His Master's Voice - Part 1

His Master's Voice

Part 1

by Harry Buschman

Shelley flung open the door of the tiny dressing room he shared with the mind reader and slammed it behind him violently. He threw Woody on top of his small steamer trunk, sat down at the make-up table and put his head in his hands. In the bottom drawer on the left hand side was a bottle of bourbon. He was about to pull it out, but instead he turned to look at Woody's reflection in the mirror.

"You little bastard!" He muttered, "You little Irish son-of-a-bitch!" The dummy lay in an awkward heap on the trunk, and his normally bright and brassy smile seemed to mock Shelley. Without moving his lips Woody repeated the words aloud.

Woody McArthur, the leprechaun, bright green jacket, tan knickers, and green felt cap with tan hat band. Smoke still trickled through his parted lips from the dry ice implant in his throat and the clay pipe was still held high in his hand. Shelley was dressed as a Jewish pawnbroker in a black silk jacket and yarmulke. The act was dry as dust––an Irishman wanting to buy the harp hanging in the pawnbroker's window.

"You just wait y'goddamn dummy! Sammy's gonna be in here any minute and you're gonna get us put out in the street again." They had a decent gig at last in a great night spot on the North Shore, and what happens? Woody opened his big fat mouth again! Shelley blamed everything on Woody. Woody had a mind of his own and a voice to go along with it. It wasn't even Shelley's voice and what the dummy had to say tonight was going to get them both thrown out in the street again.

Shelley had to pass the blame along. He knew he would get the blame when Woody sat on his knee and in that hoarse Irish whiskey tenor of his that carried all the way to the back of the room announced that the bartender was HIV Positive. “Some things just ain't funny, Woody.”

Without knocking Sammy Kahn burst in trailing a curl of cigar smoke. He stopped abruptly in front of Shelley Lewis, and as he did, the smoke caught up and slowly wrapped itself around him.

"You outta your friggin’ mind or what?"

Shelley slowly rocked back and forth in pain. "I know, I know Sammy. But it ain't my fault, I swear it ain't my fault."

"Are you the ventriloquist or what? Twice this week already. Once I forgive––twice your out. In your case I got to give another shot. Don't ask me why––go ahead ask me why."

"You're my brother-in-law?"

"I oughta have my head examined, that's why!"

"He does it himself, Sammy, I'd never say a thing like that."

Sammy Kahn walked across the room and lifted the dummy from the top of the dressing trunk. He held Woody in front of him by the shoulders and stared at the absurdly grinning face. He turned to Shelley and said, "Maybe y'gonna tell me it's got a thing against Jewish ventriloquists."

"I been livin' with him a long time, Sammy. Him and me's done a lotta places––I think he's got somethin' alive inside him."

"Y'know Shelley, maybe you ain't happy in the entertainment business no more. You been in it, what, twenty five years? You can count on the fingers of one hand the guys who lasted half that long. Y'ain't no Peggy Lee you know. Maybe it's time you get out. Got any money saved up?"

"Three wives, Sammy––how can I have money? And besides, it's all I know Sammy. I got this routine down with Woody so good I can do it in my sleep. It's paid us off ain't it?"

"So far, Shelley, 'til now. But when I get ten percent of nothing I get ten percent of nothing, and you get ninety percent of the rest. The owner wants you out, plain and simple. The first night you introduced the president of Altec sitting in the corner, didn't you?"

"He did it! That little bastard Woody––he did it!"

"The guy was sittin' there with this blonde broad wasn't he? ... Answer me, dammit––wasn't he?"

Shelley turned back to the mirror. Through it he could see Sammy standing behind him holding Woody like a rag doll.

"You know the rules Shelley. Y'never, never do that without askin' first. Nine times outta ten a guys' in there with a broad who ain't his wife. He disappeared like a shot––threatened to sue us for character assassination. He can prove he wasn't there y'know, and you can't prove he was." Sammy threw the dummy down and backed away. "The second night you pulled this Hitler shit––all the good things he did!! What, are you crazy?! Half the crowd walked out, the rest of them booed you off the stage."

Sammy looked at Shelley, sighed and shook his head. "I gotta wife, Shelley .... a kid in Columbia and another one graduating from high school next year. Y'lucky my wife's your sister, otherwise I'd write you off. She won't let me do that, y'know?" He fished an envelop out of his pocket. "Look, there's a club up in Binghamton, New York––the Paradise Hotel. On the first floor there's a cafe, the Cotillion Room. Y'gotta do your act on a dance floor between band sets." He handed Shelley a letter. "Get up there's best as you can––I ain't stakin' you. The guy y'gotta see is Charoni. Y'got a week's pay comin' from this gig," He picked up Woody again, looked at him closely then tossed him to Shelley, "Here," He said, "This loser leprechaun is yours. Woody McArthur––Jesus!" Sammy clipped the end off a fresh cigar, dropped the clipping on the floor and walked out.

Shelley sat Woody on his lap and ran his hand up inside the back of his coat. "So what's it gonna be, y’little Irish bastard? Binghamton .... or shall I pitch you in the dumpster outside?"

"You don't wanna do that," Woody shot back. "I'm worth eight hundred bucks, I gotta 360 degree revolving head, I got double winkers and wigglin' ears. Then you went and blew 400 bucks more on this dry ice gimmick. On toppa that I got a soul. You ain't throwin' my soul in the dumpster. You don't like Binghamton? What'sa matter with Binghamton?"

"It's downhill––end of the linesville."

Woody looked at Shelley sideways. "Don't matter to me none––I got no pride. I gotta soul, but I ain't got no pride. I don't get hungry, don't get tired––never need a woman neither. Gotta admit though, I sure get a kick outta screwin' you."

Shelley pulled himself together, stuffed Woody in the little steamer trunk and put his own costume in his old leather valise then looked at his reflection in the mirror. He shook his head at his own tired figure in the old black coat and slouch fedora. "Christ, will you look at Shelley Lewis––you couldn't tell him from Willy Loman." A muffled voice came from the steamer trunk, "Suck it up, Shelley, let's get the money and go."

He opened the door to a burst of applause and the mind reader walked in flushed with victory.

"What an audience! Four curtain calls, Lewis. I think I'll stay here forever. How did you do?"

"Go fuck yourself." Shelley pushed him aside and went to find the owner.