Comedy Girl Page 16

  “And your senior picture is great! That’s important, because when Entertainment Tonight finds this book years from now, it’s best if you don’t look like a total geek.”

  “What about you?” I asked, flipping through the pages.

  “I was voted most likely to bleach my hair.”

  “No!”

  “Well, duh! But here’s a picture of us eating lunch together.”

  “That’s so cool! You look fab.” I continued leafing through the book. “Oh man!” I said, my heart sinking. “Here’s one of me and Gavin by my locker.”

  Suddenly a freshman girl stood in front of me, staring. “Trixie, will you sign my yearbook?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said, startled.

  “My name is Karen. Please write ‘To Karen from your friend forever, Trixie Shapiro.’”

  “But I don’t even know you!”

  “You’re famous, get used to it,” Jazzy whispered.

  Three days later in study hall, Jazzy handed me a stack of yearbooks. “This is to Tracey Banks,” she said, handing me a book. “I get three dollars for every signature. I’ll give you half!”

  “I can’t sell my signature!”

  “Then I won’t give you half.”

  I must have signed every yearbook in Mason. Every yearbook—except one.

  I was leaning against my locker when Gavin approached me.

  “Will you sign mine?” he asked. He looked at me, a twinkle and a tear in his eye. I opened the book where the marker lay. It was filled with Chaplin’s ticket stubs. Several spilled out onto the floor.

  I looked back into his eyes, puzzled.

  “I slipped into Chaplin’s after you went onstage. I was always there,” he confessed.

  “Gavin,” I said. “But why—”

  “Shh,” he said, closing the book and placing his finger over my lips. He leaned in and kissed me.

  I spotted Gavin at the drinking fountain between classes, his red-vinyl yearbook tucked under his arm. I hung back, fiddling unnecessarily in my locker. When he glanced up, I offered him a smile. The bell rang and he hurried past me toward class. Frown number eleven. I slammed my locker and retreated into the crowd.

  SEX, DRUGS, AND COMEDY

  At Chaplin’s Vic bumped me up to a feature act, and my paycheck more than doubled. Zach Price, fresh from his hit sitcom, was currently headlining. Jazzy was totally crushed out on him and begged to come to the club. I agreed, if she promised to arrive after my set.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to party with Zach Price!” Jazzy said wildly as we knocked on his door at the Amber Hills Hotel after the show.

  “Shhh! He’ll hear you,” I whispered.

  Zach flung open the door. “Come on in, girls!” he said, drunk. The small room was filled with girls. I think every waitress from Chaplin’s was there.

  “Beer?” he asked.

  “Sure!” Jazzy said.

  “What do you mean ‘sure’!” I whispered.

  We squeezed through the crowd of partygoers in the tiny hotel room.

  Zach was the life of the party. It was his job. Wherever there was an audience, Zach was the clown. He started telling anecdotes and acting out stories and doing perfect impressions of Douglas Douglas.

  The life of the party was a real professional. Jazzy, the waitresses, and I giggled wildly at his stories. Zach shamelessly flirted with us, pulled Jazzy’s skirt and grabbed my tush when I wasn’t looking.

  He lit a joint, took a hit, and held it out to Jazzy.

  “Want some?”

  “Sure!” Jazzy exclaimed.

  “You don’t—,” I started.

  “I do!” Jazzy screamed. She hopped onto the edge of the bed next to Zach. She took a long drag of the joint and held her breath. Then she went into a coughing frenzy as the smoke filled her virgin lungs.

  They passed it back and forth while I sat on the floor, doodling on the hotel stationery for what seemed like an eternity.

  “I’m hungry!” Jazzy said, lying back on the bed, her eyes heavy and red.

  “Want some coke?” Zach asked.

  “I’m hungry, not thirsty,” Jazzy snapped.

  “I’m not talking about drinking!” he said with a laugh.

  “No thanks.” I dragged Jazzy to the vending machine at the end of the hall. “With all the waitresses at Chaplin’s getting stoned in Price’s room, I’m afraid it’s going to be self-service.”

  “I want chips. A Snickers bar. Two Snickers bars,” Jazzy said. “And pretzels.”

  I wound up spending five dollars on munchies.

  “I don’t feel any different,” she whispered. “Really. I don’t know what the big whoop is! I thought I’d see snakes.”

  But when she laughed, she couldn’t stop.

  I dragged her out of the hotel, but she resisted.

  “Hey, his room’s that way!”

  “I’m taking you home—”

  “But Zach boy’s expecting us!”

  “You’re grounded,” I said in my best Sarge impression.

  As we walked to the parking lot, I wondered: If this is success, how do people handle failure? I didn’t want to spend my life having to find an artificial rush while I was pursuing the real one.

  Though Zach was a hilarious host, I felt like Jazzy and I had just attended a high school drugsters happening instead of an adult celebrity’s party.

  Would life on the road be the same for a girl? Would I have groupies like a rock star? Not likely. I’d probably only be hit on by the booker or the male comedians and prefer to sit alone in my hotel room, flipping channels like Cam had.

  As I began to drive Jazzy home, I realized that though it was a challenge to be alone onstage, it might be a bigger challenge to be alone offstage.

  THE DOUGLAS DOUGLAS SHOW

  I was staring out the window in Anatomy class when a secretary from the principal’s office arrived to inform me I had a phone call.

  It had to be an emergency. Had Sarge been sucked into the vacuum cleaner? Had Dad been caught between the couch cushions? Was Sid lying lifelessly in his war-torn dorm, an empty pack of cigarettes crumpled in his outstretched hand?

  “Douglas Douglas!” Sarge screamed into the phone.

  “Mom—are you okay? Calm down!”

  “Douglas Douglas!” she screamed again.

  “Is he dead? Don’t tell me he’s dead!”

  “No! He’s alive and you’ve been booked on his show!”

  “That’s your economy fare? For that price I could buy the plane,” Sarge yelled into the phone to some hapless reservations clerk as I burst through the door.

  My gig on the Douglas Douglas Show would net me five hundred dollars, two nights’ accommodations at the Tropical Hotel, and two round-trip airline tickets. But Sarge wanted to go, so she had to buy another ticket.

  “The airlines are robbing me blind,” she said to me, covering the mouthpiece. “I used up all our frequent-flier miles for Vegas. I’d buy a ticket on the Internet, but those companies fold every other day!” Then she said into the phone, “Don’t they give celebrity discounts? My daughter’s a star!”

  I grabbed a Coke from the fridge. I still couldn’t believe I was going to be on TV!

  “I have to be there,” she said, covering the receiver again. “I have to help you with your makeup.”

  “Mom, they have people for that,” I said.

  “Yes, and they call them mothers.”

  “Super!” she said, suddenly pleased, into the phone. “Chicago…to Detroit…to Dallas…to San Francisco…to L.A.? I could walk faster!”

  “Ma, you don’t have to come,” I said. “Dad will be there.”

  “That’s as good as it gets?” she continued. “Well…all right then. I’d like two seats…one by the window. Oh. There isn’t reserved seating? Is there toilet paper on this flight, or do I have to bring that too?”

  I rolled my eyes. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, now I’d have to worry about Sarge missing a connect
ion.

  “I should get there just in time for Douglas Douglas’ retirement,” she said with a smile.

  After I nibbled on caviar and gossiped with Bette Midler in the greenroom of the Douglas Douglas Show, an assistant escorted me to the stage. The famous red-velvet curtains pulled back to thunderous applause and a standing ovation. I smiled and walked to my mark. I turned to the camera and performed flawlessly. After taking my final bow, I was greeted by Douglas, who kissed me on the cheek and flirted with me for the rest of the segment. During commercial break, he leaned over and whispered, “I’d like to make a proposal.”

  “Marriage? But I could be your granddaughter!”

  “I’m proposing another kind of partnership. I’d like to produce the Trixie Shapiro Show!”

  I tossed and turned all night in my king-sized bed at the Tropical Hotel. I couldn’t even enjoy the pool the next day. I was in a coma, my eyes glazed over, terrified of what might happen when I arrived at the studio. Sarge hadn’t arrived at the hotel and wasn’t answering her cell phone. The limo had arrived to whisk us to the studio when the concierge raced over.

  Sarge was fogged in at the Dallas airport. I came out of my coma with a sigh of delight.

  Desperate farmers pray for rain—desperate comics pray for fog.

  I may not have made the cheerleading squad or honor roll, but my name was one of the chosen few on the security guard’s list at the gate to Pacific Studios.

  Theme park magic filled me as I passed actors, technicians, trailers, VIP parking spaces, caterers with trays of cold cuts.

  In the massive studio, more suited for a 747 than a few stand-up comediennes, I was met by a talent coordinator, a perky girl who had preinterviewed me on the phone.

  She led me down the hallway into a dressing room—my dressing room!—where a gift basket awaited me. I should be giving them gifts.

  A male assistant came in and asked if I needed anything pressed. Before I could answer, he whisked away my garment bag.

  “I’ll have this back in a jiffy!”

  I fiddled with my gift basket until he returned. A Swatch watch, a bottle of CK One, a bag of Godiva chocolates, and a Sony Walkman. These were better gifts than I got for my sixteenth birthday.

  I impatiently put on my black tights, black-vinyl skirt, paisley blouse, and ankle-high boots. I was called to makeup, where I was smothered by a huge smock so my clothes wouldn’t be stained with powder. This was way cooler than when Jazzy and I attempted hairdressing. I felt like a movie star, being coiffed, sprayed, and powdered by a Hollywood professional.

  Back in my dressing room I waited on pins and needles for the show to start. I wondered why there weren’t food and drinks, although I was too nervous to eat and was already peeing my brains out without more diet Coke. I watched the TV monitors as the cohost warmed up the audience. I just hoped Dad wasn’t sitting in the front row.

  I went into the hallway to pace and bumped into a man.

  “Excuse me,” I apologized, looking up. It was every teenybopper’s fantasy—pop star Creole!

  “You’re Creole!” I gasped. “My best friend has all your CDs!”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Well…I have mostly comedy CDs.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t made many of those. But if I don’t get some tea, my song might turn out to be quite hilarious,” he said, and disappeared into his own dressing room.

  I had just told Creole I didn’t have his CDs. Was I insane?

  I returned to the safety of my dressing room. Douglas Douglas was beginning his monologue. I tried not to bite my nails, so I chewed on my knuckles instead. “We have a great show,” he said. “Creole, Fred Buckley from the Cincinnati Zoo, and teenage comedienne Trixie Shapiro!”

  “Oh my God!” I screamed, as if I had just won at bingo.

  The talent coordinator rushed in. “I heard a scream!”

  “Uh…I thought I saw a mouse. But—”

  The talent coordinator spoke into her walkie-talkie. “Jerry, did the zoo guy bring any rodents?”

  The next thing I knew three guys were in my dressing room hunting for my imaginary Mickey.

  I snuck out of the dressing room. “Agh!” I screamed again, suddenly face-to-face with an unimaginary white tiger!

  “He won’t bite,” Fred Buckley said, holding the leash much too loosely for my comfort.

  “Couldn’t you have brought a goldfish? They don’t bite either.”

  At this point I couldn’t wait to go onstage. Not even in Algebra class had the minutes passed more slowly.

  I returned to my dressing room and tried not to throw up.

  I watched Creole sing his latest hit, “Electric Elegance.” I envisioned Jazzy freaking out at home in Chicago.

  I went to the bathroom.

  Returned to find Creole making small talk with Douglas.

  Re-applied lipstick. Cracked knuckles. Stretched out back.

  Saw commercial break—made bathroom break.

  Watched Fred Buckley feed possum. Checked makeup.

  Watched Douglas Douglas feed possum. Stared at clock.

  Wished possum had eaten in Cincinnati.

  Another commercial break. Bit nails. Shook out hands.

  Checked clock.

  Watched Fred Buckley go overtime—his white tiger kept licking Creole, whose manager was freaking out in the hallway. “If that tiger eats my client…”

  Watched Fred’s peacock escape and flutter around George Edwards and his Studio One Orchestra.

  Checked clock. I was being upstaged by a bird!

  Checked clock again—why hadn’t I been called? Was this show filmed in two parts?

  Zillionth commercial break.

  Checked clock again. Prayed for sequel.

  Animal assistant carried possum offstage.

  Reality hit—the show was almost over, and I hadn’t even performed!

  My head was dizzy from staring at clock. Douglas went to yet another commercial. I paced the hallway. Had I missed my cue? Had the talent coordinator been abducted by aliens?

  I was about to run to the potty yet again when she returned and, without explanation, rushed me to the closed studio door, above which flashed an intimidating red light. I could hear applause from the other side.

  “You won’t be able to perform,” the talent coordinator quickly whispered.

  “What do you mean?” I asked anxiously, my stomach sinking. All my lines were rehearsed. What would I say? What would I do?

  “Unfortunately we’ve run out of time,” I heard Douglas Douglas announce. “But let’s at least bring her out—teenage comedienne Trixie Shapiro!”

  Everyone was watching—Sarge, Dad, Sid, Jazzy, all of Mason High, and every relative my mom could use her long-distance dollars to call, and who knew who else? Jelly Bean. Steve Martin. The president. Maybe even my long-lost love, Gavin Baldwin, was tuned in.

  Suddenly the grand red-velvet curtain opened from the wing of the stage. I saw the bright spotlights, the clapping audience, and a charming silver-haired Douglas Douglas standing behind his mahogany desk. My skin tingled. I felt dizzy from the sudden rush of attention.

  I awkwardly walked out with a wide, cheesy, twitching smile. I had been instructed to go to the painted mark in the middle of the stage, but now that I wouldn’t be performing, I wasn’t sure where to go.

  The legendary host shook my hand. Then Douglas Douglas waved me over to The Seat.

  Every comedian’s dream is to sit in The Seat.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Douglas,” I whispered, trying not to shout. Like a thousand times before, he turned to the camera and said, “You can call me Douglas!”

  I sat down in The Seat. The crowd laughed and applauded as Creole, the cohost, Douglas Douglas, and I then waved good-bye.

  That was it. That was me in the big time. That was me on the Douglas Douglas Show.

  Andy Warhol theorized that every person gets fifteen minutes of fame. If that was true—I was owed fourteen m
inutes and thirty seconds.

  LA LA LAND

  I’d been searching for myself since the day I was born, and for all its terror and uncertainty, the stage was where I found myself. In the real world I was just a shrimp, ignored, overwhelmed, and dominated by my mother. But onstage I was in control; the stage was home.

  When I reflected on how far I had traveled, I felt astonished, as if my childhood dreams had been ordinary and my experiences over the last few months the real dream. I’d made thousands of people laugh, schmoozed with TV stars, played Vegas, and appeared, however briefly, on the Douglas Douglas Show.

  I certainly hadn’t gotten this far on my own. Without Jazzy, Mr. Janson, Eddie, Cam, my dad, even Sarge, I’d still be plucking pricklies from my hair. But only I could choose which road to take now.

  I had risen from class mime to class comedienne.

  Now that I’d lived my dream, what should I dream of next?

  “So are we going to share an apartment? Or should we join a snobby sorority?” Jazzy asked after announcing her acceptance from Northwestern. “We could be Alpha-Beta Rollerbladers!” She laughed as we sat at the Sunrise Coffee Shop, getting a quick fix before a day of exams.

  I picked at my straw.

  “Hey, we don’t have to join a sorority,” Jazzy said. “We can join a fraternity!”

  I flicked a crumb off the table.

  “You’re not laughing, Trix. Do you want to live at home? That’s okay—we can save money. But the second year we absolutely have to move out.”

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “Not going to move out?”

  “I’m not going to Northwestern.”

  “Oh. Did you apply somewhere else?” she asked, confused.

  I shook my head.

  “You mean you didn’t apply? But you told me—”

  “I didn’t get accepted, Jazzy.”

  “That’s unbelievable! You’ve just been on the Douglas Douglas Show!”

  “Well, I wasn’t really on it, now was I? Besides, they don’t ask about things like that on the SAT.”