5
FRIDAY
Cracked Ice
(1956)
A
Very
Special Attraction
STANDING
in front of the glass doors to my theatre in a rented tuxedo, I was mostly wishing the butterflies in my stomach would be captured by a tiny net wielded, perhaps, by the half of a turkey sandwich I’d had for lunch. We were waiting for Harry Lillis to arrive, and everyone who works at Comedy Tonight was excited (except Sophie, who wouldn’t work up any genuine enthusiasm unless Betty Friedan was bringing Gertrude Stein by to watch
Diary of a Mad Housewife
and
An Unmarried Woman
on a double bill. Maybe when her birthday came around, I’d book
9 to 5
for her, but I knew she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture).
I was
not
, however, worried about our feature film arriving. Vic had caved in quickly about my booking a copy of
Cracked Ice
when I noted that I could easily call his boss and mention that a representative of Klassic Komedy Distributors was refusing to rent a film to the firm’s best customer. And who was Vic kidding, anyway: he wanted to see that movie on the big screen as much as I did.
I’d held an inspection of the troops as soon as everyone was in the house, and found them attentive, impressed with their mission, and none wearing clothing that compared with that of the boss (that’s me): a tux that Fred Astaire himself would look upon with envy.
Sophie had shown up in a power suit with lapels sharp enough to cause deep wounds if touched. Anthony—well, Anthony was upstairs in the projection booth, though he was wearing Dockers and a T-shirt with the poster from
Amarcord
on it, but our newest employee, Jonathan Goodwin . . . let’s just say that Jonathan was not exactly reflecting the elegance of the evening in his chosen attire.
One of the reasons I’d hired Jonathan was because he’d worn a Monty Python T-shirt to the interview, and that had to count for something. The problem right now was that he was wearing the same T-shirt again; in fact, he’d been wearing it almost every day since he started a week ago, and I wasn’t sure it had been washed since I’d hired him. It created a contrast to my tuxedo that I felt was not optimal for the paying customers.
The other problem was that Harry Lillis hadn’t shown up yet, and therefore the tuxedo would soon begin to show sweat stains.
“I thought I made it clear that tonight was special,” I told Jonathan, who seemed uncomfortable and was avoiding eye contact.
“You did,” he said, bewildered. “Why?”
There was no point in arguing it: I don’t make my staff wear uniforms, mostly because I don’t want to pay for uniforms (and okay, because I think uniforms are dumb), and it wasn’t as if Jonathan had spare clothing at the theatre. Anyway, it would have taken me an hour to explain to him why his attire was less than appropriate for an occasion of this magnitude.
Besides, when I’d told Jonathan (on his first day of work) that we’d be expecting Harry Lillis less than a week later, he had almost wet himself. Turned out he was at least as big a Lillis and Townes fan as I was, so Jonathan was probably more nervous tonight than I was, and that was saying something.
I decided to go up to the projection booth, even though I knew Anthony was perhaps a tad distracted by another issue. Another issue we’d discussed at least twice a day for a good number of days, now.
“Why did you steal my film?”
“I’m tired of saying it, Anthony: I
didn’t
steal your movie. I only told you it was missing. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“You were against my starting my career now, weren’t you, Mr. Freed?”
“Anthony. I’m only the guy who gave you a job. I like you, but I’m not so caught up in your life that I’d perform a felony because I thought you needed a life lesson. You’re aware I don’t have any children. It’s by design.”
“You got divorced.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Why did you steal my film?”
“I’m going to tell you this one more time: I have
no idea
where your movie is. I never saw the reels of film after you carried them up to the projection booth. I walked in after the showing, and they were gone.
I didn’t steal your movie, Anthony
.”
“You didn’t like
Killin’ Time
, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t care much for
Hostel
, either. But I didn’t drive from theatre to theatre, pilfering prints. I’m not a thief, Anthony, and I’m starting to get just a little insulted by your constant insinuations that I am. I think you’re a nice kid. I’m glad you got to make your movie. I was happy to screen it here in the theatre for you. I have absolutely no motivation to take it away from you, and if I knew where it was, I would gladly go get it and deliver it safely into your hands. If you want to quit your education and plunge headlong into a business that offers a .000001 percent chance of success, I would disagree, but I wouldn’t stand in your way. Listen carefully, Anthony: I didn’t steal your movie.”
“You didn’t like
Hostel
? Really?”
“Get the trailers spliced.” There was no sense in discussing this further, and besides, I was still nervous, so I went back downstairs and found Jonathan unmoved from his lookout post at the front door.
I checked my watch again. “Where is he?” I said aloud.
“I don’t know,” Jonathan answered in all earnestness.
“Go help Sophie with the snack bar,” I said. Jonathan glanced longingly at the front door, but walked toward the snack bar as told. Sophie would probably bounce him to Anthony after a minute, and then he’d be back with me, watching the door for signs of Harry Lillis.
Tonight, though, Jonathan was the least of my worries. I was wearing a rented tuxedo (something that comes as naturally to me as advanced trigonometry comes to your average plankton) and the guest of honor was now officially twenty minutes late. I walked out the front door, no doubt looking like a displaced maitre d’, and looked up both sides of Edison Avenue. There was no limousine. I went back inside before someone in a wedding dress could run down the street and stand me on top of a huge cake.
The local papers had promised to send reporters, who also weren’t here yet, and News 12 New Jersey, the local cable access TV channel, had sounded interested about sending a crew if there wasn’t a fire in Middlesex County that night. Harry Lillis was a god to people like me, and a vague memory to everyone else. The publicity would be negligible, at best, and I had no idea if a crowd would show up or not. Hence, the butterflies in my digestive system.
It was still forty minutes until the advertised time for his appearance, ten minutes before I’d open the doors to the public, but Lillis wasn’t here yet, and that couldn’t be good. Traffic at this hour on a Friday night could be to blame—which would explain why my father and Vic Testalone hadn’t shown up yet, either—but I’d told the limo company to get to the Lillian Booth Actors’ Home in plenty of time. I reached for my cell phone.
Before I could dial, Jonathan came ambling back over to me from the stairs. He stopped in front of me, ignored the fact that I was dialing my cell phone, and said, “Anthony says the limo company just called and said Harry Lillis told them not to come.” Anthony was using Jonathan to send me a message, rather than talk directly to the man he had decided had stolen his film. This message had come through loud and clear.
“
What?
”
Jonathan nodded. “They said Mr. Lillis had told them he didn’t need it.”
“Does that mean he’s not coming?”
Jonathan shrugged.
My breathing was starting to get heavy. “What do you want me to do?” Jonathan asked.
“Go sweep up the auditorium.”
“I did that already.” Maybe I didn’t
need
the extra help after all.
“Go outside and make sure the marquee is lit up,” I said. I just needed a moment to think. Jonathan looked at me like I had told him to do something insane—which I had—but he went outside.
As he swung the door open to go out, Sharon came in. She was dressed to the nines, or at the very least the eight-and-a-halves, but tastefully, showing nothing she didn’t want you to see. Her eyes widened when she saw me, and she made a show of looking me up and down.
“Well, we’re looking dapper,” Sharon said. She walked to me and picked a thread off my shoulder, then brushed it. I have dandruff. Now you know.
I heard a siren in the distance and actually found myself envying the poor soul being driven to the hospital. At least someone was trying to help
him
.
“Us looking dapper might have to be the entertainment, ” I said. “Lillis isn’t here, and it sounds like he’s not coming.” I told her about the phone call.
Sharon’s upper lip vanished into her mouth as I talked. “Oh my,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Depends. Did you bring your hara-kiri knife?”
“Left it in my other pants,” my ex-wife said.
The siren got louder as Jonathan opened the front door and walked toward us. He gave me his usual puzzled look when he reached Sharon and me. “The marquee lights are turned on,” Jonathan said.
Sharon gave me a glance that said, “Shame on you for making fun of that boy,” and I countered with one that said, “I gave him a job, and mind your own business.” We have very expressive glances.
“Oh yeah,” Jonathan continued. “And there’s an ambulance pulling up in front of the theatre.”
I stood there, absorbing that information for a few seconds, then I ran for the front door, Sharon only a step or two ahead of me.
At the curb of Edison Avenue, in front of Comedy Tonight, was a private ambulance bearing the logo JERSEY MEDICAL TRANSPORT, with its rear doors open. And being lowered to the sidewalk was Harry Lillis. In a tuxedo.
And in a wheelchair.
6
"IT’S
nothing,” Lillis said. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t
look
fine,” I answered. “Last time I saw you, you could stand up.”
“I can still stand up,” he said as a burly looking African-American male nurse named Mitchell (according to his embroidered white coat) rolled him into the theatre. “It’s walking that presents a problem.”
“Mr. Lillis had what you might call an unfortunate occurrence, ” Mitchell said in tones that spoke of an upbringing in Coney Island. “He slipped in the common room and did some damage to his hip.”
“Mr. Lillis!” I moaned.
“Harry,” he corrected. “Or I get Man Mountain Dean here to put me back in the ambulance.”
“Okay,
Harry
. Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” Lillis snapped. “I could get up and dance the merengue, if I felt like it. I just like having someone push me around.” He looked up at Mitchell. “My luck it couldn’t be the little blonde from the nursing home side.”
“You’re not sick enough for her,” Mitchell deadpanned.
“No, I’m not healthy enough for her,” Lillis shot back. Then he looked at Sharon and said, “You’re a doctor?” I’d introduced them at curbside.
“Yes, Mr. Lillis.”
“I’m healthy enough for
you
.” He did an eyebrow wiggle Groucho himself would have envied. “And did you miss the part about calling me Harry?”
Jonathan had yet to speak. His mouth opened and closed every once in a while, but no sound came out. I could empathize.
We reached the auditorium doors, and I was careful to get in front of the wheelchair so I could open them ahead of Mitchell. He nodded as he wheeled Lillis into the theatre.
“Are you sure you can go on tonight, Harry?” I asked.
“I tried to convince him he shouldn’t,” Mitchell said, clucking like a mother hen. “But you don’t think anybody but you knows anything, do you, Harry?”
Harry wasn’t listening. He looked around the theatre as he rode down the center aisle toward the stage, taking in the miraculous work done to restore the balcony, the massive amount of restoration Dad and I (mostly Dad) had supervised, the new seats, the old seats, the plaster gargoyles over the auditorium exits, the cupola with the enormous chandelier, and the painting above it. I had to admit, it was quite a sight.
“What a dump!” Lillis spouted, in a perfect Bette Davis impression. I had to admire his technique: Lillis was one of the few impressionists who didn’t exaggerate the voice he was doing—he went for accuracy. In the Lillis and Townes films, he had spoken lines as Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, Dean Martin, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and on one occasion, his partner. He was so good that there were many who argued that Townes had dubbed the line later on, but both comedians had always insisted it was Lillis who did the voice.
“It’s still under restoration,” I said meekly.
“It looks like it’s still under condemnation,” Lillis replied when Mitchell had successfully navigated him to the base of the stage. He must have seen my look, because he added, “But our picture will class up the joint, kid. Don’t you worry.”
“Harry,” Sharon admonished.
He looked surprised. “What?”
Jonathan broke in, finally able to speak, as long as he didn’t have to speak to Lillis: “How are we going to get him up on the stage?” he asked Mitchell.
We looked at each other for a moment, and then Lillis simply lifted his arms, and Mitchell picked him up out of the chair like a large bag of charcoal, threw him over his shoulder, and walked up onstage. Jonathan carried the chair, and once both were on the same plane, they were reunited.
“Now you know why they didn’t send the little blonde,” I told Lillis.
“I don’t know if she could have lifted me,” he said, “but it would have been fun to let her try.”
When Jonathan opened the theatre doors precisely at seven, there were already people waiting. Miraculously, Lillis and Townes weren’t quite the forgotten antiques I had feared. The theatre filled quickly, and even the balcony was packed. Normally, that would make me nervous, but the sight of a full house—a
really
full house—was enough to dispel fears of a structural collapse; besides, the construction crew had done a really thorough job. By seven thirty, Sophie had sold a week’s worth of snacks, despite her scowling at every male who ordered anything (I’d have to talk to her about the five-year-old boys, who shouldn’t have to share the blame), and Jonathan had torn more tickets than we’d ever sold before. This was the first time we’d sold out every single seat, balcony and all. A few hearty souls even bought tickets to stand in the back. It was a good thing the Midland Heights fire chief hadn’t shown up, or he’d have seen we were exceeding our legal capacity.