My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [50]
The first time I walked out onto that set, my pulse shot up. You mean, that’s the stoop? That’s really Mr. Hooper’s store? Even in the harsh glare of the work lights, the set seemed so real to me, I could almost smell the rice and beans coming from the second-story window of the brownstone and hear the laughter of children as they clattered down the front steps and onto the sidewalks to jump rope and play hopscotch. I could just picture Big Bird coming through those doors and saying “Hi, welcome to Sesame Street!” I was in awe when I got my picture taken with Big Bird, and I felt like a kid again.
After about six months of living in New York full time, on Kermit Love’s recommendation, I auditioned for and got a second job on a show he was involved in, The Great Space Coaster. The show was an internationally syndicated half-hour children’s program combining live action, music, and puppets (I played Goriddle Gorilla, among others) that Kermit had designed and built. I was having a great time, even though I was holding down two full-time jobs, plus working a little at Sesame Street and building puppets for the Captain in the evening.
The authentic—too authentic—New York atmosphere of the George Washington Hotel, however, finally lost its appeal (as did the lack of kitchen facilities—steam table take-out was a stomach-churning risk I was tired of taking). With so much work, I could finally afford to leave George and my loud nocturnal neighbors behind and get an apartment. I eventually found a place with another Coaster cast member, Jim Martin. Like me, Jim would go on to work at Sesame Street, where he is still a puppeteer and director. After living in various sublets in the Village and elsewhere, we landed in Hell’s Kitchen, on Forty-seventh Street and Tenth Avenue.
My shared bedroom and work space back home proved to be a great test run for cooperation, because Jim and I were splitting an apartment that was tiny, even by Manhattan standards. The very small main area served as kitchen, living room, dining room, and puppet-building workshop.
The quarters were cramped, but Jim and I were working on the same projects and were only there late at night. My schedule was this: From six in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon, I was at the Captain Kangaroo studios shooting. From two in the afternoon until six at night, I was performing on The Great Space Coaster. From six-thirty to midnight, I was in a recording studio for that show. At midnight I headed home, where Jim and I went to work building puppets for the Captain.
Jim was a great help with my construction assignments, and as much of a workaholic as me. We had so little space (he was a true pack rat, like my dad, which made our apartment really feel like home to me), and I had so little time that we worked in shifts. He’d take the first two hours at the table, and I’d take the next two or however many necessary to get the job done. Then we’d crash until it was time to get up and head for the studio. Getting a full eight hours of sleep in those days wasn’t a priority (or a possibility).
An experienced builder, Jim knew exactly where we could find the right materials for the puppets. Jo-Ann Fabrics had served me well, but New York’s fabric district offered a mind-boggling selection of choices. We had generous network budgets for purchasing puppet-building materials, and Jim eliminated a lot of my confusion by steering me to the right suppliers every time. Jim became a close friend, and when my daughter was born I asked him to be her godfather.
Interestingly, though the quality (and expense) of the materials I was using was much higher, the puppets we made and that I saw on the sets of all the shows still worked and moved in the same simple fashion that puppeteers had been practicing forever. Yes, this was the big time, but the simple, classic puppetry skills I’d learned as a youngster and refined as I grew older were proving to be a perfect