| Fred was a headliner comic in ancient Greece, a big hit on the souvlaki circuit of lower Macedonia. His specialties were patter songs and funny stories, with an imitation of Athen’s latest tyrant thrown in for topical interest. One day the comedian is traveling by donkey between engagements with his friend and booking agent, Pisistrato, (known affectionately as “The Pisser,”) when who should they meet at the roadside but Thalia, the Muse of Comedy. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” says Fred. “I should hope,” replies the divine type. “Hey, yeah,” says the Pisser. “I recognize you from your statues.” “I am much softer in real life,” she says. “What gives with the sudden appearance among mortals, “asks Fred, “specially with no advance publiss?” “Got a gig for you, Freddy – boy,” says Thalia. “Respect being due,” interjects the Pisser, “but Fred is booked solid for the season.” “You think she don’t know this?” Fred is embarrassed some. Thalia laughs it off. “The guy’s got to cover his ten per cent,“she says. “You shouldn’t worry, Mr. P, you’ll get your cut. The deal is, I’ve been thinking of a city,” she says, and heaves a kind of lovely sigh. “Which one?” The Pisser again. “Ix-nay,” hisses Fred to his pal. “One that’s still on my mind. That’s the gig, Fred. Make me a city. Like Athena has her Athens, Apollo has his space program, and Poseidon has all those little coffee shops all over the place. A city, Fred. A city where the people go about their business with a joke in their heart and a laugh on their lips. A city other cities look up to as a beacon of joy and enjoyment. A city where comedy is not only the king, it’s the god. What do ya say?” “It could be done,” says Fred. “Possible,” opines the Pisser. “Got a place in mind?” queries Fred. “Over the hill here. Have a look–see.” With this, the lady, the two men and their donkeys float feather–like over the bluff to a pretty little valley there behind. “Love it, “says Fred. “Now for a populace.” Fred jumps off his donk, hops to the bluff top and in no time has attracted a goodly crowd of the best kind of people through the sheer force of his personality and the magnetic qualities of his storytelling and patter songs. After a roaring finish, Fred says the usual, but with a twist. “You’re such a swell crowd, “says he, “I’d like to take you home with me. So I will.” “Huh?” the people respond as one person. “Come on!” says the funny man. And as before, swept up by the spirit of the Muse, or something, the whole group floats over the hill. Their feet no sooner touch the earth but they heave to and begin building their city. The Pisser sees it as some sort of human beehive. He’s amazed. “Never been party to a miracle before,” the geezer pipes. “About time,” chimes Fred. “Think of it, a permanent audience. Our road trip days are through.” “Hey, and a good thing,” points out his agent. “A guy gets into the business for the laughs, not the saddle sores.” “So where is the goddess that cooked this up?” Fred is concerned, but there is no need. In the square of the new city a statue of the Muse has spontaneously appeared. “Great likeness,” observes Pisistrato. “She was right. She is softer in real life.” “What’s it say on the pedestal there?” Fred has noted an inscription. |
| “That last word is hard to say,” pronounces the Pisser. “Yeah, and I think the bad news is, that’s the name of our town,” says Fred. “But what’s this House of Fred’s stuff? Am I opening a boutique?” “Nonsense, Your Grace. The people acclaimed you Duke of the city, right?” “Yeah, it’ll be tough getting used to being called Grace. Ellen, I’ve always liked the name, but Grace, I’m not so sure. And you I named my Prime Minister. How about that?” “Ten per cent of the proceeds, you can name me late for dinner.” “I’ll remember that at dinner.” “House of Fred means you’ll have a kid, a successor, I bet.” “And who’s going to marry an old clown like me, I ask? Let alone reproduce.” “A little faith, Fred. A little faith in the good girl.” Pisistrato pats the statue affectionately on the toe. “Faith should be no problem. Look at this city.” In a matter of hours, the city has become something splendid. That’s how the city came to be there thirty years later when I am running out of the hills into that pretty little valley with a pack of bloodthirsty Spartan soldiers hot on my heels. At least that’s how the story got told to me. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |