IT'S RAINING WHAT?

IT’S RAINING WHAT?

By

LES CLARK

“Hey kids, wanna see...real magic?”

           That effusive line blasted from speakers surrounding the auditorium filled with chubby prepubescent faces and happy parents. It was the reason dollars rained down on Ralph Demming, aka Funny Pants Pete. No matter where Nielson tested the ratings, Demming and his alter ego were in the hearts and minds (and wallets) of fifty million people up, down and over Earth’s latitudes and longitudes.

           Not so much for his father during the vaudeville and burlesque years. Dad was known as Baggy Pants Pete and often wore vegetables of questionable freshness. After his show, Dad slathered liniment around his waist lessening the bruising of the hook wielded by a man with no penchant for foolishness. Because BPP’s act went on later in the evening, the tired arms of erstwhile pitchers had not the daytime velocity, so Reginald Demming was able to delight his family with baskets of fresher fruits and vegetables when all the acts concluded.

But on this particular modern Saturday morning, Ralph, as usual, skipped across the KIDS CORNUCOPIA stage in his signature striped onesie of apple red and snow white. He landed painfully in a split, twirled like a carousel and bounced to his feet. A true ta-dah moment.

           Cotton candy in cones striped like FPP’s outfit rained down into hundreds of outstretched hands. The APPLAUSE sign boldly advised:

ONLY KIDS – ONLY KIDS – ONLY KIDS

           Funny Pants Pete shook his oversized clown finger at a pair of overly zealous parents in the first row who attempted to catch a cone like visitors at a ballpark trying to catch a home run ball. “No! No! NO! You’re not kids anymore.” Properly admonished, they watched as little Morgan or Aspen (or whatever the current kicky name was), lick his or her captured treat into sugary oblivion. One mother’s monogrammed handkerchief stuck to little Bismark’s or Nevada’s face.

           The hour long sweet fest finished with Funny Pants Pete conducting his signature anthem, “I Can Make It Rain...M...M...Magic.” Apparitions of 3-D beach balls, baskets of kittens and death-defying rollercoasters floated above and through the cheering crowd. In the lobby, patrons three deep happily parted with hard-earned cash. Card readers smoked.

 Barnum would be proud.

           Later, in his dressing room, Demming stained a half roll of paper towels, scraping away red and white make-up. Equally besmirched was his striped shirt, darkened under the arms. As he unzipped his clown suit, Mortimer Shaw, his agent, listened disapprovingly to his client’s whining.

           “Morty, the act is stale. I’m stale. And one of these days there’s going to be a lawsuit by a bunch of parents whose kids are Type 2. I’m beginning to hate this act. And between you and me, that split I did almost made me cry. I heard guys in the audience gasp.”

           Shaw sat impassively on his backwards chair. If he can’t do the act, I don’t get my cut. He smiled to hide the thought. “Ralph, yours is the number one kid’s show on Saturday morning TV. It’s been number one forever. Ten countries. Iceland to Japan. You’ve got a winner.” And I’ve got a yacht. And you’ve got a hernia. Hahahaha!

           Morty lowered his voice. “Ralph, so we need something new. I’ll bet the sponsors want something new. We’ve got to keep your fans and their kids loyal to the merch. That’s half our wealth. Those T-shirts. The propellor beanies. The candy with the surprise in every bite.” Shaw looked away bemused, “Chocolate worked, chilis didn’t.”

           For seconds, the two sat in silence, wheels and gears moving in mutual cerebellums. Ralph envisioned an ice pack. Morty thought of Scrooge McDuck.

           “Ralph, I’ll put out the word for a new kid’s act you can incorporate into yours. We’ll buy it if necessary.” We’ll steal it, no doubt.

           Into the entertainment trades went the low key ad.

WANTED –  NEW/ORIGINAL ACT GEARED TO KIDS.

 FLEXIBLE TERMS.

CONTACT MORTYTHEAGENT@FPP.NET

           In the next few weeks, while Ralph Deming, aka Funny Pants Pete, did his acrobatics, mindless (the kids loved the double talk) songs, his agent spent less than a minute kicking out dog, cat and kangaroo acts, couples juggling dogs, cats and kangaroos, an archer with a boomerang arrow nearly shaving the mustache off a stagehand, two men on twenty foot stilts running a steeplechase and teams battling it out with giant marshmallows.

           Morty employed a chiropractor for weekly neck adjustments after constantly yelling, “No, no! A thousand times no.”

           Finally, late on a Friday afternoon, a kid stumbled through Morty’s door. He had an oddly shaped head, suspenders holding up ripped jeans and wearing a T-shirt sporting the likeness of Houdini. A long brown bag hung from calloused fingers.

           “Yes, uh, young fella?” Morty rolled his eyes.

           “I do magic,” the kid said in a monotone. His blank gaze was unsettling. Shaw felt a headache coming on.

           Morty, tired and in need of what his dad used to say, a good belt of bourbon, shook his head. “Listen, kid...no coins behind the ears, no colored ribbons out your ass. You do slight of hand like everyone else, right?” Shaw took more than the recommended aspirin dose.

           “No, sir. I do magic.”

           “That’s what you all say.” Morty looked impatiently away.

           “No, sir. Ever since the lightning strike out by the barn, that’s what I do.”

           For effect, the kid bent over. A bald spot, round as a moon crater, occupied the exact point where his hair swirled away. His was a scary shade of grey fireplace ash.

           That’ll scare the crap out of kids. Brrr!

           “Okay, show me what you’ve got. One minute. And by the way, what’s your name?”

           The visitor blinked a couple of times, like he was searching for the answer on a quiz program.

           “I don’t know. Been that way since the lightning strike out by the barn.”

           “Hold it, young fella. If you can do what you claim, I’ll get you a stage name. Now...you’re up.”

           The no-name kid undid the bag’s latch and spread it open. Morty thought he saw the lad’s lips moving. Then the office filled with a miracle.

           “Good golly, Miss Molly,” was all Mortimer Shaw could utter. Ten minutes later, when the kid’s bag finally closed, Mort decided a third tumbler of his best Kentucky bourbon was warranted. We’re gonna be rich. Richer than oil-kingdom rich. Mount Olympus rich.

           “Kid, you will be the king of magic. I just have to get you a proper stage name. I’m putting you up in the best hotel. And don’t open that bag for anyone but me and my client. Now, how much do you want?” Wowie, that little? What a rube! “Sign here, here and here.”

           Later, while Shaw’s confused secretary made calls to construction companies specializing in barns and lightning rods, he drummed his fingers on a thick book containing every theatrical name an entertainer could have or ever had. “He’s a king of sorts. Magic. What goes with king? I’ll figure this out on my way home.”

           Later, as he sat in the back of a taxi, Mortimer Shaw was confused by the cabby’s name, something he couldn’t even pronounce when he was sober. Encased in plastic was the license along with rules for riders. The bold, black and white sign, with its ubiquitous warning, swam before his eyes. Lately, for health reasons, it was plastered everywhere. The letters jiggled like bagged Scrabble letters. “I have it,” Shaw cried, startling the driver.

           “You okay, sir?” he called over his shoulder.

           “Oh, yes. I found a name for my boy,” Shaw exulted. And a helicopter deck for the yacht.

           The driver, turning left, said something unkind in a foreign language.

           Ralph Demming, alias Funny Pants Pete, sat erect with his unhinged jaw, spoiling the perfect parallel lines of his red and white facial makeup. “You’ve got to be kidding. That kid can do that? With the stuff in his bag? It’s impossible. And what’s his name again?”

           “It’s true,” Shaw replied. “Saw it for myself. Absolute magic. The world, but your fans first, will call him King...Nosmo King. And here’s the genius part, he only wants a bigger barn when his act is done. Claims he got hit by lightning standing near the barn on his farm. They had a petting zoo inside. Like Noah’s Ark.” Small change peasants.

           Demming found his voice wavering. “What about rehearsal. How do we do that?”

           “No, none of that. Nosmo opens the bag, I think he prays or says something into it, then ten minutes later, he closes it. The crowd goes wild, they buy the merch, we count the moolah. ABC---123. NK gets his new barn.” And I get a test ride in a new Bell chopper.

           The advertising went out along with emails to the fans of Funny Pants Pete. Two thousand lucky ticket-clutching followers filed in to the darkened hall, chattering like squirrels finding their misplaced acorns. On stage, in a much smaller striped suit, red and white like a candy cane, stood a diminutive figure beside a worn brown bag. FPP pin-wheeled out, front and back flipped while his baggy pants cleverly hid an engineering marvel for support. His signature split was a rousing success.

           “Friends, parents and kids of all ages. You will be mesmerized, paralyzed and dazzle-ized tonight as the most amazing magic unfolds before your very eyes. Without any further ado, let me introduce the King of Magic---Nosmo King. Lights, please. And silence from all.”

           The King, clearly uncomfortable, shuffled forward. Four thousand eyes followed his every move. He kneeled and forced the bag open. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Murmurs flitted like a soft wind up and down the rows.

           A sharp-eyed little girl in the first row yanked her mother’s coat. “Mummy, he said something to the bag.”

           Irritated and impatient for losing focus, her mother spit out, “What did he say, Forsythia?”

           “He said ‘small,’ Mummy.”

           On stage, out of the open maw of an old brown bag, flew miniature teams of horses, solo brown and white cows, chickens of every color, white fluffy lambs and horned goats. A pair of llamas beat the air with their hooves. A flock of geese spun around the auditorium ceiling in perfect V formation. Animals, birds and even a few snakes ringed the ceiling. A family of hairy tarantulas took an upside down stroll around the air conditioning vents.

           On stage, NK raised his hands.

           “He said ‘down,’ Mummy.”

           Their thousands of mouths agape, every manner of living but diminutive thing rained down. Outstretched fingers wiggled unsuccessfully to catch the tiny things. The horses and cows pranced about the cotton candy stained faces of little kids standing on their chairs and on the shoulders of their parents. The arachnids did a tarantella on the tips of a few hairdos and manbuns. As if they were on springs, the gaggle of livestock bounced into the air and down again, showering the crowd with neighs and moos and quacks. And smallish poops.

           “They’re real, Mummy. They’re real. And I want a horsey.” Mummy thought briefly of Veruca Salt.

           On stage, exactly 600 seconds later, Nosmo King made an X with his arms. The crowded skies coalesced into a rounded, earth-toned mass and homed towards Nosmo’s satchel. The mass of humanity went wild, stomping their feet and cheering. A flood of families flung open the lobby doors, scooping up shirts, coasters, keychains and animal collectibles. Funny Pants Pete bobble- heads sold immediately out of stock.

           Every Saturday for months, this miraculous act took place in larger and more expansive venues. A college football stadium in California filled to SRO status. Feeling abandoned, NK made his way to the glass and steel office building Mortimer Shaw had erected to house his premier talent agency.

           “I’m sorry, Mister King, Mister Shaw is unavailable today,” the security guard said, friendly but firmly. “But you can make an appointment.” NK was not happy. Sure, the shows were going well, and King was living a new life style, but he had not seen his agent in weeks. And Funny Pants Pete was spending more time at his new lakefront mansion. Funny how no invitation was afforded the King of Magic.

           “Mr. Shaw, that magic kid was here again. He made an appointment.”

           “I’m quite busy, Sergeant. Busy, busy, busy. I’ll find time soon.” After I take delivery of my new chopper, that is.

           Week after week passed with no face-to-face with Shaw. He no longer showed up at King’s magic act where the hordes still crowded in for the animal kingdom’s choreographed dance routine.

           “I want my new barn,” Nosmo wailed. “I want to see Mr. Shaw.”

           The answer was always the same: he’s away or he’s unavailable or he’s busy, busy, busy. In fact, Mortimer Shaw was representing bizarre acts worldwide and had no time for a grey-haired freak with his miniature birds, beasts and fish. And some really scary bugs.

           There came the day when King, frustrated to exhaustion, pushed his way past the guard and a platoon of office staff, using his old, tattered bag as a battering ram. Shaw’s office was easy to find---wide, curved glass fronted a mahogany desk the size of an airplane wing. An occupied Shaw was pressing buttons on a communicator, picking up and putting down tiny phones while yelling into an even smaller microphone strapped to an ear. His eyes widened in surprise. King sensed a tinge of fear.

           “Come on in,” Shaw mouthed because the room was soundproofed. Nosmo King grasped the heavy bag, pushed the thick glass door open and decided to stand in front of a visitor’s chair. Before Shaw could speak, King held up a hand and it was not to shake Shaw’s.

           “Why haven’t you made time for me? Why have you ignored me? And why hasn’t my barn been rebuilt yet.”

           Where’d he learn to speak like that?

           “Well, uh, my King of Magic, the business has expanded. He doesn’t know I have a chopper fleet now. You’re doing well. The act is still in demand. The U.S. Treasury borrows money from me. Why not sit and let’s see what we can do about that, uh, big red barn of yours. Where’s that guard when you need him? Can I have Evelyn oh my get you something to drink?”

           “So, Morty...can I call you Morty? You have a few helicopters now? You’re fooling around with Evelyn? What’s with you and the United States Treasury? And your guard is in dreamland. You see, that lightning did other things to me.” King leaned over the desk with a Cheshire Cat grin. “I’ve been...listening in.”

           Shaw fell back in his chair. In his head he heard, or rather felt, King’s words spattering his brain like rain turning to ice.

           Nosmo King plopped his bag on Shaw’s desk shattering one of the thimble phones. The sides of the brown case moved, bulging here and depressing elsewhere. King opened the case and gently grasped something long and cold. He blew into his closed finger and whispered, “small.”

           In his palm lay what looked like an articulated string bean. Shaw glanced from King’s palm to his face and shivered at the sneer. The string bean moved. Shaw held a small magnifier and bent closer. There were bumps on the creature, a tail that flicked side to side and what looked like a long snout.

           His eyes shut to slits as King flexed his palm. The creature lifted toward Shaw’s high ceiling. The two watched as the thing spun about to get it’s bearings. It swam to a stop above Shaw’s head. Nosmo King whispered, “big.”

           In a hairsbreadth movement of a second hand, the alligator expanded to it’s seventeen foot length and rained down jaws and teeth to swallow Mortimer Shaw whole.