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SYNOPSIS: New York, 1986. Jacky has told Frank the Cop a pack of lies about comedian Kelly Shine, hoping that Frank will get Kelly out of the picture so that Jacky can set up the girl Inch with crazy Bogdan, and also collect $1000 from Nick the Greek.
I sat at the last table, in a dark corner of the Yuk Factory Komedy Kabaret on Second Avenue. Half full, it being a weeknight, the room was done in early Greenwich Village motif, with brick walls and candles stuck in old wine bottles on the tables. The stage, a platform a couple of feet higher than the floor, was furnished only with a stand-up mike and a wooden stool. There being no backstage, the comics entered from the antebar near where I was sitting when they were announced. Behind the stage, on the brick wall, was a sign that said “Yuk Factory Komedy Kabaret”, with a design of a nebbishy-looking workman shoveling a pile of steaming manure.
The M.C. was a skinny little guy with a hang-dog expression, a jaundiced eye and a spine bent from too many years of slouching over bars and nightclub tables. His name was Paul K. Murdoch, and he was funnier than most of the acts he introduced, though not all his stuff was on the mark by any means. Let’s face it, if you want to be a stand-up comic you don’t need looks, you don’t even need talent. All you need is a big mouth and the urge to make a fool out of yourself in public. Comedians may not be our most valuable national resource, but they are certainly one of our most abundant, with a new crop of jerks springing up each season with the regularity of winter wheat.
I saw about half of them that night: a little old Jewish man with what I assumed to be a very dirty routine, except I didn’t understand the punchlines because they were all in Yiddish; a boring blonde bemoaning the lack of eligible husbands in New York; a Chinese guy with a motorcycle jacket who based his act on paranoia of anti-Asian bigotry; a Canadian; an overweight brunette who ranted about Haagen-Daz ice cream and sang a revolting show tune to taped accompaniment. Like, it was really painful. I consoled myself with the idea that soon it would be Kelly’s turn, the high point of the evening, although he didn’t know it.
Another tedious Jewish comic was taking a bow for recounting how he used to get picked on at summer camp, and Paul K. Murdoch gave a little leap into the floodlights. “Allright, ladies and gentlemen, how about another round of applause for Howard Saplow! Howard Saplow, ladies and gentlemen! Tomorrow Howard begins a four-year engagement at Rikers Island! Scattered laughs.
“Our next comic just blew in from the left coast, where he absolutely killed them at a Ku Klux Klan rally in San Bernadino. After this, he’s scheduled to appear at the men’s room of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Ladies and gentlemen, the inimitable comedy stylings of the former instructor of the Roman Polansky Institute for Little Girls, Mister KELLY SHINE!”
Tepid applause as a taped fanfare blared over the loudspeaker, and Kelly made his entrance from the antebar, rushing by me and bounding onto the stage.
Dressed in dark slacks and a navy windbreaker, Kelly was a six-footer in his thirties with thinning hair, a flattened nose and a round, jowly face. Already well into his decline, it was obvious that he had just enough teeth left in his mouth not to embarrass himself when he smiled. If I’m any judge of people, I would say that Kelly had been through enough hard times to lend a kind of immediacy to any kind of stage performance. He was the archetypical American drifter, had done plenty of menial labor, had committed petty crimes (maybe even murder), was well-acquainted with the law-enforcement establishment. Pity anybody dumb enough to go on a drinking binge with this guy, for after a certain point he would become a morose, vengeful drunk.
Nevertheless, his act, though certainly not written by William Shakespeare (“The way he got his name is, he Shakes Beer before he drinks it!”), was marked by a kind of vitality and enthusiasm born of desperation. He quickly got the crowd on his side with his dopey antics: an impression of a pigeon relieving itself in Central Park; a story about a gay cowboy; an encounter between the Incredible Hulk and the Flying Nun, both played by him, wherein the Nun insists the Hulk use some kind of prophylactic protection and he responds by pulling out a green plastic garbage bag. The audience screamed its approval. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kelly went on, “You might be interested to know that I ran into my ex-girlfriend and we made love all night. The only thing is,” he scratched his groin, “I’ve been itching all day! Wait a minute!” He pushed his hand into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out a monstrous six-inch rubber tarantula. The women screamed with delight. “Well,” Kelly gave a crooked smile, displaying his sparse crescent of front teeth, “she said she just got back from Texas!”
Just then three cops, led by Frank, pushed their way past me and right up to the stage. I squeezed myself deep into the corner and tried to make myself invisible. The laughing died and the smile froze on Kelly’s face. “You come with me right now!” Frank boomed, and Kelly, not even attempting to protest his innocence, for who knew what atrocities were preying on his conscience, meekly allowed himself to grabbed by the arms and hustled away, past me and out the door.
Paul K. Murdoch jumped onto the stage waving his arms. Never at a loss for words, he shouted, “Don’t be alarmed, folks, those guys are part of the show. They’ll all be back later. Now our next act….”
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Posted on 4/1/2006
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