Comedy Girl
Ellen Schreiber
Comedy Girl
Ellen Schreiber
To my grandpa, Aaron Schreiber,
who always made me laugh, and to my uncle,
Barry Schreiber, for having a sense of humor
when we needed it most.
Contents
Epigraph
Opening
Heeeere’s…Trixie!
Reality
Love and Laughter
My Worst Nightmare
Comedy and Tragedy
Broken Dreams
Open Mike
Smiley-Face Watch
Are You Talking to Me?
Featuring
Starbaby
Diva Documentary
Live from Chaplin’s
Rising Star
Father Knows Best
Special Guest
The Invitation
Headlining
Viva Las Vegas
Bush Girls
Sex, Drugs, and Comedy
The Douglas Douglas Show
La La Land
Standing Room Only
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Comedy Is Not Pretty!
—STEVE MARTIN
OPENING
HEEEERE’S…TRIXIE!
“I loathe high school. I’m unbearably shy—afraid to speak up in class. I’m not the class clown—I’m the class mime!”
I smiled from ear to ear as the audience burst into laughter. I felt an enormous rush from the packed house. Though I was onstage alone, I found comfort in my best friends: a cordless microphone, a stool, and a glass of water.
Anything could happen in comedy. The audience might not laugh, they might heckle me, they might walk out. But despite those grim possibilites, I felt unbelievably euphoric and alive.
“It’s great to be here in Chicago—at Chaplin’s, where I got my start. I go to a totally huge high school in the suburbs. It’s so big, by the time I get to History class a new president is in office!”
I smiled as they laughed again. “My best friend, Jazzy, is a shopaholic. Always ready for the latest bargain. I walk through the school lunch line with a tray. She walks through with a grocery cart.” After the laughter subsided, I continued: “She’s the only student at Mason High who buys lunch with a credit card.”
I took a sip of water and replaced the glass on the stool.
“I call my mom Sergeant because it’s nicer than calling her Dictator. She keeps tabs on me wherever I go, like I was one of her third-grade students. While I was on the road doing comedy, she won the gold medal in the Olympics. She took first place in Women’s Long Distance Calling!”
I kept my pace going. “My dad hasn’t moved from the couch for years. While other fathers collect stamps, my father collects dust.
“I also have a drugged-out older brother, Sid. We used to wrestle and box when we were little. Now the only hits he takes are from a bong.
“As for my love life, I’m hoping to marry my major crush—Gavin Baldwin. I have something borrowed and something blue. I just need one more thing—the groom!”
The audience laughed again. I felt an electric connection. I was in the one place in the world where I belonged.
“The weather in Chicago—,” I continued.
“Trixie, it’s time for supper!” my mother called.
I looked at my seventeen-year-old reflection, then reluctantly turned away from the mirror and my audience of adoring, wide-eyed stuffed animals lined in rows on my dresser. I switched off my tape-recorded laugh track, threw my round hairbrush microphone down on my white fluffy bedspread, and stepped out of my bedroom—back into reality.
REALITY
Reality was an ordinary lavender bedroom in an ordinary redbrick home at 1414 Chandler Street in tree-lined Amber Hills, an ordinary suburb in north Chicago. But on occasion it magically turned into a Beverly Hills mansion with a glistening star-shaped pool, home to the hottest celebrity parties—all through the technology of my vivid imagination. I invited Robin Williams, Bill Cosby, Billy Crystal, Garry Shandling, Roseanne, and a thousand other actors and comedians. One night I would be accepting a Commie from Ben Stiller for my starring performance in “T” Is for Trixie; another night I would be interviewing Whoopi Goldberg on the Trixie Shapiro Show.
Outside my bedroom I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t a cheerleader; I wasn’t a nerd. I wasn’t a Prudy Judy, or a druggie girl. I wasn’t a loner, or a Ski Club member. I had no label to cling to. I was just Trixie Shapiro—a girl trying to find her place in the world.
I had grown up on Monty Python and had gotten high on Richard Lewis. While my older brother experimented with pot, I experimented with impressions. Sid’s bookshelves were lined with Stephen King, mine with Ellen, Lily Tomlin, Rita Rudner, Jon Stewart, and Jelly Bean. Sid blasted Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Bush on his supercolossal, gazillion CD changer, while I quietly listened to Redd Foxx, Lenny Bruce, and Richard Pryor on Sarge’s old stereo. Sid’s bedroom walls were covered with posters of malnourished supermodels, while my walls were graced with the portraits of talented comediennes.
One night I was performing stand-up on the Douglas Douglas Show, the next headlining a Showtime special, and the next collecting my prize money for Outstanding Comic on Celebrity Search. Though I was small, I had large dreams. And like many of the comedians I idolized, I was painfully shy. My stage was my bedroom. My only audience was a bunch of stuffed animals.
Just as a girl remembers her first kiss or a boy remembers his first home run, I remember my first laugh.
Before I began performing alone in front of my mirror, Sid decided I should perform vaudeville acts with him in our living room for my first paying house—Sergeant, Dad, and Aunt Sylvia. For fifty cents a head they watched as I, complete with fake arrow through my head, cowered behind Sid while he performed silly skits in a blond wig and lady’s sunglasses.
He and I had spent hours making programs out of construction paper for our debut performance. We pasted our elementary-school photos above hand-printed bios. Sid had starred in the Broadway production of Scooby-Doo, while I had just completed Curious George Goes to the Catskills.
One time, after our tireless rendition of “Old MacDonald,” Sid struggled with his costumes behind our black leather couch—our official changing area.
“Get out there, shrimp!” he ordered me. And with a shove he pushed me out from behind the safety of the couch.
I stood alone in the middle of the living room.
Now I was the center of attention—not my older doofus brother. I, alone, was expected to entertain the audience. All eyes were on me. I stared back at my family. I was embarrassed, anxious, self-conscious. Too frightened to run, speak, or faint.
The fear of what to do, what to say, was compounded by my familiarity with my audience. What if I disappointed them?
“Say something, stupid!” Sid commanded from behind the sofa as he hurried to change into his cape. “Tell a joke!”
I only knew one joke, a silly child’s joke I had created that morning in the bathtub.
My mouth was dry. I took a deep breath.
“What is Bullwinkle’s favorite ice-cream flavor?” I mumbled.
“I dunno!” they answered in unison. “What is Bullwinkle’s favorite ice-cream flavor?”
“Chocolate and vanilla squirrel!” I shouted.
It was my very first punch line.
And then it happened. My family laughed a huge laugh—I even heard Sid cackling from behind the couch. The laugh hit me like a bolt of lightning.
For that moment I wasn’t Sid’s pesky little sister, a messy kid spilling Kool-Aid on Mom’s clean floor, or a dau
ghter whining as her dad desperately tried to watch ESPN.
That laugh was like a huge hug. It was life wrapping its arms around me and squeezing me.
Then it ended. Sid jumped over the couch in a magician’s cape, reclaiming the spotlight. I was immediately thrust back into my little sister role, assisting the Amazing Sidney—by disappearing!
I dreamed of reaching my comedy high again. But I couldn’t push myself out from behind the couch. It would be years before I would be taking center stage again.
I went back to cowering behind Sid, but I never forgot the rush I felt from that first laugh.
Sid and I grew up not with a single imaginary friend, but many. We had a whole imaginary school system—some had to be bussed in from other parts of Illinois!
Eventually Sid began playing football with unimaginary boys and I made real, unimaginative friends.
Since I was the smallest Shapiro at home and the shortest kid in my classes, I used humor to get myself out of awkward situations. For example, class picture day in the second grade, I was afraid of sticking out in the front row. So naturally I was cowering in the back row with my taller friends.
“Girl with the reddish hair,” the photographer said, staring straight at me. “Will you please stand up?”
“But I am standing!” I joked.
The whole class laughed, including the photographer. I even got a high five from the best kickball player in class.
I felt a surge of euphoria. I had to leave the company of my taller friends and march around the entire class to the first-row chairs. Instead of being embarrassed about my lack of height, I felt empowered by my sudden acceptance. Now I was the one in control and the center of attention. And I liked it.
I had a huge desire to be famous. To be best friends with the Glam Girls and recognized and adored by the hunky boys. As I continued through elementary and middle schools, I envied the popular, more outgoing girls. I wondered how, at eleven, some girls were developing breasts while I was developing material.
But all I could do was continue to write, perform my act in my bedroom, and dream.
Sarge spent forty hours a week bossing third-graders around at Harrison Primary School and then spent the rest of the time bossing her family around. Even in my dreams, the woman was straightening my room!
Dad was an accountant. When he wasn’t crunching numbers he was munching peanuts in front of the TV.
Sid rebelled against the Shapiro Establishment by secluding himself in his black-lit bedroom with twelve kinds of incense seeping through the keyhole. Finally he went off to college, leaving me to face high school from behind the couch—alone.
At Mason High freshmen were thrown into the bushes behind the baseball field, were made to act as servants and carry seniors’ textbooks, and force-fed Spam in the cafeteria. But hazing was also a road to friendship, and I made a best friend when Jazzy and I were literally thrown together by a gang of upperclassmen.
“Did you get any thorns?” a tall bleached-blond girl asked with concern. She offered me her hand, as I struggled to escape the prickly bush that had snagged my sweater. I stumbled out with her generous help.
“No…not this time,” I said, pulling pricklies out of my sweater. She ignored the twigs entangled in her own hair.
“I thought they only did this once to freshmen, like an initiation,” she said.
“Are you kidding? I have my own special bush. It’s smaller than the others.”
Her concern turned to a smile and she laughed.
“But it’s okay. I rent it out on the weekends to the preschool,” I teased.
She laughed again. “You crack me up. My name’s Jazlyn, but ‘bush girls’ call me Jazzy.”
“My name’s Trixie. I don’t like to use the name people call me.”
“And what do people call you?”
“Shrimp.”
“You’re a hoot,” she replied, towering over me. She put her arm on my shoulder and looked up at the looming high school. “Let’s stick together. With my height and your attitude—you may be tiny now, but some day, girl, you’ll be huge! And I don’t mean dress size!”
The popular kids at Mason were the ultrarich—those who lived in mansions with two staircases and drove their parents’ BMWs. I lived in a redbrick home in Amber Hills with only one staircase, and I took public transportation. Needless to say, it wasn’t good enough to get me into popular parties.
In grade school I hid behind Sid. Now in high school I hid behind Jazzy. We both shared the same middle-class status, but differed in our personalities. Jazzy knew all the teachers on a first-name basis. The teachers didn’t even know I was enrolled! Jazzy was model tall and I was kindergarten small. She was a bottle blonde, while my hair looked like an orange peel. But we were inseparable. When we weren’t gazing at boys, we were telling jokes in our bedrooms and giggling until our stomachs felt like they would explode.
It was autumn, senior year, and Jazzy and I met for study hall in the auditorium. The auditorium was preferable to the cafeteria, which always smelled of burned hamburger. But the auditorium had its own distractions. The naked stage stole my attention. The faded red curtains looked like they had been hanging since the days of Shakespeare. The unvarnished wooden stage appeared huge, empty, and lonely, coming to life only when off-key teenagers pranced around its loosened boards.
“Talent Night is next week,” Jazzy whispered, following my gaze. “We’ll be up there soon.”
I hated the thought of Mr. Janson’s Senior Talent Night. It was our biggest assignment in Drama class, our final exam for the first quarter: prepare a solo piece to be performed in front of the entire school. No mirrors, no stuffed animals—not even Sid to hide behind.
“Are you nervous?” Jazzy asked.
The thought of actually standing on that stage and reciting Tennessee Williams or singing “Memory” shot bullets of fear throughout my body. “Unfortunately I won’t be able to make it because I’ve joined the Peace Corps. I’ll be digging wells in South America!”
“I’m going to tap-dance to Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin,’” said Jazzy.
“I don’t think that’s a tap number.”
“That’s why it’ll be funny. Okay, I know it’s stupid! I know I’m not a comedian,” she said, and buried her head in her algebra book.
My eyes remained glued to the empty stage, wishing I was one.
The spotlight was shining down on me, the heat from its powerful rays warming my body. Everyone was applauding—Sergeant, Dad, Sid, my classmates and teachers. Gavin was standing in the front row. As I took a final bow, he tossed me a bouquet of roses.
“Look, your leading man has arrived!” Jazzy said, nudging me with a sharp elbow.
If I could go out with one guy in the whole school, in the whole world, it would be Gavin Baldwin. He’s made my heart throb out of my chest for years. His wild jet-black hair begs to be touched. He has dreamy deep baby-blue eyes and a smile that ignites fire in my soul. He wears a gold thumb ring and dresses in traditional hipster black. Coolness oozes from his skin.
At 10:55 A.M. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he slithered in sexiness as he walked to American History class. My favorite time of the day, the time when I could pass his groovy self in the corridor on my way to Algebra 2. And if I was lucky, I could gently brush up against him.
The wonderful thing about Gavin, and why I loved him more than a front-row seat to Chris Rock, was that he did something the other coolheads didn’t do when they glanced in my direction—he smiled. This miracle had happened seven times. The first time occurred when he was parking his blue Volvo and Jazzy pulled in next to him. He smiled at me three times when we passed in the hallway at 10:55, twice as we waited in line for turkey and gravy in the cafeteria, and once when I was on my way to the bathroom and he was waiting for the water fountain. Gavin’s deep blue, dreamy eyes pierced straight through me and his soft lips glowed like a marquee that read: KISS ME! For those seven moments we connected.
But today Gavin walked by me without making eye contact. Suddenly a female skeleton with hair caught up with him and the giggling couple plopped down in the fifth row. Gavin snuggled close to his anorexic supermodel girlfriend—his tragic flaw. Spiral binders and a hard wooden armrest were the only barriers between them.
“If he only knew his true love was over here, sitting next to me,” Jazzy said supportively, “he’d give Stinkface Travers das boot!”
“I can’t compete with her. She’s magazine glam and spends all her time getting waxed! She was left back in kindergarten, which means she has an extra year’s growth in the boob department.”
“Get out!” Jazzy laughed.
“She’s so big,” I teased, “her bra should be on display at Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum!”
Jazzy laughed again. “No, she’s just got a daddy who’s a plastic surgeon,” she comforted me.
“Her body’s so perfect, she got an A in Anatomy—without taking the class,” I continued, on a roll.
Jazzy and I giggled. “Quiet down over there,” Mr. Barker scolded.
I wouldn’t have been able to survive this kind of trauma without a true-blue friend like Jazlyn Peters.
LOVE AND LAUGHTER
Before that first smile from Gavin in the school parking lot, I’d had a comical series of “drive-thru” relationships with the opposite sex. The first was Mickey Collins in preschool. I, the patient, was lying on my back on the floor in my red Healthtex dress, and Mickey, the doctor, was kneeling over me with a long wooden spoon. Fortunately Miss Burke discovered us before any diagnosis was made.
