It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [19]
“I brought out my laptop,” my clown face insisted, nodding to the computer in my hands. “Anybody want to see a video of a Sad Clown Anna Nicole? She says the word ‘poot.’ ”
“Chhh!” my husband said, this time outstretching his arm in my direction without making eye contact.
“Wha—” I began.
“Chhh!” my husband said again, now looking at me and furrowing his brow.
“What are you supposed to be?” I whispered to the girl with the crown of flowers around her head. “Are you the Fairy Queen?”
“I am Peaseblossom, woodland sprite from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, act three, scene one, line one thousand,” she whispered back, and then looked away (again, 0.2 percent. Not you).
“I’m Sad Clown Anna Nicole,” I continued in a hushed tone, thinking the sprite was nice.
“Great,” she said quickly.
“I bet I know who you’re supposed to be!” I said, whispering behind Peaseblossom as I pointed a finger at the girl in the satiny dress. I was about to shout out “Miss Piggy!” when she looked at me, gave me a long, dramatic blink, and said, “I am Marilyn Monroe.”
“Wow!” I replied, while inside I reasoned with myself that she had been dead for half a century. It might have been an accurate representation for all I knew.
After there had been more drinking involved, it was far easier to force people to watch the Anna Nicole video: I set up a viewing station by the beer cooler and made people say the magic words “Show Me the Sad Clown!” before the cooler lid could be lifted.
But this year I wasn’t going to struggle with my costume. I had a great idea—one I had waited half my life to put together—and I was going with it, come hell or high water. Nothing could stop me now. I wasn’t worried about the grad students; Jamie and I were a team, and we were sticking together.
After she got the Absolut flowing, Jamie sat in her rolling throne, her hair piled into a spinster’s bun, dark circles under her eyes and hollows in her cheeks, her long black gown spread out before her, and a tidy little blue silk scarf tied at her throat, Joan Crawford style.
I was immediately relieved when two of our first guests, Drew and Jacob—that night visiting our house as Oliver Twist and the Jewish grandma with missile boobs, respectively—walked through the front door and gasped when I wheeled Jamie out.
It was then I knew we had done good. Jamie’s makeup was starvation, perfected, and my stage makeup, smeared blood-red lips, and blond pin-curled wig, drunkenly askew, were on the money.
My dream come true.
More and more guests began to arrive, and repeatedly I got a vague smile but no nods of recognition. I barely cared. Jamie and the people who knew that we were the Hudson sisters—including my friend Nancy, who arrived as the Vampire Queen—congregated in the kitchen so Jamie could be closer to her sauce. I walked away for a minute—a minute, I tell you—to talk to some friends, and when I came back into the kitchen, Mama’s Booze Bag was no longer located in the tote bag: It was sitting in the rolling throne, with a tidy blue scarf tied around its neck.
“How long has she been like this?” I asked Oliver and Maude, who both simply shrugged as Jamie laughed her drunk laugh, which I know by heart. She closes her eyes, throws back her head at the same time she throws up her hands. And she touches people, and Real Life Jamie never does that. I knew that once we passed a certain point of inebriation—to which we were dangerously close—all bets would be off, and our night of fun was either going to end with an unintentional pratfall or finding her within an hour taking a “nap” on the dog’s bed.
“Who knows?” they said together. “Please don’t make her stop drinking. She’s hilarious!”
“How much did you drink?” I said, grabbing a glass and filling it up with water. “Do you realize how old we are? We have brittle bones! What if you fell down the stairs? Do you want some water?”
“Sure,” she said, as she shrugged and then nodded in a motion that resembled a bobble head. “What’s in it?”
“Water,” I repeated as I handed it to her. “With a splash of water.