| Just before we enter the palace to see Toody, Thalia does something you’ve got to get the next god or goddess you meet to do. She vanishes into thin air. I know, I know. What’s the big surprise, right? That’s your brain talking, not your heart. You’ve heard about the ocean, haven’t you? You know about the crashing surf, water all the way to the horizon. No surprises. But when you SEE it. You got my point. Pisistrato leads me into the foyer, up the grand staircase into the door of Toody’s chamber. I should mention that the whole ducal palace is quite modest as such affairs go. It’s modeled on the Great Southern Hotel in Kolonus, a favorite stop of Fred’s road days. The chandeliers, paneling, carpet, the whole joint looks like a great suit of clothes that’s been slept in from time to time. At the Southern, the building had fallen from grander days. Fred built his palace to look that way from day one, a new building in old-age makeup. Pisistrato leads me upstairs to see Toody, explaining that there are usually special serving persons to announce a guest or get a drink. The practice under the old Duke was to ask townspeople in the hotel business to volunteer for a day or so as a sort of taxation. Even people not in the hotel business would happily volunteer. Duke Fred was literally a laugh a minute guy, so they had to turn people away when the calendar filled up. Of course, since the old Duke’s death, zilch. Toody is a nice guy, and all, but nobody is going wild to be around him all day. By this time we have wheezed and puffed our way up the grand staircase, and the Pisser is knocking on Toody’s door. Nobody answers. “Toody? Toody!” The Pisser is very worried. He pushes the door open. No lights. “Toody, you in there?” We hear a strangled whimper. “Why don’t you rattle the broken pieces of your heart together so we can start to figure out where you are?” I think Pisistrato is being a little hard on the young Duke, and I say so. “Guys in despair give me the pip,” he explains. “Despair you’ve got to grab by the scruff and kick out of your house. You know, like a bum uncle. Before he eats and drinks you flat, you get rid of him!” While explaining this to me, the old man strikes a match and moves from lamp to lamp in the room, creating little pockets of lights. Eventually I can make out the shape of poor Toody, crumpled in an armchair in the corner. The wig is off, but he still wears the red nose. The makeup applied by Pisistrato is streaked with tears. He’s a good-sized kid, so even curled up in the chair, his legs dangle over one arm, and at the end of them I can see the monstrous clown feet that were his downfall earlier in the evening. “Got a guy here,” continues the Pisser as he lights more lamps, “who’s got some real interesting news. But first,” he settles on the hassock in front of the armchair and puts his hand on the duke’s knee, “how the hell are you? Don’t tell me, you’re pretty bad. You want to give up, don’t you?” “Yes,” breathes Toody. “Give it over to Knots. He wants it, doesn’t he? Give it to him. Why not? Well, I got a guy here is going to make you feel even worse. How’s that for misery?” “Who is he?” Asks the Duke. “He’s a lawyer.” Toody lets out a terrible moan. “We are not being sued. I wish we were being sued. Mr. Lawyer, tell your story to the young duklet here. I’ll listen peaceful-like.” “Thalia appeared to me . . .” I begin quietly. But Toody interrupts, leaping to his feet. “Oh no! Did you put him up to this, Uncle Pisistrato?” The ten per center explains, “He doesn’t believe.” “In Thalia?” I’m astounded. “None of the gods.” Pisistrato shakes his head. “His own father told him about the founding of the city. How we met Thalia. His own father . . .” Toody breaks in: “You know what a kidder dad was!” “I told you, too!” The Pisser is pretty sore. “Look at him, my uncle,” Toody addresses me. “A guy so crooked, he’s got to screw his socks on in the morning!” This comment takes me by complete surprise. Despite myself, I laugh out loud. I look at the Pisser. In the dim light, I see him staring with wonderment. “What?” He finally speaks. “What did you say?” “About what?” replies Toody. “That screw his socks on bit. Where did you get that? Did you make it up?” “I don’t know. I suppose I heard Dad.” “Your Dad never used that gag. I heard ‘em all. That’s not one of his. That was a joke. Your own joke! Why can’t you . . . why haven’t you done that before, for the public?” “Naw! My dad was the comic. Maybe I should found my own city state, based on, say, the love of fruit trees. Our official bird would be the kumquat. Maybe I should go look for the Golden Fleece. Not much of a challenge, come to think of it. My dog has golden fleece. Maybe I should go to Troy again. After all, if at first you don’t succeed, Troy, Troy again.” I realize this is very corny stuff – but the delivery! The Pisser and I are holding on to one another, shaking with laughter. When it subsides, I noticed that the old fellow still shaking, but with sobs. Toody rushes to him. “What’s the matter, Uncle Pisser? What is it?” “I’m remembering your father . . .” “Toody reminds you of Fred?” I ask. “No way. Completely different approach. But he would have been so proud.” Pisistrato stops crying and looks at me. “Wait a minute, this lawyer is a member of the public!” Toody is completely bewildered. He looks at me the same as you’d regarding a dead mouse in a joke birthday present. Pisistrato continues: “I’ve been trying to get him to make a joke in public ever since his dad died. Toody, how do you explain this? If in front of him, why not in front of a hundred hims?” “You want me to address the Bar Association?” “Serious, now. Why?” “I don’t know.” “Lawyer,” the Pisser nudges me, “Tell your story to the boy. I’m tired, so make it snappy.” Toody looks at me expectantly. I tell him the whole story of running into the Spartans, sneaking past the Spartans, getting caught by the Spartans, intimidating the Spartan captain, seeing that the Spartans have burned up Ichthyopolis, escaping from the Spartans, and . . . Meeting Thalia in the countryside, Thalia telling me the story of Thaliopolis, Thalia ordering me to warn the city of the approach of the Spartans, my assuring Thalia that, of course, that’s just what I was about to do, honest, and my subsequent attempt to find a path to a seacoast, any seacoast, then . . . Running into the Spartans again, and the Spartans chasing me into Thaliopolis. “So here I am,” says I. “The Spartans are at your gate. Thalia told me to tell you to save her city.” “Why didn’t she come and tell me herself?” asks Toody incredulously. “She knew you’d ask that,” I replied. “Did she give you an answer for me?” “One word – faith.” Suddenly the tiny voices of a choir start oooooing and ahhhhhing the room, as if by some supernatural signal. Toody gets real burnt, very suddenly. He lunges to the window, flings it open and shouts down to the courtyard. “Will you people PLEASE stop that racket? We are having a conference up here.” The singing stops. I hear a distant voice explaining something about a shortage of rehearsal space and they all have day jobs and gosh, where are they supposed to practice, Your Grace, and how? “I’m sorry,” Toody adopts a less heated tone. “I sympathize, really, but I just can’t deal with it tonight. So please, somewhere else, please?” Then comes the sound of shuffling feet, muttering voices, and in a muffled laugh. Barely audible, the chorus begins to chant, “the Duke’s a puke, the Duke’s a puke,” which dissolves into guffaws and a quick retreat. Toody slams the shutters and settles back into his chair. “You know, Mr. Attorney,” Toody says, “I spent all my formative years in the presence of a comic genius, a one-man laugh riot, a walking theater in which congruity and incongruity were set on one another like to pit bulls struggling for supremacy. In short, Mr. Attorney, Dad was funny.” “What gives with the Professor Einstein routine?” I asked the Pisser. “The Duke is a man of many parts,” he answers, “all of them hidden.” “My dad was funny, as I was saying, and consistently so. Not an hour went by but it was crammed with imitation, parity, satire, jokes, puns, tall tales, all the items that have traditionally provoked laughter and astonishment in the human.” “You’re doing it again!” Toody ignores the Prime Minister’s observation. “Notwithstanding this long exposure to the fractured world of the comedic, never have I heard a more ridiculous proposition more ridiculously put . . .” “You’re doing it again!” repeats the Pisser. “. . . than your proposition that I . . .” “Toody!” He grabs the Duke by the lapels of his toga. “. . . can save this . . . Doing what again?” “Toody! Toody!” The Pisser is trembling. “You’ve never made a speech like that in front of anybody. What’s going on, Toody? What’s happening to you?” “I don’t know! I don’t know! I’m just so – it’s him. It’s the lawyer. He seems to bring it out of me!” Pisistrato grabs my lapels. “How would you like a job?” “A job? Doing what?” I’m floored. “I need an Assistant Prime Minister.” “Won’t the local people be upset, you hiring from outside?” I ask. “I’ll deal with that. What do you say “” Pisistrato persists. “I don’t know –” “Start you at a thousand a month,” the guy says. “A thousand what?” says I. “We’ll think of something. It’ll be a thousand more of something than you have right now.” “But I would have to give up the law.” “You’ll have to anyway,” he grins. “I would?” “If you want to stay here. You’re the only lawyer in Thaliopolis. You’d starve.” He starts to cackle. “No other lawyers?” I smile despite myself. “Not one,” he hoots. “Unbelievable! I’d starve!” Now we’re both laughing. “I’d say you need a job. What you say?” I take that geezer’s hand. “You got a deal!” We both calm down as he shakes my hand and pats my shoulder. “Great, great,” he says, “now get to work!” “Doing what?” “Help the kid save the city. I’m going to bed.” The coot shuffles out the door at a speed suggesting evaporation. “Well, Mr. Assistant Prime Minister, any hot ideas?” Toody inquires not without sarcasm. “One thing before we begin, your grace.” “What?” “Wouldn’t you like to know my name?” He apologizes for his rudeness. Me, too. I apologize to you that I haven’t introduced myself before. My name, however, deserves its own chapter. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |