Lost in the Funhouse_ The Life and Mind of Andy Kaufman - Bill Zehme [8]
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Out of the blue, in the middle of the action, an extremely clever comic began counting, very slowly, and with great concentration: one, two, three, four … enunciating each of the numbers with the utmost deliberation, as if they had gotten away from him and he was gathering them up again: five, six, seven, eight. … When he reached fifteen, the audience began to laugh, and by the time he had slowly, and with greater and greater concentration, made his way up to a hundred, people were falling off their seats…
Yes, cross the border and you hear that fateful laughter. And if you go farther, beyond laughter?
—Milan Kundera,
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
Kiddie City, recording booth, Little Neck, New York, father, son, 1954:
“It’s the Andy Kaufman Jamboree! And here’s the great old troubadour himself with his guitar, Andy Kaufman! Good evening, Andy, how are you tonight?”
“Fine.”
“How ’bout a little song for us. You got anything in mind that you’d like to sing? Maybe some original piece that you’ve written?”
“Yep!”
“What’s the name of it, Andy?”
“‘Playin’ on Me Ol’ Guitar!’”
“Okay, Andy, let’s see how it sounds! Introducing Andy Kaufman with an original piece just written and being heard for the first time on radio and television—Andy Troubadour Kaufman!”
“O-lay-ee-oh, o-lay-ee-oh, o-lay-ee-oh, brrr-um-bum, brrr-um-bum, brrr-um-bum, brrr-um-bum, brrr-um-bum; Playin’ on the ol’ guitar, Playin’ on the ol’ guitar, gotta keep it old but I don’t know how, playin’ on the ol’ guitar, bumbadumbum, bee-hee bee-hee bee-hee, brrr-um-bum; look at that man over there, he’s wearin’ no underwear, gotta keep it old but I don’t know how, playin’ on me ol’ guitar, bee-hee bee-hee bee-hee….”
“That was a terrific number, Andy. I’m sure that before very long, you’re gonna be hearing that number from coast to coast and it’ll be on top of the hit parade! Andy, is there one more number you have in mind?”
“I have—‘What Time Is It.’”
“Is that another original composition?”
“Yep!”
“Okay, Andy, I guess all the folks would like to hear that number. Take it away!”
“What time is it? What is the time? It’s only one o’clock. What time is it? What time is it? It’s only one-thirty, it’s only one-thirty. What time is it? What time is it? It’s only two o’clock, it’s only two o’clock. What time is it? What time is it? It’s only two-thirty, it’s only two-thirty. What time is it? What time is—”
“It’s time to stop this song right now! Thank you, Andy, that was terrific! By the way, Andy, what time would you have ended that song?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“You mean you would have gone all the way up to twelve-thirty? My goodness, Andy! You know this program goes off the air in exactly one minute, and I don’t think we would have made it. What do you think?”
“Wellll, that’s not quite a long song!”
“I thought it was going to be a verrry long song….”
Time was amorphous, meant very little. Hours passed, usually in solitude, though he was never alone, though he was mostly alone. (He and/or Dhrupick became many characters and now the characters were working regularly. They made noises that burst out of him; he was a crowd; he was a spectacle; nobody saw or was supposed to.) Channel 5, of 5 Robin Way, upstairs bedroom, beamed daily telecasts beginning in 1953: “I really thought there was a camera in the wall and that there were millions of people watching me somewhere out in TVland. I don’t know where—but somewhere—and I really believed this.” No one was in the room with him. “No one was in the room with me.” Little Michael would be gone, maybe downstairs or somewhere with the housekeeper, Margaret E. English, of Denmark, South Carolina—a shy and kindly young black domestic who had come to work for and live with the family the year before. Upstairs, Andy made his