Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [72]
I instinctively recognized how funny everybody was, and so from the time I was six or seven years old, I’d put on shows and imitate the neighbors. I’d create a stage on the back porch of the building—I always wanted a stage—and use my mother’s sheets as the curtain.
“If all the world’s a stage, how come
so many people have to pay to get in?”
I used to love to hang out with Mrs. Rupert. She was my favorite, mostly because she was an eccentric. She wore a hat and fox furs to empty the garbage, and she’d often propagandize to me about the evils of progressive people. On her desk was a sign that said “Don’t go away mad. Just go away.” I thought that was great—it somehow appealed to me.
Another neighbor, Mrs. Clancy, taught French at a very exclusive girls’ school. She was really out there, and pretentious, too. And then there was Jean Creek, who used to make me laugh just by the way she’d stand there with one baby up on her hip, while stirring a big old pot of oatmeal with her free hand. I’d go to Jean’s apartment, play Rook, drink Pepsi and dance The Chicken.
I’d also go by Betty’s apartment. She was the only woman in the complex who was divorced, and whose boyfriend, Frank, slept over. Back then that was really scandalous. Frank was a Jew and a communist who gave me all kinds of communist literature. He owned a chicken store, and every time I went down there, I’d beg him, “Please, don’t kill the chickens! Please don’t kill them!”
“The worst thing about dying must be that part
where your whole life flashes before you.”
And, of course, there was Mrs. Spear, who worked at one of the department stores and always wore a chignon. About three times a week Mrs. Spear would ring our doorbell and say to my mom, “Oh, Mrs. Tomlin, I’m sorry, I forgot my key.” Mother would be fixing supper, and Mrs. Spear would say, “Oh, something smells good!” So my mother, who was an incredibly generous woman, would say, “Well, why don’t you come and have supper with us?”
After she’d leave, my father would always say the same thing.
“Goddamn it, if old lady Spear rings that goddamn doorbell one more time to get a free dinner, I’m going to give her a piece of my mind.”
I somehow took that as my marching orders. The next night when the doorbell rang, I beat my mother to the door, and told Mrs. Spear, “If you ring our doorbell one more time my father’s going to give you a piece of his mind.” Mother was mortified. Dad got a kick out of it.
“Maybe the reason we have a left brain and a right brain is
so we can keep secrets from ourselves.”
Another one of my early things was making sock puppets. When I’d go to visit family in Kentucky during the summer, I’d get socks and buttons from my aunt, and I could spend days and days making these puppets. And because people seemed to enjoy them so much, I learned to improvise little shows. I’d take my puppets and go across the field to where, say, some elderly woman was bedridden. I’d kneel down on the floor at the foot of the bed, then hold the puppets up, facing her, as if they were on a little stage. Then I’d entertain her. I’d sing “Shoo-Fly Pie” or something funny. I loved getting a laugh. I always did.
My brother was the same way. He’s genuinely funny—naturally comedic—and we were always up to something. Because we lived in such a tough neighborhood, getting home from school without being beaten up was a good day. So when he was about seven and I was ten, we’d run home from school, take my mother’s vacuum cleaner hose, drop it out our second-story window and taunt the tough kids who were out on the street.
“Hey you!” we’d yell through the hose. “Yeah, you in the blue jacket! I’m gonna kick your ass!” Then we’d duck down behind the window. The kids would be looking up and around, not knowing where the voice was coming from. My brother and I would be rolling on the floor, laughing.