little shop, little shop of horrors

This story appeared a few weeks ago on my illustration blog. I wrote it after I read that actor Jonathan Haze passed away. Jonathan was the star of the original 1960 version of the non-musical film "Little Shop of Horrors." However, the story is actually about my relationship with my mom. I had a great relationship with my mom and this story illustrates it very well. If you already read this story on my illustration blog... thanks. If you didn't... here it is.  — JPiC

Many, many years ago, my mom’s friend Arlene recommended a film called Little Shop of Horrors. She told my mom, in a phone conversation, that she had stumbled upon this little gem while trying to find something to watch during a late-night bout with insomnia. Arlene settled upon this quirky little flick after watching a scene that was riddled with references to the Yiddish humor she had heard as a child. Arlene explained to my mom that the film was somewhere between a science-fiction tale and the stand-up comedy of Borscht Belt comic Myron Cohen. In the days before VCRs, Netflix and other instantaneous home media, we would just have to wait until a repeat showing of Little Shop of Horrors popped up on a local UHF station. (UHF? Ask your parents.) 

A week or so later, my mom spotted a Saturday afternoon showing of Little Shop of Horrors in the daily TV listing of our local newspaper. My mom and I shared a wicked sense of humor, so based on Arlene’s account of the movie, it was right up our alley. My mom and I often bonded over eclectic comedy. We would watch episodes of the (then) newly-discovered Monty Python’s Flying Circus and — quite literally — roll on the floor in uncontrollable peals of laughter… much to my father’s chagrin. While we tried to catch our collective breath, my dad would glare at us and, bark, “I don’t see what’s so funny? I can’t understand a goddamn thing they’re saying!” He’d go back to chain smoking his Chesterfields, reading his newspaper and getting angrier and angrier as my mom and I continued laughing.

Jackie Joseph, Mel Welles, Jonathan Haze
and the ubiquitous Dick Miller

On Saturday afternoon, my mom and I sat down in our den to watch Little Shop of Horrors. My father was off in another room, listening to a Phillies game on the radio, smoking cigarettes and staying well out of earshot of our potential laughter. The film began and within minutes, we were laughing. Between the deadpan opening narration parodying the popular Dragnet format and the dialogue involving a bereft character slyly named “Mrs. Siddie Shiva,” our laughter had progressed to hysterics. As the film continued, it got goofier and goofier. There was a giant man-eating plant, a wildly-masochistic dental patient, a climactic chase through a toilet factory and all sorts of the Jewish humor that Arlene had told my mom about. The cast featured Jackie Joseph, a character actress who frequently showed up in sitcoms and whose distinctive child-like voice was often heard in cartoons like Josie and the Pussycats, as well as a host of unknown actors from producer/director Roger Corman's stock players… including an up-and-comer named Jack Nicholson (as the aforementioned dental patient). “Seymour,” the sad sack main character, was a typical “mama’s boy.” The role was played by Jonathan Haze, the former Jack Schachter from Pittsburgh, who was pumping gas in Southern California when he was offered a role in a Z-grade picture called Monster from the Ocean Floor.

For the next one hundred and eleven minutes, my mom and I laughed and laughed at the improbable antics unfolding in Mushnick’s Flower Shop. There were some overt horror aspects to the film, but overall, it was a hoot and, although presented in earnest, it was definitely played for laughs. 

Years later, my mom and I were surprised when an off-Broadway musical (a musical!), based on this silly little low-budget horror-comedy, was generating a buzz. We were doubly surprised when the off-Broadway production was made into a big-screen musical with Steve Martin, John Candy and Rick Moranis in the role of nebbish “Seymour.”

Jonathan Haze, who originated the role of “Seymour,” passed away this week at the age of 95. Although his published obituaries noted his appearance in Little Shop of Horrors as the pinnacle of his career, he actually enjoyed a career that spanned six decades. Jonathan appeared in over 20 films, including a dozen produced by his friend Roger Corman. He also wrote scripts for a science-fiction parody, as well as an episode of the hipster drama 77 Sunset Strip.

Jonathan also gave my mom and me some hearty laughs.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

just a perfect blendship

I don't remember exactly when I met Janie, but I'm glad I did.

I had a modest amount of friends in high school, both male and female. I was close with some, while others were "people I just knew." You know, I saw them in school — perhaps they were in some of my classes (the ones I actually went to) — but I never got together with them outside of regular school hours. Of course, there were my closer friends, the ones I hung out with and bonded with for the four years of high school... and some years beyond.

Janie was a truly great friend. I didn't realize at the time just how great a friend she was. When we met (whenever that was) we bonded instantly. I don't really know how much we had in common, but our personalities just clicked. In hindsight, she was a true and loyal friend and we never had a cross word or disagreement. I cannot even say that for some of my closest friends. I butt heads plenty of times with Albert, who was undoubtedly my best friend in high school. Sometimes our animosity would keep us from speaking for days, even weeks. Sure, we would eventually reconcile and "forgive and forget," but that never transpired with Janie.

Janie and I got together frequently. We would grab something to eat or go to a concert or a movie or just hang out. I saw Tim Curry in concert with Janie at the tiny Shubert Theater in Philadelphia in 1978. It was a terrific (and intimate) show and I recall embarrassing Janie when I screamed "HI TIM!" at a particularly quiet moment in the evening's performance. Tim stopped and peered into the audience, using his hand to shade his eyes from the spotlight. I laughed and Janie playfully tried to distance herself from me while feigning humiliation.

Janie asked me — possibly begged me — to accompany her to see the sprawling, three-hour-plus epic that was Warren Beatty's Reds. I suppose she had exhausted all of her options before she relented and dialed my phone number. I went — because that's what friends do — even though I knew nothing about the film or its history or its subject matter or, specifically, its length. After an hour of so of fidgeting in the dark and shifting in my seat, I whispered to Janie that I had absolutely no idea what was going on. Jani stared intently at the screen and waved me off with a brusque "shush." At the two hour mark, the lights in the theater came up. I exhaled withy relief, loudly exclaiming, "Well, I'm glad that's over." Janie frowned and informed me this was just the intermission. There was still another ninety minutes ahead. My eyed widened... but I stayed. Because that's what friends do.

I met my wife in early 1982 and I remember Janie giving one of the most excited responses when I told her of my plans to get married. Of course, Janie was included on the guest list. Some of my closest friends from high school were not, as I had lost touch with them or, in some cases, an irreparable falling out had occurred. But, not with Janie. No matter how long the gaps were between contacts, we just picked up where we left off. Because that's what friends do.

In 2010, one of my closest friends took his own life. He had actually known Janie when they were little kids. I reconnected with Janie at a memorial service held in my friend's honor. She had moved out of the area some time previously and had recently moved back to Philadelphia. We made plans to meet for lunch and just a few weeks later, we found ourselves in a little Japanese restaurant in center city Philadelphia talking and laughing like we had in high school. We caught each other up on our respective lives and made plans to not wait so long to get together again. (Unfortunately, that has not yet happened.)

Somewhere along the line, Janie convinced me to join Facebook. (No, I'm not looking to point blame.) In reality, Facebook, for all its faults — and there are plenty! — has provided a convenient platform for keeping tabs on folks from my past in a comfortably passive manner. Every so often, Janie will "like" or comment positively on one of my many (many, many, many) Facebook posts. On birthdays and anniversaries, Janie is always there with a heartfelt greeting or a sweet memory. She has expressed her genuine joy at the path my life has taken and for the loving relationship I have with Mrs. P. And, somehow, I know that Janie's joy is genuine. I see Janie's own accomplishments in infrequent posts (because nobody posts as much as I do) and I give them a "thumbs up" or some sort of sarcastically-backhanded "Josh Pincus" comment — knowing full well that Janie "gets me."

Because that's what friends do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the card cheat

A day or so ago, I was talking to my son on my cellphone. Now, I think I am pretty well-versed in the ins-and-outs of my phone, but every so often, I have one of those mishaps that I accuse "old people" of having. You know, something goes inexplicably wrong with a piece of sophisticated electronic equipment and the elicited response is "It must have done that by itself! I didn't touch anything!" Yes, I have pointed the finger at many an older person for such an infraction, knowing full well that it was absolutely something they did. Cellphones — as well as computers, tablets, remote controls — don't just do things. The user just did something — pushed a button, hit a key, double-clicked on something they should have single-clicked on — of which they were not aware and triggered some unexpected result. That story about Bartlett Finchley, on a 1960 episode of Twilight Zone, was just a story. Machines aren't "out to get us." We're just.... um.... clumsy.

So, during my conversation with my son, I must have pressed my face hard on the screen, essentially "clicking" an icon on the home screen. This brought up my Contacts. Then, unknown to me, I dialed a number at the top of the list. It was an acquaintance from high school named Adam*. What Adam's name and number is doing in my Contact list, I am not quiet sure. I haven't spoken to him in over forty years. And even forty years ago, I had very little to say to him. My son was in mid-sentence and suddenly he was interrupted by a muffled ringing. I looked around the room and saw nothing unusual. I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw Adam's name in big letters across the screen along with the words " Dialing...." Panicked, I hit the red "end call" icon and continued my conversation. I didn't mention what had just transpired to my son, lest I be subject to a little finger-pointing myself.

I knew Adam in high school. He was a friend-of-a-friend. I wasn't especially fond of him. If I remember, he hung with a different group than I did. (There were a lot of students in my high school.) Our paths crossed very infrequently. Our few encounters were not pleasant ones. He was one of those "one-up-you" kind of guys. Every comment was met with his attempt to do you one better. If you said your father just bought a car, he would counter that his father just bought a better and bigger car. If you told of a restaurant you went to, he would belittle your experience and tell you of a fancier and more expensive restaurant he went to with his family. His face was twisted into a constant sneer and you could just feel him looking down on everyone.

When I was in high school, I got together with a group of friends on a very irregular basis to play cards. It wasn't a "high stakes" game. We played for nickels and dimes. Some of us didn't have jobs and those that did, didn't have a lot of expendable income. It was a friendly, often silly, game and more of an excuse to congregate to talk, eat and listen to records. If we got in a few hands of poker, well then the evening was a success. One weekend evening, I showed up at a friend's house to play cards and Adam was there. I guess my friend was his friend, too, although I don't think I was aware that they even knew each other. This was the first time that Adam was included in our card game.

We all sat down at the table, making sure that we were properly surrounded with soda and chips and other assorted — yet very important — snacks. Someone made sure that the stereo was pumping out an album side that we all agreed on. We were ready to begin. Adam, of course, spoke up first. He suggested a bunch of variations on poker that we could play. Everyone at the table turned to him and frowned, opting instead to play the games we were used to — five-card draw, seven-card draw and something with a specific card or suit designated as "wild." Nothing too complicated. Adam scoffed at our plebian decision and reluctantly went along with majority rule, his signature sneer forming across his lips.

We played for an uneventful hour or so... until Adam got a little squirmy. Then someone spotted a few cards under Adam's wrist. He was unsuccessfully trying to conceal them from his fellow players. Someone angrily stood up and alerted the other players.

"What are those cards?," he yelled. Those who were not immediately aware of what was going on, were certainly aware now. Adam had been caught cheating! In a nickel-and-dime card game! Among friends!

Adam hemmed and hawed and made a million different excuses. I stood up. I began to put on my coat. I thanked my friend for hosting the game that evening. Then I turned to Adam and told him that I would never ever play cards in a game that included him. I left. In the ensuing weeks and months of high school, I avoided Adam as much as physically possible. I never spoke to him again.

Many years later, my wife ran into Adam at a merchandise trade show. He was working as a salesman for a local wholesaler from which my wife often made purchases. Adam was showing my wife some new item and they got to talking. Through their conversation, he discovered that she was married to me and that we knew each other from high school. Later in the evening, my wife mentioned running into Adam. I hadn't heard his name in years! Many, many years! As soon as my wife spoke his name, I told her that he was caught cheating in a card game when we were teenagers. She frowned and the conversation ended.

After I "cheek-dialed" Adam on my cellphone, he called me back and left a voicemail for me. I listened to his message. He said he saw I called and he looked forward to my returning his call... as though we were best friends and our friendship was a strong bond that had remained strong for all these years.

I deleted his contact information from my phone.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* His name is not "Adam."

gigolo aunt

Aunt Clara and JPiC at the Philadelphia Zoo, August 1964.

When I was little, my Aunt Clara was a fixture in my life. She was very, very close with my mother, who was her little sister. So, she was regularly at our house for dinner, for holidays and, sometimes, for no reason at all. She would often accompany my family on short trips to Atlantic City. She came to birthday parties. She went along with us on visits to the zoo. She was around so much that I would refer to her as my "second Mommy." And, since she had no children of her own —boy! — did she love and relish that.

She did some strange, inexplicable and surprising things, too. One year, at Halloween, when I was too old to go trick-or-treating, I decided to don a costume and scary make-up to frighten to kids who came to our door. Aunt Clara was staying at our house that night. When I spotted a group of costumed kids approaching our front door, I'd hit the lights, cue the eerie music and open the door, letting them behold my horrible visage. Aunt Clara popped in and asked the kids, "Are you scared?" — totally breaking the illusion and ruining the moment. A few years later, at a party for me in lieu of a formal Bar Mitzvah, Aunt Clara made off with a copy of Stevie Wonder's Fulfillingness' First Finale that was supposed to be a contest prize for one of my guests. I'm still not sure how she managed to sneak around a bunch of thirteen-year-olds and cop that album.

As I got older, I started to see things in my Aunt Clara that, perhaps, were always apparent, but I may have been too young to understand. For one thing, she treated my father like shit. Sure, my dad had his share of faults, but Aunt Clara took a "disgruntled mother" role towards her sister's husband. She criticized and belittled my father, perhaps in misplaced retaliation for her own failed marriage. After Aunt Clara divorced my Uncle Sal, she was romantically linked to a mystery man, referred to only as "Dee." For twenty-plus years, no one ever met him, although Aunt Clara talked about him often.

I believe that Aunt Clara had a difficult time accepting the fact that I grew up. She continued to treat and talk to me like I was a child well into my high school and early adult years. When I got married, I began to see behavior from Aunt Clara that I'm sure existed previously, but I guess I just ignored. She was invited, as a part of my family, to my new in-laws' house for dinner. My mother-in-law was serving buffet-style and Aunt Clara pulled a chair right up to the buffet table, tucked a napkin in her blouse and began eating. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

When my mother died, Aunt Clara gave an Oscar-worthy performance as the grief-stricken mourner. She dramatically sobbed and wept at the funeral, loudly proclaiming, "I'm all alone! My sister is gone!" This, in front of my father, my brother and me and after she had been living in Florida and not seeing her beloved sister for several years. When my father died, two years later, she asked my brother, via a late-night phone call, "Should I come up to Philadelphia for the funeral?" I stood next to my brother, as he answered that the decision was totally hers, that she should do what she felt was right for her. The next day, she called to tell me that she would not be coming in for my dad's funeral, explaining, "I wanted to come, but your brother insisted that I shouldn't make the trip." As she lied to me, I felt betrayed. I wondered what else in my life she had lied to me about.

I did, however, invite Aunt Clara to my son's Bar Mitzvah because (as I was told by my wife) it was the right thing to do. Although Aunt Clara did not attend, she once again surprised us by sending a gift.

Over the years, my brother remained in touch with Aunt Clara. I, however, did not. He and his family made annual visits to her retirement complex in Florida. I did not. Upon his return, my brother would give me a brief rundown of the trip and Aunt Clara's current status and day-to-day activities. I feigned interest.

At the end of December 2014, my brother returned from his most recent journey to Florida. It was to be his final one. Aunt Clara had passed away after months of declining health. My brother filled me in on details and I politely listened. Then, he told me the two of us were named as beneficiaries of an insurance policy Aunt Clara had purchased from her employer decades earlier. I was shocked that my name had not been purposely stricken from every piece of Aunt Clara's inheritance. After providing specific information and a month or so of processing, I received a check for a thousand bucks.

I have to hand it to Aunt Clara. She was full of surprises right to the end.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com