My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [44]
I walked over to the floor manager, Wayne Moss, and said, “Listen, we’ve got to do something about that one rabbit. He’s all over the place. Please tell whoever it is to get it together with the others.”
Wayne pulled his headset off of one ear and looked at me quizzically. “Are you sure you want me to pass that message along?”
I told him yes, fully expecting he would walk over to the offending rabbit and straighten him out personally. Instead, he shrugged, tugged his headset back on, pulled his microphone toward him, and spoke into it. I wondered why Wayne was talking on the headset instead of doing what I’d asked him. Jim had specifically asked Steve and me to check out the puppeteering and make sure this scene looked good, and I wasn’t about to disappoint him.
I was getting ready to tell Wayne that I would speak to the misguided rabbit myself if that would help things, when the rabbit in question dropped down out of the group. A moment later, Jim’s bearded face popped into line with all the bug-eyed, buck-toothed rabbits, like a creature from an old B horror movie—Attack of the Killer Rabbit. I felt my stomach drop and my ears burn with embarrassment. Jim could only hold that look for so long before he dissolved into laughter.
Jim had a genius for working with people. Some might say that his techniques were sophisticated management methods, but when I reflect on his style, I keep coming back to one thing. Jim treated all of us like his friends, plain and simple, with respect and admiration.
Losing Jim was one of the most difficult challenges we all faced in our Sesame Street lives. Only two weeks before he died in 1990, he had asked me to appear with him on The Arsenio Hall Show. He was battling a little sore throat, but other than that he was feeling fine. I did a bit with my character Clifford and Jim was Kermit. We had a great time and the studio audience gave us a rousing thumbs-up with lots of laughter and applause. I didn’t see Jim again after that.
His memorial service lasted for five hours, but it passed by as quickly as if it were one. I suppose I didn’t want those moments to end because I wanted to go on celebrating Jim and his life forever. Caroll Spinney as Big Bird came out and sang Jim’s signature song, “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” and we did our best to honor Jim’s wish that the event be like the rest of his life—fun and festive. (Though his death was sudden, Jim had made it clear to his friends and family what he would want at his memorial service.) He asked that we all wear bright-colored clothes. As a tribute and to honor Jim’s request, Steve Whitmire bought a white suit for the occasion. He and his wife dyed it Kermit Green and cut out a collar just like Kermit’s that he wore around his neck as a tie.
As I sat there, I imagined that Jim was looking down on us, loving the sea of colors assembled—just like the rainbow connection of fur, feathers, and fabric he brought to life for us all.
Not surprisingly, going back to work after a long and emotional ten days of both mourning and celebrating his life wasn’t easy. But we knew Jim wanted his legacy to continue. He was very much on our minds, and he remains a presence to this day. We all want to keep Jim laughing up there, and I hope he’s enjoying what we’ve done.
I learned so much about my craft from Jim, but I also learned a lot about what it means to be a professional and how to conduct myself as an empathetic “boss.” We work for a big company, and Jim was the head of a global enterprise, but he ran it like it was a small family operation. He praised us both openly and privately. We didn’t have formal performance reviews with him; instead, every now and then he’d say, “What are you doing for dinner?”
Over the meal, he’d always ask about your family and talk about his, as well. He’d share his thoughts about the show and your performance, but it was conversational and not confrontational, as if he were a friend, not a boss. The last time he and I got together like that was when