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One summer
night I was sitting in front of the goggle box,
waiting for a ball game to come on. Since I am
a White Sox fan, I have to admit that there is
something masochistic about that. But,
nevertheless, there I was, an unopened box of
Screaming Yellow Zonkers at my side, along
with a six-pack of Iron City beer, a tasty
combination for suffering Sox games.
I found myself watching a classical
contemporary sitcom, the sort that features a
bevy of screaming women darting
about an apartment, mugging ferociously while
belting out lines at breakneck pace to the
accompaniment of thunderous taped guffaws.
The only male on the show appeared to be an
undersized tradesman of some sort who wore
pliers and wire cutters attached to his belt while
he, also, bellowed his lines and rolled his eyes
maniacally. It was precisely the sort of show
that I avoid like a galloping case of cold sores.
I was just about to flip the knob when
suddenly one of the characters, her face
contorted in what the taped audience obviously
took to be a wildly comic expression, stopped
me in my tracks. Popping the top on an Iron
City to steady my nerves, I realized I had seen
that expression before. After getting a grip on
myself, which isn't easy these days, it all came
back to me. Of course! I had been an
eyewitness to a truly historic moment in
American pop culture.
Suddenly I was back again in second grade at
the Warren G, Harding School, seated among
the rabble that forms the last letters of the
alphabet, when Miss Shields announced that the
class would be traveling by bus to Chicago on a
"scientific field trip." My friend Schwartz and I
applauded loudly, since any excuse to escape the
classroom was good enough for us.
The next day the bus ride to The Loop was
the usual mass of yelling and hollering kids,
sullen girls and frequent "rest stops" at Texaco
stations.
"Boys and girls, there will be a specially
interesting thing for us to see on this trip, so I
want all of you to behave today and you may learn something as well as enjoy yourselves."
Well, she was right. It wasn't until that moment
of realization hit me while I was watching that
dumb comedy show that I knew how much I
had learned and seen that day.
The trip was to The Merchandise Mart; the
Windy City's vast monument to greed and
money. Enormous, forbidding, it towered above
us like some vast, impenetrable, concrete
monolith. Miss Shields lined us up alphabetically
and marched us into the cavernous lobby. We all
wore large yellow buttons with our names and
addresses printed on them, so that if we got
separated from the pack and lost among the
scurrying merchants, at least there'd be some
hope of rescue.
The Mart was celebrating something called "A
Century of Progress Science Show." For hours
we paraded past booths displaying electric-eye controlled milking machines, advanced
stainless steel coconut shredders, the latest thing in potato digging tractors, and on and on and on. Miss
Shields chirped away, explaining each wonder to
us, until the heavy gray-flannel claw of
boredom had clutched each one of our peewee
minds in its numbing grasp. Fistfights broke out;
girls cried. Miss Shields time and again lashed us
onward.
Suddenly, without warning, we stumbled
upon History in the making. I'm sure all of my
classmates still remember what
happened at that significant booth.
RADIO-VISION, the big red, white and blue
banner read. A crowd surged around this
exhibit, little realizing. for the most part that
they were seeing the future. Red, yellow,
green, blue and orange lights played over the
stage. A sharp, razor-thin pitchman in a
checkered sports coat appeared and addressed
the crowd.
"Radio-vision, ladies and gentlemen, is the
most astounding wonder of the age!" (Blast of
trumpets over the PA system.) "For the first
time, man can send actual pictures through the
ether, true-to-life, realistic and moving."
(Rumble of drums over PA.) "In just a few
years, homes all over this blessed country will
have Radio-vision bringing Theater, the Arts and
Beauty to every home!" ("America the
Beautiful" for a few seconds.) "And I see we
have with us today a delegation of
schoolchildren who will live to see all these
wonders come to pass."
The crowd jostled in excitement,
contemplating the golden future. Then he went
on: "I will select one of the children to
demonstrate Radio-vision for all of us here
today."
Great Scott! His steely eyes scanned our
motley crew. His index finger shot out.
"You there, little boy. You."
The class was in an uproar. Seconds later,
Schwartz was hauled up on the platform. Miss
Shields protested feebly. Why not Esther Jane
Allberry, who could play the piano? Why not
Jack Morton, who could recite "Old Ironsides"?
Why Schwartz, of all people? We soon found
out. The hand of fate had dipped into the
ragbag of humanity and plucked Schwartz out
of the rabble to create a new form.
"Boon, Schwartz, booo!" Flick hollered beside
me.
Schwartz grinned back happily from high
above us. The pitchman took over.
"Ah, the young man is named Schwartz." He
patted Schwartz's furry knob. "I will now place
him in that fully enclosed room at the rear of
the exhibit. It is our studio.' The lights will be
turned on, and you will then receive the
surprise
of your life!"
The crowd murmured.
"What do I do?" Schwartz squeaked.
"Just wave. Or smile. Just be yourself." The
pitchman spoke with the smooth delivery of one
who had given this spiel countless times in the
past. A well endowed blonde, dressed in a
crimson bathing suit with a silver sash draped
over her shoulder reading "MISS RADIO-VISION U.S.A.," hurried Schwartz off
stage.
"Hey Schwartz, watch your step!" Flick
yelled. The crowd applauded.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to
witness . . . RADIO-VISION!" (Blast of
trumpets.)
The lights dimmed until we were in total
darkness. From somewhere a deep, throbbing
hum filled the air. The crowd fell silent. High
above the stage, a bluish-green square of light
appeared, growing brighter and brighter.
"Ladies and gentlemen, watch the screen.
What you are about to see is transmitted
without wires or optical equipment. It is the
magic of
Radio-vision!"
"Holy smokes, would you look at that!" Flick
muttered, his voice cracking with emotion. From
out of the strange glare of that bluish light we
could all see Schwartz staring at us, his eyeballs
bugging, his mouth hanging agape in a classic
Schwartz expression that we all knew so well
from whenever he was called upon in class.
Someone near the front laughed. Within
seconds, Schwartz had scored the first TV belly-boff.
The crowd roared with laughter. Suddenly hit
by creative inspiration, Schwartz stuck his
thumbs in both ears, extending his tongue fully
until it touched the tip of his nose, then crossed
his eyes. This elicited a giant roar from the
crowd, which had grown enormously. People
were coming from all directions to join in.
Schwartz's reputation was growing.
"Please tell him to stop that!" Miss Shields
croaked in the darkness, fruitlessly attempting to
salvage the dignity of the Warren G. Harding
School. Schwartz began wiggling his ears, a
legendary talent of his that until now had been seen only
by a few of his closest friends. The mob
cheered and yelled for more. Schwartz obliged,
tilting his head back and displaying his famous
Adam's-apple trick. His Adam's apple bobbed
up and down his neck like a yo-yo, to
thunderous applause. Then they turned on the
sound. Schwartz did his Donald Duck imitation,
followed by Porky Pig: "Th-th-th-that's all,
folks."
The lights came on and Schwartz, no longer
pale green, emerged a Star.
My mind snapped back to the present. The star
of the sitcom, a lady who curiously resembled
Jimmy Carter in drag, filled the screen, her
Adam's apple bobbing in a pale imitation of
Schwartz's inspired
shtick.
My God, she was
using Schwartz's patented Adam's-apple bit! I
took a huge slug of Iron City to steady my
nerves.
"You're not doing it right!" I yelled at the
screen, knocking my beer over on the rug in
excitement. The taped crowd howled with
laughter.
"You dumb boobs, you shoulda seen
Schwartz do it!"
She grinned vacuously, feebly attempting
the legendary Schwartz take. The credits rolled,
and the show was over.
I settled back, limp from the excitement of
Discovery. I remembered my old man's
comment after he had seen Radio-vision:
"It'll never go. Sure, a few chowder brains
will sit around and watch clowns roll their eyes
and yell, but unless they put something else on,
it's a bomb."
My old man, history's first TV critic.
Schwartz was never the same after that. His
historic turn before the cameras had changed us
all. It was that last vacuous, dumb look of his
that I have remembered through these long
years: the same look that hit me that night
watching that primitive sitcom. Schwartz was a
pioneer, a man ahead of his time. Today, had
he followed his destiny, he would no doubt
have his own series and be hailed a comic
genius for his brilliant
shtick.
Especially that bit
with the Adam's apple.
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