Ham Read Free

meeeeeeee!!!”
    On the musical cutoff, Jason lay spent, pearly goop pooling in his belly button and glistening on his chest, as the audience cheered and applauded from downstairs. I nearly joined them. Show business was fabulous. It was joyous and adventurous and accepting. Heaven and Hell were on earth. Right here.
    I swiftly dressed in my newsboy costume, replaced the thistly crown with an apple cap, and dashed down the stairs in time for my bow.

3. Promises
    Everyone makes mistakes: Leon Lett and the ’93 Super Bowl. Richard Nixon and Watergate. The architect who built the Tower of Pisa. Since I wasn’t a big sports fan, hadn’t met Nixon, and hadn’t traveled to Pisa, the closest thing in my life to a mistake of that magnitude was the marriage of my dear friend Liza to the Man Whose Name Shall Go Unmentioned. I refer to him in that manner because I promised Liza that I would never again utter his first name unless it were in reference to Beckham, Bowie, the Michelangelo statue, or “The Star of . . .”
    Saying his name is not taboo in the same way that mentioning “the Scottish Play” by title is for theater people, who would then have to leave the building, spit, curse, and knock to be let back in. I swore to my friend that if I verbalized his name, I would light myself on fire and commit hari-kari.
    She knows it was a mistake. Everybody knows it was a mistake. The wedding itself was well documented by a hundred publications. But beyond the facts and the scuttlebutt, this event should be acknowledged as one of the greatest shows on earth. I was a witness and a player. I even sang. “Bridge over Troubled Water.” A peculiar choice for a wedding, but it was requested. And prophetic. If only they’d chosen “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” things might have turned out differently.
    Well, not really.
    I was there the day she met him. I was musically supervising her segment on the Michael Jackson: 30th Anniversary Celebration television special at Madison Square Garden, which was being produced by the Man Whose Name Shall Go Unmentioned. I don’t know what put me off first—the fact that he wore sunglasses indoors and at night or his boastful claims of having “the largest Shirley Temple paraphernalia collection in the world”—a feat for which I suspected there was little competition. Bottom line, the guy creeped me out and I told her so. But as the romance budded, my friend begged me to give him a chance.
    On Thanksgiving Day, Liza called to tell me he had proposed the previous evening.
    â€œSchmooli, I really want you to try to get close to him. I know he’s kind of quirky, but I need for you to accept him and try to love him.”
    Liza had suffered from brain encephalitis earlier in the year and I reminded her as such. “You’re still recovering. Is it possible that . . . you’re not yet in your right mind? Literally.”
    â€œOh, who is, Schmool? All I know is he really seems to get me. And he’s funny.”
    â€œFunny?” I asked. “Or . . . funny ?”
    â€œHe’s our kind of funny.”
    I wasn’t sure that answered my question.
    â€œPlease call him now and congratulate him,” she pleaded. “It means everything to me.”
    I did as I was asked and told him that I was “so, so happy” for them, mustering cheer in my voice against the dead eyes he couldn’t see.
    I had to admit that he did dote on her and had big plans. The kind of plans I knew she loved. So against every instinct in my body, I had no choice but to hope I was wrong about him. She seemed happy and that’s all I wanted for her. What any friend wants for a friend.
    A mere seven months after their collision, the who’s who of New York and old Hollywood showbiz were invited to assemble at the Marble Collegiate Church, at Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Ninth Street in Manhattan, for