then be even more embarrassed than he already was…. As he sat there and saw all the other kids saying their names, he felt that they were all looking at him and saying to theirselves, “Look at that baby. What a baby! Well, I’ll never play with him! He should be totally ashamed of himself. So very very extremely ashamed that he should hang his head down so he’s looking at the ground and when he walks he should keep his head between his legs.” When he looked up, he noticed that no one was watching him….

  Well … some would watch when he wasn’t looking, when he was off alone/oblivious behind the school playground, obscured by the little cluster of trees, where he repaired to continue his riotous broadcasts. School had seriously interfered with his ritual of afternoon bedroom performances. Now at Saddle Rock Elementary, he relegated programming to lunch recess period; other children played amongst themselves; he played amongst himselves (for the entertainment pleasure of unseen millions as usual). Once he had reached first grade onward, he could compress his sprawling cavalcade to a solid solitary outdoor half hour of extravaganza, and he thrilled at his own ability to make it such a tremendous success. Out in TVland, his loyal viewership had come to adore his every song dance fall leap spin face voice character movement gyration yodel instrument solo symphony fight victory defeat commercial trick and tale. He was a smash! Huge and very very extremely famous. He knew this certainly and one day so would everyone else.

  Later, much later, after people, many people, certainly not everyone, had begun to sort of know who he was and journalists came to ask him about how he got to be the way that he was—this was all according to master plan, of course—he would recall his excellent work in the woods behind the school. He would conjure and reenact these performances for whoever poked deeply enough. He would coalesce years of stored recess broadcasts (all the way up through fifth grade, in fact), slipping into each splendid reverie with fresh conviction….

  “I could only do one program a day…. For a while, I did my version of American Bandstand where I played the Dick Clark part. I was the emcee Andy. Then I would be each of the performers—the rock-and-roll stars. Then I would be the kids dancing. Finally, I would be all these things at the same time…. For a few months, I put on a monster show called Horror House. I’d be strangling myself, yelling, going, ‘Get away from me! Get away from me!’ Then I’d turn around and do the other part: ‘Errggh, I’m going to keel you!’ ‘No! No!’ ‘Errggh!’ So if someone had been watching me, they’d think I was crazy…. Oh! And I’d do wrestling, too! I put on a wrestling show where I’d play both parts—I’d be both the bad guy and the good guy and wrestle myself.

  “One day a kid was chasing a ball and he came into the woods where I was doing a horror show: ‘Getcha hands off me!’ ‘No! No!’ And I’d be serious. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but it would look like a crazy man. He stayed there and watched. The next day another came. A few more every day. The word got around. And do you know that after a while I had an actual audience! I really did!

  “They’d be clapping….

  “I was just a nut doing this stuff….

  “I was serious about it, but I suppose to them it was funny….

  “They were laughing….

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny….

  “They thought I was nuts and that’s what they were laughing at…

  “I wouldn’t care, you know. I’d still continue doing my shows the same way. But they would be watching me….

  “Then, one day in the second or third grade, something funny happened. My show ran overtime and I was announcing the closing credits on the way back to the building after recess. Real serious. I was saying, ‘That’s all from The Andy Kaufman Show! This program was brought to you live by—’ All of a sudden, by my side, I heard a voice go, ‘No, this program was brought to you dead!’ I said, ‘No, it was live!’ ‘Maybe yours was live,’ this voice said, ‘but mine was dead.’ A kid who was watching me had begun doing the same thing on the other side of the playground. We finished our two shows together. We looked at each other and started laughing. We were exactly on the same wavelength! It was beautiful. We became best friends.

  “Every day we started putting on shows together. It was a partnership. Before that, I never had any friends—I was ‘nuts.’ I still remember his name: Alfred Samuels. After a while my parents thought he was crazy because he talked to himself and they forbid me to be friends with him. They also thought there was something wrong [with me], but not nuts like this guy. I was their son, so they loved me…. The funniest thing, though, is that his parents thought the same thing about me! His parents ended up moving out of town. I never saw him again. I wonder what ever happened to him….”

  Um.

  Stanley and Janice never knew of any Alfred Samuels.

  Nor did anyone else who knew their son.

  Nor, quite apparently, was there ever such a boy.

  Except for one.

  Not counting Dhrupick.

  Howdy had Buffalo Bob and what great pals they were! One really couldn’t exist without the other (they even sort of sounded alike), it seemed to him. And they had other good friends like Flub-a-Dub and Mr. Bluster and Dilly Dally and, of course, the antic mute Clarabell the Clown (see—quiet could be fun!). Then on Terrytoon Circus (on which host Claude Kirchner told him every evening to go to bed afterward like “all good boys and good girls”—for which he and Michael were inspired to throw things at the Dumont screen), Heckle had Jeckle and vice versa (and they looked an awful lot alike; magpies, whatever). Mighty Mouse, meanwhile, had other identities, disguises, kept pretty much to himself (unless Mr. Trouble a.k.a. the idiot cat came to hang around). Superman was two guys who were one guy. Popeye ate spinach and became a different/same Popeye. And then there was Winky-Dink and You, which was really Winky-Dink and him: Equipped with his very own Official Winky-Dink Kit, he could draw directly on the TV screen—with magic crayon over green cellophane—so as to interact with (and often make fun hiding places for) his cartoon pal with the star-shaped head. As such, essential lessons in friendship and in persona had washed over him and stuck deep. “It seems to me that he took so many of those programs very seriously,” Stanley would say. “They gave him ideas that he never forgot.”

  Lessons at school were less intriguing. He was disinterested in his studies, always would be, would always be thinking of other things instead. “He didn’t work hard at all,” his father recalled. “He didn’t work any harder than he had to. He got average marks without studying. He was a very, very smart kid, but he never wanted anyone to know it. For whatever reason. It was always my impression that whatever his ability was, he didn’t want it to be known. It was his secret.” Thus there were teacherparentconferences unending. He hated Mrs. Sanders of the
second grade. “He would make faces at her, drive her crazy,” Cathy Bernard recalled. “He mimicked her. She was the type who said, ‘You do this, you do that!’ There was no room for anything other than what she told you to do. For someone like Andy, that was the perfect foil.”

  Eventually, the debut was at hand. The time had come. “At school,” he said, “every week or two, I was bored with being myself.” As such. “I’d go off into fantasyland.” Always nicer there. “Sometimes I’d be my twin brother Dhrupick.” Of course. His father had traveled to Japan on jewelry business and returned with kimonos for the family. And so it was that Dhrupick, finally, flamboyantly, officially, came out of his closet. “One day, in second or third grade, I was looking in my closet and saw the kimono and I decided to wear it to school. I forgot I had it on. When the teacher asked, ‘Why are you wearing that, Andy?’ I said, ‘I’m not Andy. I’m Andy’s twin brother Dhrupick.’” He remembered being immediately sent to the school psychologist … or was it just that the teacher shrugged, rolled her eyes, as usual, and let him be? Or was it both? Or did it ever happen at all? Well, that was how he remembered it anyway. He always liked the kimono story. Everyone seemed to like the kimono story. It was a good story.

  Meanwhile …

  Janice would become pregnant with Carol. The house on Robin Way would begin to shrink. Always there was ruckus. Michael broke Andy’s neck. Well, they liked to say that—it was a bad strain, really. They wrestled a lot. They imitated the Spanish wrestlers on TV. Margaret watched her gospel shows and the boys made fun of her and switched the channel over to the wrestlers whenever she turned her back. Andy was in traction for maybe three weeks with the neck. It never hurt all that badly. He was very very proud. He liked the traction thing, the ropes. He liked the broken neck thing very much. Once he and Michael stole all the newspapers from everyone’s front stoop, then threw them down the sewer. Stanley went crazy (yell-yellyell), went out and bought the neighborhood new papers, delivered them with beet-faced apology. Andy liked blaming Michael for everything. Like the time he snipped all the buds off the rosebush in front, then said Michael did it. Stanley went crazy (yellllll); Michael got spanked. Perfect crime. The brothers decided to repaint the living room furniture one Christmas to surprise their parents. Wood, upholstery, everything. Some great-aunt gave them the paint kit. Redyellowgreenblue, everywhere. Stanley went crazy (yellllllllllllllll), rolled each son into a ball and threw them across the room onto a (painted) couch; they bounced and bounced. Thank God for the homeowner’s insurance. Big fat Grandpa Paul kept bringing stuff. He got them a movie projector and reels and reels of movies, shorts and features: funny cowgirls singing on stick ponies. The Little Rascals trapped in a spookhouse. Boris Karloff as the Mummy. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. He also kept bringing them new records, then took them to make their own records, took the whole family to the small-fry amusement park Kiddie City, ten minutes from home, again and again, to sing songs in the recording booth. They were little blue records. Paul and Stanley loved taking turns in the booth with the boys, making like corny Hit Parade announcers. Michael Troubadour Kaufman sang children’s favorites. Andy Troubadour Kaufman sang both original compositions and hits of the day. He sang “Your Cheatin’ Heart”; nobody knew where he learned it. He sang “Love and Marriage” and “My Baby Don’t Love Me No More” and “Let Me Go, Lover” and, very frequently, “It’s Howdy Doody Time.” He was never shy when he sang, only shy when he didn’t. Or so his family noticed, with continued amazement. At such moments, he was without all inhibition and rather dazzling. He rarely forgot a single lyric. Such focus, precision. Odd. Carol was named after Papu Cyril. She was very beautiful like her mother. She was born the day before Andy’s seventh birthday. Stanley and Janice said she was his birthday present. He was not thrilled especially. Within months, the cameras in his bedroom walls had to be removed. They were reinstalled in a much larger house where he would eventually perfect the (friendly) world which only he would, or could, inhabit.