1)
There was a flaccid silence and the people that had been shuffling nervously and uncomfortably in their seats were now actively vacating them.
Even the spotlight had given up and slowly drifted away from Buddy's prone, hunched body as he tried desperately to search for the next punchline; but it was no good.
It was almost eleven on a wet and sorrowsome night, nearly closing time, and not even Jesus himself could resurrect this performance. Buddy was amazed that after six weeks he was still allowed to come back and perform his routine; and twice a week, at that. It didn't make sense to him, but the ailing nightclub owner helped put it into perspective after the show.
“You suck, kid.” Mr O'Flattery puffed, he epitomised the 'over' personality to Buddy: overweight, over-smoked, over-drank and over-emphasised the wrong words in his limited vocabulary. He was also overdue a cardiac arrest, according to Buddy -hopefully, any day soon! “And I'm being kind here, kid... but business was crap before you got here and you haven't made it any worst!” He cackled at this and Buddy grimaced as the cackle turned into a coughing fit that smelt of cough drops and laryngitis . “In fact,” he continued after getting his breathing under control, “I swear that some people come in just to see how bad you are!” A quick elbow in the ribs forced Buddy to smile at the rapier-like wit. “Do you know what I like best about your act, though kid?”
Buddy really didn't want to know, he was used to the ritualised humiliation aspect of the show, but he hated talking to; he hated being coughed on. It was as if O'Flattery's morbidly obese body had a gravitational field of its own, sucking everything closer to his inevitability, even hope. O'Flattery continued, not caring whether Buddy wanted to know or not; “You manage to clear the house every time you're on! Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a hard time getting rid of the drunks; but the nights that you're on they just get up and leave!”
Well, at least Buddy was providing some service, maybe he could be used as a form of crowd control, a type of dispersal device. Give him a wireless microphone and he'd move any crowd, dispel any riot just with the sound of his own voice!
Typically it was raining on his way back home, but he didn't mind it; the puddles reflected back the street lights and made the town seem glitzy and not such a shit-tip. Darkness and rain hid a lot of sins.
He wondered why he kept going back to the club, he was almost on a decent enough wage at the supermarket, and though he wasn't exactly respected he was likef by some...almost. The club didn't pay that well, either, and O'Flattery treated him worse than the toilet attendant; but he was up on stage, doing something he'd always dreamed of!
Ever since he was a child and watched Jasper Carrott on stage he knew what he wanted to do. It took years to hone his material, he read countless joke books and learnt his routine; but everyone he auditioned for slammed the door in his face even before the first punchline -he was that bad.
He tried O'Flattery as a last resort -the last club on his list. During the audition Buddy was so nervous -it being his last chance- and everything that could have gone wrong did so. He tripped and fell walking to the mike, spilt water on himself, fluffed every joke and nearly strangled himself on the microphone cable.
O'Flattery, thinking this was all part of the act, applauded and cried with laughter, hiring him on the spot.
Opening night, however, came as quite a shock to him. O'Flattery had told all his friends about this sensational new comedian, “Buddy Parsnip” (no one ever got the pun) and when Buddy walked on to tell his first joke it became obvious that there was no act the previous night... People stuck around for the first few jokes before realising that something was very much amiss. O'Flattery was furious, demanding to know what Buddy was playing at -what had happened to the amazing routine from the audition? It kinda went downhill from there.
Buddy did try to replicate the mistakes from the audition but actually made things worse. By that time O'Flattery had discovered Buddy's knack of emptying the club and decided on putting him last on the bill.
Buddy was almost home and he had been stealing himself for the onslaught, as he did every night. If he thought that his audiences were bad... he put the keys in the lock and fumbled it.. damn!
“BUDDY!” Came the ear-splitting retort. “Whattimedoyoucallthis? “Younevertellmewhereyou'regoing or whenyou'llbeback... don'tyoucareaboutme? Don't you care?” She never drew breath.
“Mum, for Christ's sake, I'm a 36 year old.. I can take care of myself.” He still hadn't managed to get in the door yet; even though she was in the next room he felt her voice as a concussive force.
“Youcantakecareofyourself but youdon'ttakecareofme! WhatdidIdotodeservesuchason?”
Buddy finally shut the door and sighed -here we go again...
“Mum! I do look after you, well.. I would do if you let me. I pay more than enough rent and I try to take you out to dinner... out for walks.” Here it comes... 3..2..1... deep breath.
“Idon'twanttogooutsidewhereallthepeopleare, youneverknowwherethey'vebeen! They'retoonosey, inconsiderate.. youshouldstaywithme, wecouldwatchtelevision.”
“Sigh... we could order take-away.” He said it without thinking and instantly regretted it.
“Whowantstoeatotherpeoplesgreasyfood? Youdon'twherethey'vebeen, whetherthey've washedtheirhands! I can cook...”
“Mum – I'm tired, I'm going to bed.” He finally said.
“Whydon'tyoutellmewhereyougotoatnight? Isthereawoman? Oh,pleaselettherebeawoman!”
“Don't worry, mum -I'm fine!”
“Isthereawomanthen?” She brayed, hopefully. He had his foot on the bottom stair now and was ready to sprint up at the first opportunity. Timing was everything -just like comedy.
“NO! There's no woman!”
“Areyouashamedofme? Isthatwhyyoudon'tbringherback?”
“There's no woman, but yes -I am ashamed of you.” Silence... Now was his chance. He bounded up the steps with vigour, two at a time before she got her second wind.
2)
Every night he honed his material; every damned night and that somehow made it worse. He had no audience; he practised in the attic silently, in case his mother heard. He was embarrassed by his lack of success and he lied to her constantly. He was always working overtime and by this rate he should be one of the richest men in the world due to the amount of hours he had supposedly clocked up. Maybe it would have been better if he had been working overtime. He'd certainly be better off.
Of course, his mother suspected something, but that was fine. She was fast becoming senile and would never be able to piece it all together.
“Why is a martyr like the Grateful Dead? They're both stoned.” The jokes were getting better... or were they?
Two nights later, his jokes as good as they were ever going to get and he walked out to the packed house of six people! Well, it was still early, only 9.30. By 10pm there may even be eleven!
“Manic depressives make the best pilots! Why? They're already flying solo.”
Ok – that was a poor punchline. The thing was, he had seriously studied the greats: Jasper Carrott, Roger DeCoursey, The Grumbleweeds; but he couldn't match their styles.. their delivery: they were geniuses!
“I used to have a drinking problem... I tried drinking gasses instead of liquids!” That at least got a grunt of recognition.. or was it flatulence?
Then the unthinkable happened.
The club lights burst on and, like the trumpets of the apocalypse.. HER voice!
“BUDDY! Whatareyoudoinghere? I wassickwithworry. Ithoughtyouweredeadinaditch somewhere! Orinahospitalsomwhere... or withawoman. Iwashopingitwaswithawoman...”
“Mum... wha... What are you doing here?” He whined, forgetting where he was.
People were now paying rapt attention -this was a turn up for the books, real conflict! The bar staff were hypnotised and people were even coming on from the street to find out what the commotion was -she was that loud.
“WhatdoyouthinkI'mdoinghere? Ifollowedyou! Whyareyoumaking suchaschmuckoutof yourself? Whycouldn'tyouhavebeenwithawoman? Evenawhore... or a man? Amanwouldhavebeenbetterthanthis!”
Buddy knew what death felt like and what it meant to want to murder someone. He felt all eyes on him for the first time in his career.
“Drummers make the worst cryptologists? Always crashing their cymbals?” He went for broke.
“Whycouldn'tithavebeenawoman?”
Now that made the audience laugh... and loudly. Buddy felt himself ooze off the stage, just wanting to disappear down one of the cracks that hairlined the stage.
His career was over.
That night he went home in tow, trapped in his mothers dense tractor beam like an errant schoolboy. Buddy was figuring out how much time he would have to serve if he murdered her. He could probably put it down to justifiable homicide.
Past midnight he'd run out of scenario's -garrotte (no, her neck was far too thick), falling down the stairs (nope, she'd bounce), freak pruning accident, swallowing powdered glass (nah, her cooking was far worse).
What made his humiliation worse was how the audience had suddenly sat up and paid attention for the first time! They loved her, lapped up the conflict. He made the perfect foil, her the perfect natural antagonist -it was so unfair. As unsavorary as it sounded they made a perfect double act! But she would never agree to be a stand-up.
But maybe she didn't need to....
The next gig, O'Flattery was buoyant, jubilant and bursting with enthusiasm. “It's a full house, kid! People must have heard of your ball-breaking. They've turned up in droves to see if it happens again. so... will it?” He needled. “Will she? Will she turn up again?”
“She just might.” Buddy replied and winked. O'Flattery was so giddy with excitement he took no notice of the battered suitcase Buddy carried.
On stage, his normal routine bombed. It was the Nagasaki of bad nights and Buddy could tell that O'Flattery was close to turning the lights off -the crowd was out for blood.
Buddy was going to oblige them, the time was just right -let the merriment commence!
“BUDDY!” The voice was like a 12 bore cutting through butter -no one expected it despite it being the only reason they were all there. Buddy's timing was no only spot on, the amplification made it more unexpected.
“Buddy!” The crowd held its collective breath. “Let me out of here this instant!”
Like a Mexican wave, everyone looked at each other. “Let me out of this fucking suitcase!” Suitcase? And that was when they saw it -the suitcase was shuddering as if something was trying to get out of it. (in reality Buddy was rocking it back and forth with his foot, but it made a great illusion) Could he really have his mother in there?
Buddy's face went white. “Oh shit.” he whispered and the audience chuckled knowingly -this was why they were here and it was obvious that they were hooked. What the hell was going to happen next?
“mum...” Buddy stuttered. “Where? How?”
“Get me out of this suitcase and I promise I won't hurt you.” Buddy nodded and did his best to open the case. At this stage it looked as if it was actually fighting him (and the Oscar for best actor goes to....) Finally he managed to pop open the both catches and lifted the lid so the audience could no longer see his face. He breathed deeply, got the hinges into the right position then let the suitcase fall to the floor.
It took the audience seconds to realise what had happened and what was now sitting on Buddy's knee.
It was an almost perfect caricature of his mother in puppet form. Again the club breathed as one.
“Mum!” He elongated the vowel as the audience howled with laughter; Buddy had finally pulled off the impossible. He'd dragged his career back from the brink of disaster!
And to think – he had his mother to thank for that.
And things went brilliantly!
3)
at least... for a while....
4)
Of course, there were still problems -his mother being the harshest critic of them all. Mr O'Flattery was beside himself with joy -which was an impressive feat due to his imposing bulk. His dream was manifesting right in front of him. When the talent scouts and newspaper men buzzed round him he stuck to his guns: “I always had faith in him (I had nothing to lose), I knew he'd go far (with my boot up his arse) and I always knew he was one in a million! (A complete schmuck!)”
It took a while longer to convince his mother... well, it took until his first months wages. To Buddy's surprise Mr O'Flattery had been completely up-front with fleecing him. He'd divided the box-office takings 75/25 -at least to start with; the rationale being that for months O'Flattery had been carrying Buddy.
Even taking that into account, Buddy was still taking home nearly £900 a month! The club was booked every night that he was showing and Mr O'Flattery was even thinking about opening an extra night, which did mean changing the contract. He realised that it was probably best to let things run for a little longer as they were, just in case Buddy ran out of material.
And initially that was something that Buddy was concerned about, but then he realised that he had a lifetimes worth of experience to draw from!
“Buddy – Clean out your room... It's like a rats nest in there!” His left hand would shout at him.
“That's because it IS a rats nest! You won't let me out of the goddamed basement!”
He'd honed his mothers voice to perfection -it shook people on that first night as they actually expected the bulk of his mother to steamroller through the club again. There were some punters who still had nightmares about that and others who'd given up drinking completely!
“Why don't you bring any girls home?” Ok, the puppet didn't look anything like her... but that added to the show -made it more farcical. “Do I embarrass you?”
“Of course you do!” He complained to his hand.
“So I'm doing something right, at least!” The jokes still weren't particularly funny, but they didn't need to be; the material struck a chord with people. The archetype of the overbearing mother was so cliché that it was still funny.
“Are you one of those mono-sexuals?” Bizarrely enough, his mother had actually asked him that one day!
“Well.. only if my right hand counts.” That got a huge laugh and became part of his routine. Each night he tried new material and chucked those that didn't work.
“No... well, are you gay then?”
“Living with you I'm more likely to be suicidal!” Buddy was most impressed with his ability to throw his voice. He had initially sucked at it, but it didn't matter as his exuberance for the material and shock value had hidden it. For once, though, practice had paid off.
His favourite trick was standing in queues -whether in the cinema or in the supermarket and creating virtual arguments with other people. Of course, no one ever realised that he was providing both voices.
And it wasn't long before he found himself a girlfriend.. or rather, she found him. Her name was Pam and his mum took an instant dislike to her.
Pam was called the “cradle snatcher”, “money-grabbing-bitch”, “Thieving Whore” -all to her face; always to her face.
Buddy was in hell -he was beset on both sides. His mum complaining about the money-grabbing-cradle-snatching-whore and the rest of the time it was Pam railing about the hardships she had to endure under his mothers wrath. Buddy just wanted to keep his head down and enjoy the sex... with Pam.
The trouble was, Pam wouldn't shut up. To be fair, neither did his mum, the only saving grace was that his mum had to stop when he went to bed. Unfortunately, Pam didn't have that compunction; talk about coitus interrupt-us.
Course, then he stumbled upon the idea of creating a new character: Sammi! Ok, he lacked originality, but he managed to strike another goldmine and he introduced something that had never been seen before -Puppet sex!
5)
Picture two small, crudely made puppets... humping.
That was the second act now – he'd managed to create a mini soap opera on stage and it was even billed as such on the adverts. “The acting's not the only thing that's wooden.” O'Flattery was overjoyed with his pun-manship. The first act was between Buddy and his 'mum'; the second between him and Sammi, in bed; whilst the third was the most complicated: the three of them together.
At first he'd found it difficult and got confused easily, but the punters found it all the more hilarious.
The second act would open with the sound of wood on wood. The spotlights picked up on the silhouette of two puppets grinding and thrusting. Then came the immortal line, “Buddy?” The inflexion slight, like a barbed hook -you never notice it until it's time to pull it out.
“Whaat?” The answer from Buddy, reserved and measured -a lot riding on the question.
“Why does your mum hate me?”
“She doesn't, sweetie. She just doesn't understand you.” The rhythm was slightly different now.. hesitant, before resuming the intensity. Steam would start wafting out (smoke from a footpump) and people would start to chuckle.
“BuDDY?” The rhythm of the humping would slow down once again and his reply would be terser. This would happen three further times and at the end they would be shouting at each other. The last line would always be 'Buddy's': “Well... I've lost wood.”
Of course, he lost Pam.... but it was worth it. The material was just getting better and better. It was literally writing itself and at every waking moment.
If it wasn't his mother supplying the gold-dust then it was other events; everything had potential. His life was simply a breeding ground for his show, it was all just a rehearsal for the main act.
Actually, all he had was the main act... he had nothing else.
It was all his mum's fault -she had become drunk with fame. She was becoming as much of a celebrity as Buddy was. At first it was a novelty for her and she took it in her stride. Buddy let her have the five minutes of fame. But then she started taking credit for the material -which, in a way, was actually true- whilst running him down as the same time.
“He's always been a good-for-nothing.” She'd say in one interview. “But now he's a famous good-for-nothing!”
“Of course, he couldn't do it without me -I'm the source of all his material; and do I get any credit for it?”
What she never pointed out was how much he had bought for her. She wore the best circus tents in town; ate from the most expensive troughs and now she was biting the hand that wanted to throttle her.
She wouldn't listen to reason either and each night Buddy would rehearse how the next conversation would go -or replay what had happened that night.
He'd read how comedian Lenny Bruce had become obsessed with how he'd been treated by the Law, and his act had suffered because of it: he would just re-enact the court proceedings in minutiae before topping himself.
Well, that wasn't going to happen to Buddy.
He'd planned it meticulously -nothing could go wrong.
6)
The neighbours were already used to the noise from the countless arguments so tonight would be no difference... except for one thing; those were all rehearsals This was the main event.
He'd thought of all the ways to do her in a long time ago and he'd managed to whittle them down to strangulation. He wanted her to know that it was him that did her in; it couldn't be an accident. He wanted her to know why and how much he hated her.
Come the time of the deed, they were having their normal argument, except Buddy wasn't budging this time. He stared into the corner, watching the material blubber, moan and chastise him, counting down until he could take it no longer. She was completely oblivious to what was going on until he slapped her hard across the face.
The slap was enough to shut her up, but when he tried to put his hands round her throat to choke her he found that this was actually impossible! Even with two hands he just could not find purchase, and this gave her enough time to knee him hard in the bollocks, letting out a scream that hurt far more. He scrawled around for something, anything that could finish this quickly before it was too late.
All the knives were too short -they'd never penetrate her bulk, but he had to try. He took the steak knife and plunged; stab, stab, stab, as many times as he could. The scream persisted until it sounded like air escaping a punctured balloon and she collapsed due to the blood loss.
Even then Buddy wasn't spared; he'd misjudged the situation and slipped on the blood streaked floor just as his mother fell on him -the ultimate humiliation.
But worse was to come.
The doorbell, and outside flashing blue lights. Someone had called the police. That scream had been too real. Buddy had to try to bluff his way out of this.
“Hello? What's going on?” He shouted out in his mothers voice.
“Police, madam. Would you please open the door. We've had reports of a domestic disturbance.”
“I'm not dressed to receive.” Buddy shouted back; well, that was, at least, true.
“Don't worry, luv. We just need to make certain that you're ok.” The voice seemed sympathetic and Buddy wondered whether he'd be able to make it seem like an accident. Or even justifiable homicide – she had kneed him in the balls and fallen on him, after all.
“It was my son, he was just rehearsing his show.” Buddy shouted back just as he was interrupted by the inevitable.
“HELP!Hetriedtomurderme!” The voice came from behind him, clinging on to life as she had clung on to her weight.
“See... I told you that I was practising!” Damn-it, he had just replied in his own voice.
“Open up, Sir -otherwise we're going to break down the door.”
This was getting bad now, he couldn't bluff his way out of this one. There was no way out for him, so he had to make the most out of it and treat it like a show.
“Or I'll HUFF and I'll PUFF.” Buddy shouted back just as the police started ramming the door, “And I'll blow the place down!”
He could scarcely believe it was going to end this way, but it couldn't get any worse.
And the way he was seeing it now – it was all material that he could use in future. It would be one helluva comeback!
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