Dawn, of Mankind

Years ago my friend was making an independent film-- a deft comedy romp starring some up and coming comics and their friends. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, anything at all. My early career in indy film and cable TV production had made me well versed in sound recording and Costo runs and I knew he was doing this on a shoestring.
"Well, there is one thing," my friend, Harry, the director, said.
"You got it. Name it," I said, gamely.
"I need someone to play a stripper and no one will do it." he said.
Harry was a well known yuckster and pretty pervy in his own way and I thought for sure he was kidding.
"I'm not kidding," he said.
“Oh.”
I thought a moment then said, "Let me talk it over with my husband."

Who was I kidding; my husband was thrilled. I told Harry I would do it but only if I was made up beyond recognition; wigs, prosthetics, the whole nine yards. And I would only strip down to a bathing suit. (I had some dignity, however scant.)

I showed up on set somewhere in Queens or Brooklyn at an ungodly hour.
"Morning!" I chirped.
"Yeah," Harry grumbled. The set was already abuzz; coffee cups, cables and crew everywhere.
"So, what do you need?" I asked, helpfully, as if I were showing up to do lawn chores. What a girl scout. I was no doubt trying to assuage my guilt for playing an agent of desire in the carnal commercial industry. A strippa.
Harry said, "You'll be dancing to this," and he handed me a CD. It read, 2001 A Space Odyssey.
I looked at him quizzically, "You want me to strip to the theme from 2001 Space Odyssey?"
"Yes," he smirked.
I was confused, but then I perked up, "The disco version, right?"
"No, the Richard Strauss version," he smiled, "It's funnier."
"The one with horns and timpani drums?" I said with my eyebrows.
"That’s the one."
He was right. It was funnier. Harry pointed, "In that door is a gym where they'll get you into hair and make-up. There's also a boom-box and some room to choreograph your routine."
"Choreograph my routine?" my eyebrows continued.
"You're gonna have to do it like twenty times and it's gonna have to be the same every time for continuity right?" Right again.
"OK," I said, "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said before walking away, "be funny."

Okey-dokey. Be a funny stripper. No dialogue, just dancing. Because if there's one thing that's hilariously knee-slappingly funny, it's a stripper.
I crossed the cruddy linoleum gymnasium floor to the corner of the room and plugged the boom box in behind a stack of metal folding chairs. Immediately, all my years of dancing in high school musicals came flooding back to me. I figured my character must be third rate, which means her junior high school musical, circa 1980, is probably the last time she "trained." So, grape vine, kick-ball-change, glissade and pas de bourree, they all went into my routine. I played the song over and over and each time added a few more steps. Flashdance came to mind so I included the running-in-place-in-a-circle bit while gliding my hands up and down my thighs. I also included the infamous shimmy from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, a cartwheel, and ended with the dying swan move from Swan Lake. It was the worst made up dance routine I could imagine and hopefully, funny. I worked on it for four and a half hours, committed it to memory, and then headed off to wardrobe.

Sitting in the make-up chair I couldn't help but think that Harry was pretty damn lucky that I had said yes. How many of his friends were dance minors in college and could fit into Amy Poehler's silver lamé bikini? Precious few. They put me in a Cleopatra wig; dark, wet lipstick; and heavy blue eye shadow. Amy, who had a legit role in the film, was sitting in the make-up chair next to me. I mentioned to her that I was wearing her silver lamé bikini from The Upright Citizens Brigade TV show and she nodded and smiled. She didn't say much-- kept her cards pretty close to her chest-- so I decided to do that, too.
They stuffed my bikini top to a full C cup and then put me in Amy's fishbowl helmet, white puffy zip-up suit and moon boots, because if you're a lushy perv in a dank, dark strip club, you're going to need a little visual aid to drive the point home. I was an astronaut, dammit, not some derivative or homage, but the real deal. I went back to my corner of the gym and muddled through the entire routine again in costume. The boots held me back a bit, I had to admit, but the rest seemed to really hum. I was clearly starting to take my role very seriously.

Two hours later, it was show time. I was led onto the “bar” set where the usual motley crew of hardened film industry carnies and disillusioned extras stood waiting for me to get into position. Harry asked if I was ready and then cued the dry ice. All I had to do was to walk out onto the tiny stage, strip out of an astronaut suit in front of a room full of strangers and dance my lousy routine badly without messing up or laughing, over and over and over again.
A weary male voice with a Long Island accent introduced me, “And now, Dawn of Mankind.” I shuffled out slowly, a tarted-up, zombie-like cosmonaut, from behind a smoky haze. As the horn music swelled with that first painstaking note, I removed my large, round, glass helmet; flicked off my heavy, Kevlar gloves; and started to dance. The arms of the space suit were attached at the shoulders with Velcro so that when I swung them into a Y, then stopped them abruptly, the sleeves flew off and up into the ether. Then I unzipped the suit and twirled it over my head a few times like Annie Oakley before tossing it into the crowd. I was in the zone. The rest of my dance fell seamlessly into place as Richard Strauss' hit crescendoed to an electrifying conclusion with me, in bikini, wig, and moon boots, fluttering on the floor as the dying swan-- timpani drums beating wildly. Bravo!

I did it again and again until I became sweaty and finally they told me I was done. Cameras, cables and coffee cups shifted as I gathered my stuff-- I had no handlers-- and headed for the door. Harry called me over to say thanks and good job. Then he told me it was funny.
"Really?" I said, looking longingly for a pat.
"Yeah," he said, already thinking about the next scene. But he was genuine and I glanced over at the DP, his assistant, and the camera loader and they all nodded, grunted and half-smiled. The cameraman even said, out loud right to my face, "You were very funny,” and I just about fell over. When the cameraman says you're funny, you've really accomplished something. I beamed.
I washed my face and returned everything to wardrobe, even the moon boots. Amy Poehler told me that I was funny then tootled off. I poked my head in to say goodbye to Harry and he sneaked out to give me a proper farewell. I thanked him for the good time and he thanked me for saving his ass. “Damn right I did,” I said. Then he told me that if I wanted to get paid, I should talk to that guy over there. Paid? Heck, yeah, I'll get paid! So he kissed me on the cheek, I wished him good luck and took off, musing over what I might buy with my unexpected windfall. A few weeks later I got a check in the mail for forty bucks.

The film enjoyed a nice run at a smattering of art theaters and college campuses but never got the wide screen release Harry was hoping for. All that hard work, however, was not in vain. Currently, the movie is enjoying a pleasant second wind as early morning programming on a comedy cable television channel. I sleep in soundly, knowing that I did my part for the cinematic arts and funny strippers everywhere and my friends, as they slurp their morning coffee, can glimpse my pale, half-nekkid body flailing around in the background during a scene of dialogue between the two main characters, who, by the way, are not paying an ounce of attention to the ridiculous astronaut dancing really poorly on the tiny stage behind them.

Drive-Thru

I keep writing new pieces then spend weeks revising them then send them off to publishing concerns which prohibits me from posting them here. And so you think I've died.

Well, close. But not quite. I wish I'd died, most days, but not the permanent kind, more of the Walt-Disney-cryogenic semi-permanent kind. I envision me and my son going to sleep and waking up a year from now in our wonderful, cozy home with pancake batter already mixed and fresh flowers on the breakfast nook table, all of our problems seamlessly worked out, a new rhythm to our life together, hope lingering in the air all around us like pixie dust. All I need to do is wipe the kiwi-sized sleepies out of my eyes, heat the griddle and put on some lovely, soothing, morning music. Sounds divine. Unrealistic to be sure, but heavenly.

Speaking of heaven and death. Did you know that there are drive-thru funeral parlors in the good 'ole USA? You follow the arrows, slowly driving around the building, like at a bank or Burger King, and stop at the podium next to your car door, on which lays the guest book and a pen. Just behind the podium there is a low, long rectangular window cut out of the funeral home's basement floor. There, behind the glass, lying in eternal grace, is your dear friend you were too lazy-assed to get out of the car for.

You glance at your friend, or maybe your mother, and decide what to write. Maybe you even turn down the radio or shush your kids in order to better organize your thoughts. You could just sign your name, but they'll know that this is the outdoor guest book on account of the dried rain drops and bird doo on its sun bleached pages, so perhaps a little note is in order. Something sentimental will do nicely.

"Dear Gertie,
Sorry about the piano. I was sure the smoking would kill ya.
Aren't you glad you didn't stop? Ha, ha! I'll miss you at canasta.
Love, Vickie"

or

"Dear Mom,
I'd get out of the car, but I've got the kids with me and whose going to watch them now that you're gone and besides, I knew you wouldn't want them to get caramel corn on your precious casket that could have paid for ballet/jazz and tap lessons, but OK, fine.
Sorry to see you go. I told you not to smoke.
Love ya, miss ya, Vick"

I could go on, but I won't.

Sometime I'll tell you about the place out west where you can have your loved one's ashes shot into space where they'll orbit Earth for 64 million years. Now that's death. Eternal life ain't got nuthin' on that.