Chapter 23
JAMIE AND JIMMY
There’s a monitor backstage in the wings so I can watch the show while I’m waiting for my cue to go on.
Jimmy Fallon is chatting with his first guests, Taylor Swift and Daniel Radcliffe! Me? I’m sweating like a sumo wrestler wearing shrink-wrap in a sauna.
I’m about to bomb in front of Harry Potter and a singer with seven Grammy Awards. Maybe if I’m terrible, Daniel Radcliffe can cast a quick Obliviate spell to make everybody in America forget me while Taylor Swift sings her new hit single, “Jamie, We Are Never, Ever Appearing on the Same Show Together Again.”
“Knock ’em dead, kid,” Weasley says, “and you’ll be living the dream out in Hollywood.”
“And, uh, what happens if I don’t do so good?”
“If you tank, this conversation never took place.”
The audience starts applauding as a commercial break ends.
“All right,” says Jimmy Fallon. “Coming out next, one of the eight kids who will be competing for the title of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic over on BNC in a couple of weeks.” He takes a beat. “Huh. Funniest Kid Comic. I always thought that was a contest for amusing goats.”
Questlove, the drummer for Jimmy’s house band, the Roots, gives that corny line a badoom-boomp rim shot on the side of his snare.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Fallon, “put your hands together for the one and only Jamie Grimm!”
I roll out in front of the velvety blue curtain. To my right, in front of a New York City skyline backdrop, I see three silhouettes clapping for me: Jimmy Fallon, Taylor Swift, and Harry Potter.
Since this is a high-stress, nerve-racking, stomach-flipping situation, I do what I always do when I’m thrust into the spotlight.
I choke. And sweat. And forget my name.
But then Questlove gives me a drumroll and a cymbal crash.
BA-BOOM. It’s like he found my On switch.
“Hi, folks,” I say, waving from my wheelchair. “I know, I know. You look at me and you’re shocked. You say, ‘Oh, my. That poor, poor boy. It’s just awful He’s in… he’s in…’ ”
I take a pause and add a dramatic “DUN-DUN-DUUUUN!”
Just when everybody in the audience thinks I’m going to say I’m in “a wheelchair,” I hit them with my punch line:
“Middle school! Yep. I’m in middle school, folks. The worst years of my life. And trust me, I may be young, but I’ve already had some pretty rough years. When I was little, maybe two, I remember my parents used to make me watch… Teletubbies.”
I wobble like a Weeble in my chair and gibber in my high-pitched Teletubbies voice, “Again! Again!”
The audience is howling.
I can hear Jimmy Fallon and his guests chuckling. That makes me feel way better. Because Harry Potter didn’t need to use his Riddikulus spell to make everybody laugh.
I did it all by myself!
Chapter 24
LOOK AT ME! I’M ON LATE-NIGHT TV!
The rest of my set is pretty good, too.
I end with a joke about the upcoming show on BNC.
“The Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic. I wonder if other kids in the solar system are going to comedy contests on their planets. You laugh, but those Martians are very competitive. In fact, a Russian, an American, and a Martian were talking one day. The Russian said, ‘We were the first in space!’ The American said, ‘We were the first on the moon!’The Martian just laughed. ‘Big deal. We shall be the first on the sun!’ The American and the Russian looked at each other and shook their heads. ‘You can’t land on the sun, you idiot,’ said the Russian. ‘You’ll burn up.’ The Martian laughed again. ‘We’re not stupid, Boris. We’re going at night.’ Thank you, folks. I’m Jamie Grimm.”
The studio audience is clapping like crazy (yes, it helps that there are gigantic APPLAUSE signs flashing everywhere), and I roll over to join Jimmy at his desk.
That’s right. I’ve made the big time.
Jimmy Fallon actually wants to talk to me!
Chapter 25
PREVIEW OF COMING DISTRACTIONS
Great set, Jamie!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jimmy Fallon gives me a look. Hey, I’m a kid and he’s wearing a suit.
“You can call me Jimmy, Jamie,” he says. “Or James, because that’s, you know, the name on my birth certificate.”
“Mine, too.”
“So I could be a Jamie?” says Jimmy.
I nod. “And I could be Jimmy.”
“So, we’re, like, related?”
“I guess.”
We’re just goofing around, but the audience LOVES it. I get another round of applause.
“So the boys over at BNC are really torturing you kids, huh, Jamie?” Fallon says when we come back after another commercial break.
I play along. “How do you mean?”
“This long, drawn-out buildup to the big finish. First, eight of you compete in the semifinal finals. That’s in two weeks, right?”
“Right.”
“Then America votes and four comics go home. The four winners have to come back in, what, another two weeks for the final finals?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “I guess they wanted to give us time in between shows to catch up on our homework.”
More laughs. Jimmy Fallon actually doubles over and claps a couple of times.
“You’re good, Jamie.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
Fallon turns to his other guests. “Any advice for Jamie Grimm as he competes for one million dollars and his own sitcom? Daniel? You were a child star. What would you suggest?”
“Don’t let them paint a scar on your forehead,” says Daniel Radcliffe. “It took me a year to erase mine.”
“Good tip. How about you, Taylor? You were about the same age as Jamie when you got your start in showbiz.”
“Have fun,” she says. “And never forget where you came from.”
“Good advice. So, Jamie—where exactly do you come from?”
I’m sorry. I can’t resist.
“Um, I forget.”
And the audience cracks up.
All in all? Tonight is a very awesome night.
Chapter 26
HURRY UP AND WAIT
Jimmy Fallon was right. The waiting is the hardest part.
Day and night, I roll around Long Beach, cracking jokes to myself and anybody willing to listen. I remember what Shecky once told me about words with a k sound being funny. I try out a few on some pigeons I meet on the boardwalk.
The film crew that was documenting my every move in Long Beach has already flown back to Hollywood to splice together my “backstory” piece for the live TV show.
“We got all the footage we need, kid,” the producer said after my wheelchair got stuck in a gutter during a downpour. There was a twelve-inch-deep pothole I couldn’t see because of the miniature lake that had formed at the curb. Note to self—I need to check out wheelchair umbrella-holder options. Or buy a poncho.
Even though I kind of want to be, I’m never alone.
A big entourage follows me everywhere I go. And it’s not my friends.
I haven’t seen much of them lately. Between the new material I have to come up with and the reality show I was filming, I’ve had a hard time fitting them into my schedule.
This mob is a group of total strangers. See, after you’ve been on The Tonight Show and your routine goes viral on the Web, a lot of people you don’t know all of a sudden think they know you.
I’m feeling big-time pressure to be funny 24/7.
So I spend my day spouting classic one-liners, one after the other in rapid-fire succession.
You ever see a boxer working a speed bag? Those leather balloons that keep snapping back every time you whack them? Well, instead of a punching bag, I’m banging out the punch lines, ones I’ve memorized from my very first joke books, just to keep my comedy muscles warm.
Gilda catche
s me joking to myself in the hall outside the boys’ room.
“Jamie? You need to take a break.”
“What do you know?” I snap at her.
“Whoa, ease up,” says Gaynor.
“I agree,” adds Pierce. “You’re letting this competition get the best of you, Jamie.”
“Well, that’s what I need,” I sort of yell. “My best! So butt out. All of you.”
“Gladly,” says Gilda.
And my three best friends in the whole world turn their backs and walk away.
I guess that happens to everybody once they become famous.
When I start telling knock-knock jokes to random doors all over town, I realize even I can’t take this anymore.
I raise both fists, Rocky-style, and shout at the sky, “Yo! Let’s do this thing!”
I think an airplane up there heard me.
Because, finally, it’s time for me and Uncle Frankie to fly to California for the big shoot-out at the comedy corral.
Chapter 27
FLYING TO THE LEFT COAST
Uncle Frankie and I have seats up front in the first-class cabin!
Yeah. When you do a TV show for a major network like BNC, they treat you like royalty, which I think some of the other people flying first class actually are. I hear someone being called Duke, although it could be the fluffy dog a few rows up.
I think the first-class flight attendants offer us pillows, warm mixed nuts, and free sodas.
They might even push a cart loaded down with three flavors of ice cream, hot fudge, butterscotch sauce, crushed walnuts, whipped cream, and candied cherries. Maybe they offer to make us our own anyway-you-want-it ice-cream sundaes.
I don’t remember.
I spend the entire six-hour flight silently freaking out.
“Are you feeling okay?” asks one of the flight attendants. She’s working her way up the aisle to offer everybody in first class some more free stuff. (I think this time it’s gold-plated parachutes—just in case.) “You look as pale as a ghost.”
I try to come up with a witty reply. Something like “I’m not pale. I’m just pigment challenged.”
But all I come up with is “I’m a… uh…”
Uncle Frankie, who has the seat next to mine, chuckles.
“He’s just nervous. Right, kiddo?”
“Uh…”
“Say,” says the flight attendant, “aren’t you that Jamie Grimm? You’re one of those kid comedians. I saw you on The Tonight Show!”
“That’s right,” says Uncle Frankie, because he can tell from the look on my blank and ghostly-white face that I have completely forgotten how to form whole words, let alone sentences. “Of course, Jimmy Fallon asked me to be on his show, too.”
“Really?” says the flight attendant, forgetting all about me and my ghostiness. “How come?”
“Two words. Yo. Yo. Do you mind?”
He shows her his Duncan Lime Light yo-yo. It changes colors while it spins.
“Had a heck of a time getting this past airport security,” he jokes. “They thought it was a tiny flying saucer. I showed them the string and said, ‘Don’t worry. I keep my Martians on a short leash.’ ”
The flight attendant and the folks in first class who aren’t in a total state of catatonic shock (that would be everybody except me) chuckle. Then, with the flight attendant’s blessing, Uncle Frankie stands up in the aisle and puts on a show for the whole cabin.
The whole time Uncle Frankie is spinning and flicking and twirling his yo-yo, he keeps up a steady patter of funny one-liners. He starts pulling out all the stops and executing some of the more complicated moves—stuff like the Skyrocket.
“Hey, how do you get a baby astronaut to go to sleep? You rocket.”
The Rattlesnake.
“So, did you hear about the snake that couldn’t talk? Yeah, it had a frog in its throat.”
People are laughing and clapping as he sets up his big finish—the Man on the Flying Trapeze.
“Hey, speaking of the circus, did you hear the bad news? Yeah. I feel sorry for my buddy, the human cannonball. He just got fired.”
I think the entire plane would’ve given Uncle Frankie a standing ovation, except the pilot just turned on the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign.
We’ve begun our initial descent into Los Angeles.
So I can head off to Hollywood and go make a fool of myself—in front of millions of people!
Chapter 28
THEY FUNNY, TOO
When you’re in a wheelchair and need “a little extra time getting down the aisle,” you’re allowed to board the airplane before everybody else.
But you’re going to be one of the last ones off the plane, too. That means our luggage is already waiting for us when Uncle Frankie and I reach the baggage carousel.
So are some very funny kids—my competition in the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest—and they’re flying into Los Angeles from all over the country, just like I did.
I see Ben Baccaro, the Italian Scallion, the kid comedian every girl in America is going to vote for.
Okay, they’re going to vote for his tight T-shirt and muscles and that dimple in his chin. Ben is the Mid-Atlantic Regionals winner and hails from Philadelphia.
By the way, does anybody ever really use the word hail to say where a person is from anymore, or is the word hail exclusively reserved for bad-weather forecasts in the summer?
Yeah. My mind’s still spinning. Never too late to work up some fresh material.
“Hey, Ben! How y’all doin’?”
That’s Grafton Maddox Bacardi, the kid from Signal Mountain, Tennessee, who won the Southeast Regionals by mashing together his own material with recycled Larry the Cable Guy jokes.
Grafton Maddox Bacardi and Ben have everybody at the baggage carousel doubled over with laughter.
Including me.
Actually, I’m more or less doubled over with pain. The kind that comes when you meet the two guys you’re going to lose a million dollars to.
Chapter 29
MEET CHATTY PATTY, DUMB AS A FOX
Uncle Frankie is yanking our bags off the conveyor belt when a very bubbly girl wearing a red-and-white-striped blouse skips up to where I’m sitting and waiting.
“Oh my goodness,” she says in a thick Minnesota accent while she strikes a cutesy-pootsy pose. “You’re dat Jamie Grimm, aren’t you? You’re dat cripple boy comedian.”
She bats her eyes and smiles when she says “cripple boy,” as if, somehow, that’ll turn them into nice words.
“Jeepers, I am such a gul-dern big fan of yours, don’tcha know? I’m Chatty Patty. Actually, my real name is Patricia Dombrowski. My ancestors were unintelligent eyebrow pluckers who liked to glide down hills. How’s by you?”
“Um, I’m fine. Long flight.”
“I know. I just flew in from Minneapolis and, boy, are my arms tired. The flight attendants were very sweet, though. They said we could use our seat cushions for a flotation device. I’m going to take mine to the hotel swimming pool.”
Chatty Patty, who lives in Moose Lake, Minnesota, does this sweet-as-pie but dumb-as-dirt act—sort of like a Midwestern version of Gracie Allen from the old George Burns and Gracie Allen radio show from way back in the 1930s.
Yes, I listened to every single Burns and Allen show on CD when I was recuperating in the rehab hospital.
I think Chatty Patty did, too. I recognize a lot of her one-liners from Gracie Allen’s old routines.
Everybody in America thinks she’s the sweetest, nicest kid in the whole wide world.
Me too.
Until she leans in, grabs hold of my armrests, and kind of sneers at me with breath that smells like sour bubble gum.
“For this whole competition you’ve had one joke, Jamie Grimm. Your wheelchair. Well, guess what, Wheelie McFeelie? Sure as God made dem little green apples, you’re gonna lose dis thing. Big-time.”
Chapter 30
SURF’S UP AND I’M DOWN
> After my chat with Patty I’m pale as a ghost again.
“You ready to roll, kiddo?” asks Uncle Frankie, coming over with our bags.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look so good. Was it something you ate?”
I nod. “Little green apples.”
“When did you eat those?”
“In my most recent nightmare.”
Just then, a camera crew bursts through the sliding exit doors, following a pair of bubbly young girls with shimmering hair.
It’s Rebecca and Rachel Klein. Identical twins, they do this Valley Girl act as a comedy duo.
They’re like a California version of Abbott and Costello, only blonder. Behind them are their younger brothers, Andrew and Alexander Klein. Rumor has it that Andy and Alex are already working on their “surfer dude duo” comedy act for next year’s Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition (if there is a next year).
“Everybody, look like you’re long-lost friends,” hollers the guy behind the camera, who I think is Hunter, the producer who came to Long Beach to film my “backstory” piece.
Chatty Patty is immediately “on.”
“Golly, Becca and Rach,” she gushes for the camera. “Thank you so, so much for dat roast beef recipe.”
“Wha-huh?” says Rebecca, totally confused.
I, on the other hand, know exactly what Patty’s talking about, because it’s the setup for another Gracie Allen gag.
“That recipe you gave me,” says Patty, winking at the camera. “You remember: ‘Take one large roast of beef, one small roast of beef, and put them both in the oven. When the little one burns, the big one is done.’ ”