Woody Allen - Getting Even

“Can I tell you, I love this closet.”

“Yes, but…”

“I know, I know… it seems strange, and yet here I am, having a ball. I was just saying to Mrs. Hess the other day, give me a good closet and I can stand in it for hours. Sweet woman, Mrs. Hess. Fat but sweet… Now, why don’t you run along and check back with me at sunset. Oh, Ramona, la da da de da da de, Ramona…”

Now the Mayor and his wife, Katia, arrive. They are passing by and have decided to pay a call on their good friends, the baker and his wife.

“Hello, Jarslov. I hope Katia and I are not intruding?”

“Of course not, Mr. Mayor. Come out, Count Dracula! We have company!”

“Is the Count here?” asks the Mayor, surprised.

“Yes, and you’ll never guess where,” says the baker’s wife.

“It’s so rare to see him around this early. In fact I can’t ever remember seeing him around in the daytime.”

“Well, he’s here. Come out, Count Dracula!”

“Where is he?” Katia asks, not knowing whether to laugh or not.

“Come on out now! Let’s go!” The baker’s wife is getting impatient.

“He’s in the closet,” says the baker, apologetically.

“Really?” asks the Mayor.

“Let’s go,” says the baker with mock good humor as he knocks on the closet door. “Enough is enough. The Mayor’s here.”

“Come on out, Dracula,” His Honor shouts, “let’s have a drink.”

“No, go ahead. I’ve got some business in here.”

“In the closet?”

“Yes, don’t let me spoil your day. I can hear what you’re saying. I’ll join in if I have anything to add.”

Everyone looks at one another and shrugs. Wine is poured and they all drink.

“Some eclipse today,” the Mayor says, sipping from his glass.

“Yes,” the baker agrees. “Incredible.”

“Yeah. Thrilling,” says a voice from the closet

“What, Dracula?”

“Nothing, nothing. Let it go.”

And so the time passes, until the Mayor can stand it no longer and forcing open the door to the closet, he shouts, “Come on, Dracula. I always thought you were a mature man. Stop this craziness.”

The daylight streams in, causing the evil monster to shriek and slowly dissolve to a skeleton and then to dust before the eyes of the four people present. Leaning down to the pile of white ash on the closet floor, the baker’s wife shouts, “Does this mean dinner’s off tonight?”

Understand you are dealing with a man who knocked off Finnegans Wake on the roller coaster at Coney Island, penetrating the abstruse Joycean arcana with ease, despite enough violent lurching to shake loose my silver fillings. Understand also that I am among the select few who spotted instantly in the Museum of Modern Art’s impacted Buick that precise interplay of nuance and shading that Odilon Redon could have achieved had he foresaken the delicate ambiguity of pastels and worked with a car press. Also, laddies, as one whose spate of insights first placed Godot in proper perspective for the many confused playgoers who milled sluggishly in the lobby during intermission, miffed at ponying up scalper’s money for argle-bargle bereft of one up-tune or a single spangled bimbo, I would have to say my rapport with the seven livelies is pretty solid. Add to this the fact that eight radios conducted simultaneously at Town Hall killed me, and that I still occasionally sit in with my own Philco, after hours, in a Harlem basement where we blow some late weather and news, and where once a laconic field hand named Jess, who had never studied in his life, played the closing Dow-Jones averages with great feeling. Real soul stuff. Finally, to lock my case up tight, note that mine is a stock visage at happenings and underground-movie premieres, and that I am a frequent contributor to Sight and Stream, a cerebral quarterly dedicated to advanced concepts in cinema and fresh-water fishing. If these are not credentials enough to tag me Joe Sensitive, then, brother, I give up. And yet, with this much perception dripping from me, like maple syrup off waffles, I was reminded recently that I possess an Achilles’ heel culturewise that runs up my leg to the back of my neck.

It began one day last January when I was standing in McGinnis’ Bar on Broadway, engulfing a slab of the world’s richest cheesecake and suffering the guilty, cholesterolish hallucination that I could hear my aorta congealing into a hockey puck. Standing next to me was a nerve-shattering blonde, who waxed and waned under a black chemise with enough provocation to induce lycanthropy into a Boy Scout. For the previous fifteen minutes, my “pass the relish” had been the central theme of our relationship, despite several attempts on my part to generate a little action. As it was, she had passed the relish, and I was forced to ladle a small amount on my cheesecake as witness to the integrity of my request.

“I understand egg futures are up,” I ventured finally, feigning the insouciance of a man who merged corporations as a sideline. Unaware that her stevedore boy friend had entered, with Laurel and Hardy timing, and was standing right behind me, I gave her a lean, hungry look and can remember cracking wise about Krafft-Ebing just before losing consciousness. The next thing I recall was running down the street to avoid the ire of what appeared to be a Sicilian cousin’s club bent on avenging the girl’s honor. I sought refuge in the cool dark of a newsreel theatre, where a tour de force by Bugs Bunny and three Librium restored my nervous system to its usual timbre. The main feature came on and turned out to be a travelogue on the New Guinea bush-a topic rivalling “Moss Formations” and “How Penguins Live” for my attention span. “Throwbacks,” droned the narrator, “living today not a whit differently from man millions of years ago, slay the wild boar [whose standard of living didn’t appear to be up perceptibly, either] and sit around the fire at night acting out the day’s kill in pantomime.” Pantomime. It hit me with sinus-clearing clarity. Here was a chink in my cultural armor-the only chink, to be sure, but one that has plagued me ever since childhood, when a dumb-show production of Gogol’s The Overcoat eluded my grasp entirely and had me convinced I was simply watching fourteen Russians doing calisthenics. Always, pantomime was a mystery to me-one that I chose to forget about because of the embarrassment it caused me. But here was that failing again and, to my chagrin, just as bad as ever. I did not understand the frenetic gesticulations of the leading New Guinea aborigine any more than I have ever understood Marcel Marceau in any of those little skits that fill multitudes with such unbounded adulation. I writhed in my seat as the amateur jungle thespian mutely titillated his fellow-primitives, finally garnering hefty mitt with money notices from the tribal elders, and then I slunk, dejected, from the theatre.

At home that evening, I became obsessed with my shortcoming. It was cruelly true: despite my canine celerity in other areas of artistic endeavor, all that was needed was one evening of mime to limn me clearly as Markham’s hoe man-stolid, stunned, and a brother to the ox in spades. I began to rage impotently, but the back of my thigh tightened and I was forced to sit. After all, I reasoned, what more elemental form of communication is there? Why was this universal art form patent in meaning to all but me? I tried raging impotently again, and this time brought it off, but mine is a quiet neighborhood, and several minutes later two rednecked spokesmen for the Nineteenth Precinct dropped by to inform me that raging impotently could mean a five-hundred-dollar fine, six months’ imprisonment, or both. I thanked them and made a beeline for the sheets, where my straggle to sleep off my monstrous imperfection resulted in eight hours of nocturnal anxiety I wouldn’t wish on Macbeth.