Curtain Call

by Jack Nimersheim

_(First appeared in "Second Chances" -- Farthest Star Books)_

_Max Fleischer -- America's Funnybone!_

_Max Fleischer -- Belly Laughs by the Billion!_

_Max Fleischer -- The King of Komedy!_

Posters hung everywhere. They covered every wall, dominating the dirty and disheveled room, perfectly complementing the man they touted. Max Fleischer, also dirty and disheveled, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his quivering hand, sat at the small table in the center of the room, staring back at them.

Once upon a time, more years ago than Max Fleischer cared to remember, these same posters graced the lobbies and foyers of some of the finest theaters and performance halls in North America. In that long-ago time, everyone knew Max Fleischer. In fact, most people could recite, word-for-word, at least one of the award-winning routines that made Max Fleischer a household name.

Back in the glory days, when "The King of Komedy" came into an area, it was more than a show. It was an event.

Small cities were transformed into virtual ghost towns. Shops closed, schools shut down, local governments even suspended operations -- and back then, local governments actually worked on behalf of the people they governed -- so that everyone would be free to celebrate the inevitably proclaimed "Max Fleischer Day." He had been presented with enough keys to enough different cities, Max liked to quip, that the Master Lock Company once attempted a hostile takeover of his one- man comedy troupe. (This particular line was one of his favorites; it never failed to get a laugh.)

But the "glory days" ended a long time ago. Since then, Max Fleischer's moment in the sun had been eclipsed by a generation of younger, more current comics.

The audiences today demanded obscenities and decidedly off- colored material. Max could master neither. To be fair, this wasn't entirely his fault. Like Max himself, his comedy was born in a less jaded era, more sympathetic times. Try as he might, and he did, Max failed to see the humor in a deadly AIDS epidemic, or a devastating war, or race riots, or rampant poverty, or any of a dozen other topics contemporary comedians turned to for their most popular material.

Consequently, Max Fleischer had been consigned to that hazy limbo reserved for yesterday's celebrities who could not pass muster in today's world. The only people who remembered classic comics like Max Fleischer were hard-core fans, dedicated trivia buffs, theatrical historians, A.F.T.R.A. pension-fund secretaries and themselves. Mostly themselves -- dry, shriveled up old men with nothing better to do than sit around and stare at dry, shriveled up old posters, lost in an alcoholic haze and dim recollections of when they stood at the top of their trade.

For Max Fleischer, "the top" was a distant memory of a time long past. Here and now were delegated to the bottom. In fact, as Max himself once observed bitterly, he'd passed bottom two cancellations ago. A one-room, third-floor walkup was below the bottom of the bottom, no matter which way the stairs led.

And so, Max sat. He sat and he drank. He sat and he drank and he waited. He waited for that final hook to reach out and pull him off into a big backstage in the sky.

It was a sad and ironic existence for a man who, when he ruled the entertainment world, brought the gift of laughter to millions. Unfortunately, the real world, unlike a Max Fleischer performance, was not always a fun place to be.

As he did almost every day, Max Fleischer had spent the afternoon submersed in a bottle. "Ol' Jack" was the perfect drinking companion for Max. It gave him exactly what he wanted and asked for nothing in return. Okay, so maybe it did demand a small slice of his liver and an ever larger share of his health and sanity. But what the hell did Max care? This seemed such a small price to pay for sweet oblivion.

Max had been sitting across from "Ol' Jack" for hours, staring off into empty space when, suddenly, space itself exploded. The explosion was intensely bright, almost blinding. Strangely, however, no sound accompanied it. Out of this silent explosion stepped a delicate being of incredible beauty. Delicate because of its form. Beautiful by reason of its features.

The creature stood approximately four feet tall. It was so thin that, had it been human, you could have counted the bones in its skeleton -- all 206 of them. But this being clearly wasn't human. Instead of appearing emaciated, its slender physique endowed it with an almost regal elegance. It had alabaster skin, perfectly smooth and totally lacking body hair, which glistened as if covered with a fine, oily mist. Its face, devoid of pigment and displaying not the slightest indication of ethnic characteristics, defined universal beauty.

Max had never before seen anything like this strange yet strangely compelling creature. No surprise there. For nothing like it had ever before set foot -- an anatomical feature Max's eerie visitor did share with its human host -- upon the Earth.

"Greetings, Mr. Fleischer."

These words were not spoken aloud. The were not even words. Rather, the impression of their intent somehow registered on Max Fleischer's consciousness. There was no other way to characterize the experience. Max's response, on the other hand, was easy to describe; his mouth fell open until his jaw damn near rested on his lap.

"I said, `Greetings, Mr. Fleischer.' Is it not customary for members of your species to return cordial salutations, or was the information provided me concerning your social protocols somehow in error?"

Max still did not answer. He did, however, wonder if this was how the end came. If so, it was a far cry from any description of the afterlife he'd ever encountered.

"Oh, no. No, Mr. Fleischer. I'm afraid I've given you the wrong impression. I am not some vision of death. I am real. I am also quite harmless, I assure you."

_I wonder how it knew what I was thinking_, Max mused.

"Oh, that's easy to explain, sir. I simply adjusted the frequency of my thought patterns to match the unique bioelectrical signature of your own mental activities. This is much more convenient for me than the alternative. You see, my physiology, which I'm certain you've already observed is considerably different than yours, is not at all conducive to mastering what you humans call speech. I trust this method of communication will be acceptable to you."

Max's withered hand shot out toward the half-empty shot glass sitting on the table in front of him. He gulped down its contents without once taking his eyes off the curious creature standing before him.

"Hell, I have no idea what you just said. But since I can hear you, if that's the right word, I guess whatever you're doing works. And it doesn't hurt any. So, okay. Have it your way."

"Thank you, Mr. Fleischer. I appreciate that."

It's amazing how docile booze makes you. Max accepted this bizarre occurrence without reservation. At worst, he concluded, it was just another alcohol-induced delusion. And he had experienced enough of these in recent years to realize that, if this were the case, reality would reassert itself, along with one whopper of a hangover, as soon as sobriety returned. In the meantime, Max figured, what harm could come of cooperating with his unearthly guest?

"Yeah, right. I'm sure you do. So, who -- or what -- are you?"

"My name, as well as the official designation for my species, would be meaningless to you, Mr. Fleischer. The correct pronunciation for each is much too complex to reproduce in your language.

"Yeah, right. I'll buy that. Okay, assuming for the moment that you're not some alcoholic delusion, what the heck do you want?"

"Quite simply, my species wishes to engage your professional services. We want you to `put on a show,' I believe is the appropriate phrase. I've been sent here to arrange this."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"What makes you think that, Mr. Fleischer? Surely, this is not the first time someone has made such a request. In years past, according to the information I have gathered, it happened quite regularly. So much so, in fact, that people were forced to contact you months ahead of the actual day on which they required your services, just to make certain you would be available. Is this not correct, or did we overlook something in our research?"

"No, you did your `research' just fine, except that the usual procedure is to contact my agent. I've spent over fifty years in this business. I have to admit, this is the first time anyone's ever popped into my room from out of nowhere and tried to book a show directly with me, like you just did. You damn near gave me a heart attack, pal."

Max chuckled sardonically as he poured himself another shot. If this...whatever it was...was seriously interested in hiring him, he figured he might as well try to cut the best deal possible. And folks were usually willing to cough up a little extra cash, if they believed that an artist's price also included an agent's fee.

"According to my research, Mr. Fleischer, your agent dropped you from his active account list several years ago. He did not feel he needed, and I'm quoting here, `another deadbeat on the dole to worry about.' I assume the newspaper accounts of the time were accurate on this matter."

_Damn!_ Max thought. _He's got me there_

"As for the method of my arrival, I apologize if it startled you. Matter/energy transmutation and reintegration is the standard mode of transportation on my planet. We tend to forget that the technologies employed by other worlds are not always as advanced as our own."

"Don't worry about it. Anyone who's ever watched Star Trek understands how teleportation works. Besides, like I said, I've been in show business for more than fifty years. During that time I've seen just about everything. There's not much you could do that would surprise me.

"About the agent thing. Well, you're right. Old Goldstein dropped me like a hot potato the morning after I bombed on Arsenio. I was just trying to up the ante on this deal a little bit. You understand? It's how the game is played, pal. No hard feelings, okay?"

"Of course not, Mr. Fleischer. I have become quite familiar with the fascinating activity you humans refer to as `haggling,' since assuming responsibility for this assignment. I came here quite prepared to participate in that particular ritual, if necessary. Despite the unorthodox manner in which my offer is being presented, however, I can assure you that my planet's interest in securing your services is genuine."

"I believe you. But I have to admit, I'm puzzled. If you've done so much research on my career, you must also realize that I'm what's commonly referred to as a has-been, an old man way past his prime.

"Look. I haven't had a decent gig in years. And the only place I've heard any applause lately is in my dreams. Hell, Arsenio's producer only gave me that slot because Goldstein shoved me into a two-fer deal, bundled me up with some Heavy Metal band he also represented. And you already know how that turned out.

"There's a whole slew of hot, new talent out there setting the comedy world on fire. I don't understand why you wouldn't ask one of them to do this show."

"After an extensive analysis of this phenomenon you earthlings call humor, it was decided that you are the one who best matches our requirements. We want you, Mr. Fleischer. And personally, I do hope you will accept the offer. Our second choice, should you decline, is Buster Creatch, a man with whom I believe you are familiar. Quite frankly, I find his subject matter, style and delivery to be nowhere near as entertaining as yours."

_Buster Creatch!_ Now there was a name that evoked vivid and violent memories in Max's mind.

There was a period, decades ago, when the running feud between Max Fleischer and Buster Creatch dominated the news from the entertainment industry. After so many years, the origins of the dispute were clouded in rumors and apocryphal anecdotes. Some of the people who knew the two comics swore that it started when, during a benefit at which both men were performing, Creatch stole into Max's dressing room and lifted the notes for a new routine he was working on. Others told the same tale, but with names of the perpetrator and victim reversed. Still others offered additional explanations for the rift, ranging from who came in second with a shared paramour to who was listed first on a split bill.

Whatever the true cause, the effects were well chronicled. For a while, hardly a week passed in which one or more headlines heralding some new hostility between these two comedic legends didn't appear on the front page of virtually every major publication -- including the epitome of Hollywood gossip sheets, _Variety_.

The entire affair culminated in a heated altercation (a nice word for a knock-down, drag-out fist fight) on-stage at the Palladium. To make matters worse, their final confrontation occurred during a TV simulcast seen by a prime-time audience estimated at over twelve million viewers. Max Fleischer and Buster Creatch had not seen, talked to or even talked about each other since. Contrary to the popular maxim, absence definitely did not make these two hearts grow fonder. The acrimony between Fleischer and Creatch persisted, undiminished, to this day.

The creature could not have picked a more effective tactic to guarantee cooperation than offering up Buster Creatch as his replacement, should Max decline to perform. Whether calculated or coincidental, the ploy worked. Max Fleischer would sign up for a permanent warm-up gig in a Siberian flop house, if doing so meant denying his ancient adversary an opportunity to work.

"Can I surmise from your thoughts that you are prepared to accept our offer?"

Max lifted his glass in a mock toast his beloved posters. "Here's to the King of Komedy's imminent comeback," he proclaimed. After downing the last, few drops of bourbon, Max turned to his alien guest and nodded.

"How wonderful! The let us get started, shall we? My world awaits your wit."

The light surrounding the creature grew brighter. It expanded outward until a pure white, blinding radiance enveloped the entire room, including Max Fleischer.

During the peak of his career, Max had appeared on the premier stages of America and Europe. They all resembled your average VFW hall, compared to this. The Nagorambi -- this was the closest human pronunciation Max could come up with for the twenty or so exotic sounds comprising the name of his alien hosts, when spoken in their native language -- really knew how to design an auditorium.

The stage was colossal, at least seventy-five feet across and fifty or so feet deep. It was made out of black wood unlike anything that grew on Earth. Gazing at this material was like staring out into endless space. Polished to perfection, it appeared to extend down into infinity, and reflected objects above you at an equally immeasurable distance in the opposite direction.

Outlining the stage in a perfect arch was a proscenium constructed of what appeared to be flawless white marble, but was probably a substance as unearthly as the ebony wood. The contrast between the two was like comparing noon of a summer's day with a moonless midnight.

Beyond the proscenium lay an amphitheater, the likes of which Max had never seen, nor could ever imagine. Carved into the surrounding landscape, it covered an area several acres in size. Bench-like pews were arranged in a concave pattern, as if the entire structure had been removed from the inside of a perfectly formed sphere. Regardless of where you sat, you had an unobstructed view of the performance.

The acoustics also were perfect. Any sound made on-stage, from a whisper to a scream, was accurately reproduced -- pitch, tone, timbre and volume -- for every member of the audience. Max could not tell whether this was a result of natural harmonics or generated by some artificial device. He saw no microphones, speakers, sound boards or any of the other paraphernalia normally associated with the latter. Nor did he understand enough about physics to venture a guess concerning the former.

Ultimately, however, none of this mattered. All that concerned Max was the fact that he was about to perform in front of the largest audience he'd ever seen, probably the largest audience ever to see human entertainment of any kind.

There wasn't a bad seat in the house. Better still, there wasn't an empty seat in the house. This alien auditorium, this perfect playhouse, was filled with beings identical to the one that had summoned him here. Hundreds-of-thousands of them. And they all had come to see Max Fleischer.

Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Max's stomach. That was good. He recalled how a little bit of stage fright always added an edge to his performance, one that was lacking when he felt too confident. Tonight was going to be a killer show. Max just knew it.

The crowd fell silent. A computerized orchestra started playing the opening strains of Max's old theme song, _The Sunny Side of the Street_. The curtain parted. The footlights and spots flickered, then flared to life.

Max walked out from the wings. The crowd burst into applause.

After too many decades, he was finally back at center stage. For the first time in too many years, Max Fleischer felt truly alive. He kicked things off with a new twist on an old standby: "I just flew in from Earth and, boy, are my arms tired."

A synthesized rim shot sounded at the precise instant Max finished his delivery, just as it had been rehearsed. He was impressed. And relieved. The secret to great comedy, after all, is timing.

He paused, prepared to acknowledge the inevitable...

Silence?

Max squinted past the glare of the footlights. What he saw there were hundreds-of-thousands of pale and delicate creatures staring blankly back at him, their beautiful faces betraying not a hint of emotion. He suddenly felt very tiny, standing there alone in the middle of that enormous stage.

_This is one tough crowd_, Max thought. _But, what the hell? I've handled worse. I remember that group of hunters in the Poconos. They wouldn't have recognized a good joke if it was centered in their cross-hairs. By the end of the night I had them rolling in the aisles, begging for an encore. Heck, I'm probably a little rusty. Not to worry. I'll find the groove. I just have to loosen up a bit. That's all._

Figuring he needed something with a little more pizzazz, Max decided to deviate slightly from the planned schedule and jump right into one of his most memorable pieces: the one-armed paper hanger. This particular bit had once been included in a four-record prestige anthology of classic comedy routines. If anything could break the ice, it would.

Over the next ten minutes, Max Fleischer delivered one of the finest performances of his long and sometimes illustrious career. He whirled and swirled and twirled over every square inch of the huge, salt-and-pepper stage. He executed every movement, gesture and line with split-second accuracy. It was a verbal and physical tour de force. The Nagorambi rewarded Max with...

Silence. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.

Max was beginning to wish he'd passed on this gig, a thought made even more appealing by the sudden realization that doing so would have caused it to be passed on to Buster Creatch. He smiled inwardly at the thought of his ancient nemesis confronting this bunch of deadbeats. Unfortunately, he, not Creatch, was here, dropping what, to this point, might best be described as the first intergalactic bomb on the Nagorambi audience.

Max Fleischer was nothing, however, if not a trooper. And so, despite the ennui with which his previous attempts were greeted, he kept on trying.

One by one, in quick succession, Max pulled out his best material, the cream of his comedic crop: Custer at Little Big Horn; a priest in a whore house; Napoleon's tailor (something about the midget emperor's buttons falling off just before a portrait sitting); Cleopatra's disastrous trip to the ski slopes of Aspen.

One by one, in quick succession, Max's best material fell flat, a series of flops piling atop one another like so many pancakes on a breakfast platter. Through each of them, the Nagorambi sat perfectly still. During every skit, remained absolutely silent.

Thirty minutes into the disaster, Max lost it. In fact, Max lost everything. He lost his composure. He lost his timing. He lost his perspective. He lost his professional objectivity. Most of all, however, Max Fleischer lost his temper.

"What in the hell's wrong with you creatures?" he screamed, several veins in his neck threatening to burst. "This is great stuff. Classic comedy. I've performed these same routines in front of kings and presidents, and watched all of them split a gut. Hell, those people ruled nations. But even they weren't afraid to let down their hair and laugh a little. They knew what was funny, and they understood the value of humor. You...things...wouldn't know a good joke if it ran up and bit you on your albino asses! This is a farce!"

It started out slowly, a single chuckle from somewhere near the back of the crowd. At first, it was hardly audible. One section. Two sections. Suddenly, a fairly large portion of the audience was chuckling. Within a few seconds, the chuckles turned to laughter. Once the laughter began, it spread through the vast amphitheater like a cold through a kindergarten class.

Max Fleischer couldn't believe his ears. A few minutes earlier, he would have welcomed this sound. Now, all he could do was stand there, center stage, flabbergasted. He was one angry comic.

"What the hell's going on here?" He screamed, of few of those veins in his neck throbbing a bit more noticeably. "I pour my body and soul into some of the best material I've ever written -- hell, some of the best material _anyone's_ ever written -- and you creatures just sit there, like a bunch of pale bumps on a log. But let me get pissed off, fed up with your total lack of appreciation for my talents, and you think it's funny. This is crazy! Insane!"

By now, the Nagorambi, hundreds-of-thousands of them, were rolling in the aisles, their boisterous laughter all but drowning out Max's tirade. The louder they laughed, the more Max raged.

"Cut it out! This was the most important gig of my life. I was rotting away when you came and asked me to perform for you. Hell, I didn't know if I still had it in me. But I do, damnit! Max Fleischer still has the magic! I'm still..."

Chances are, Max never understood what happened on that mammoth stage many light years from Earth. Like most professional comics, Max believed that humor was the universal language. And he was right. But no one ever said that the expression of humor had to be identical, throughout that same universe.

In the minds of Nagorambi, Max Fleischer had truly given his greatest performance. It was a comic masterpiece -- one that culminated when an aging human heart surrendered to anger. This single incident, Max Fleischer grabbing his chest and collapsing into a lifeless heap on the center of an alien stage constructed of wood so rich, so beautiful, that it seemed to extend into infinity, brought the house down.

The Nagorambi stood and cheered for almost an hour. And Max Fleischer never knew it.

Several weeks later, back on Earth, an intense light filled a dirty and disheveled room. It momentarily blinded the old man sitting on a threadbare couch, a bottle of Jim Beam clutched in his quivering hand. Out of this light stepped a delicate being of incredible beauty who, before he spoke, gazed admiringly at the faded posters hanging on the cracked plaster walls around him.

_Buster Creatch -- The Lord of Laughter!_

_Buster Creatch -- Classic Comedy!_

_Buster Creatch -- The Wizard of Wit!_

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