A Bum Inheritance

I was awakened by my parents just twice when I was a kid after having already gone to sleep. Once it was when Neil Armstrong jumped off the ladder of the Lunar Module to become the first man on the moon. Mom and dad knew that I was a space nut and would never forgive them if I missed that historic broadcast. So they woke me. The other time was when my grandfather, who went by the name Benny Bell, appeared on “The Joe Franklin Show” on New York’s WOR-TV to demonstrate his latest invention: a pair of hot pants that steamed up whenever a pretty girl passed by. My parents knew how much I enjoyed Poppy Benny (as my sister and I always called him) and that I would never forgive them if I missed his live performance on the popular late-night program. So once again, they woke me.

Sure, I’d be tired the next day at school, but I didn’t care. After all, my grandfather was on television! How many of my friends could say the same thing about their own grandfathers? Theirs sold suits or were retired. Mine was no ordinary grandpa. Ordinary grandpas sat around grumbling about social security. Mine wrote books like “What Men Know About Women,” which was comprised entirely of blank pages. Ordinary grandpas fixed loose doorknobs. Mine created eyeglasses with windshield wipers to use in the rain, and printed congratulations cards for people whose bosses had died suddenly. Most grandfathers sat around watching television. Mine continued to write songs like “Everybody Wants My Fanny,” “A Goose for My Girl,” “Home Again (Without Pants)” and “Shaving Cream,” this last of which twice in his lifetime and once in mine had been popular on the radio. As a musical entrepreneur Benny Bell wrote, recorded, packaged, promoted and distributed his own records, more than 100 of them, and sometimes appeared on stage or on TV to sing his songs.

Poppy Benny’s main job, as I saw it as a child, was to make people laugh with his music, his inventions, his silly wordplay, his silly jokes and his nutty stories. He was fun and funny. I enjoyed him very much, and my parents understood that, which is why they knew they would have to wake me up that night, long ago, when he wore his hot pants for Joe Franklin. But what they didn’t know was that I was terribly confused by the message they drummed into my head throughout my entire childhood:

“God forbid that you should ever turn out to be anything like your grandfather.”

            As I got older I learned that my grandfather was an incredibly stubborn and paranoid man, impetuous with his career decisions, narrow minded in his choice of projects, and steadfastly disdainful of anyone’s professional advice. Looking back, I am now convinced that these traits were among those that made “The Joe Franklin Show” the pinnacle of his television career, and why “Shaving Cream” was his only record to reach a national radio audience. I came to realize, at long last, that my parents feared that I would somehow inherit Benny Bell’s obstinacy and mistrust. They must have wondered if those were qualities that would eventually define my own life and career. They knew I had a fondness for the arts—musical, theatrical, literary—and that it was very likely that I would try to carve out a career in one or more of those disciplines. They were scared. They knew it would be tough even without the personality profile of a Benny Bell. With it, well... that was just too scary to think about.          

            But when I reached adulthood, I summarily dismissed my parents’ fear; after all, unlike my grandfather, I accepted jobs that would support my family well, even though they were not the jobs I had dreamt about and would have preferred, and unlike him, I have eagerly accepted help and advice, direction and criticism, from many qualified experts along the way as a way of trying to reach a professional goal or two. He never did.

            I was not my grandfather. My parents were crazy. Of that I was convinced.

            Then I went to a party one night, heard a few interesting conversations and anecdotes, and found myself drifting off into a daydream in which those conversations and anecdotes became part of a play that I was writing at the time. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I began to remind myself of Benny Bell, just a little bit, mind you. Thinking back to my childhood I recalled how around company my grandfather was often found sitting alone in a corner of the room, singing or humming to himself instead of engaging with others and having real conversations. Difficult though it was, I had to admit to myself that I, too, drift off like that at social gatherings from time to time, thinking of all the books and plays and movies I would like to write one day. And if I’m not thinking of all the books and plays and movies I would like to write one day, then I’m daydreaming some of the ones I have already written into the success that they have not yet achieved. In fact, if I think very hard about it I can recall a handful of times when someone has had to say my name three times in order to get my attention at a social gathering.

Did I inherit social ineptitude from my grandfather? If so, it doesn’t seem to have gotten in the way of my social life. Maybe it’s such a small bit of inheritance that it’s practically invisible. No one’s ever mentioned it—not even my parents. And if they ever did, I’d tell them they are nuts, because even if I do drift for a moment now and again, I bounce right out of it and am always a cordial guest or host. No need to compare me to Benny Bell anymore, mom and dad.  

I was given an opportunity to do some more comparisons on my own when I signed a contract to write a book about my grandfather. Going through his papers and notebooks, hundreds of which I kept in a file cabinet in my basement (he had given them all to me shortly before passing away in 1999), I came across a small, thin, yellowed pamphlet that he wrote and copyrighted in 1925 titled “Hobo’s Union.” It was a tongue-in-cheek, eight-page rulebook for prospective members of an organization for bums.

It startled me. It frightened me. Here’s why.

Several years before that I had written a short play called “Homeless Equity,” about two people—a transient and his businessman companion—who try to raise money to build an organization that would do for indigents what Actor’s Equity does for stage performers.

I had never seen the “Hobo’s Union” booklet before writing that play.

I’m not stubborn or paranoid. I inherited Poppy Benny’s red hair, his love of music, even his vocal inflections. That stuff can be inherited. But weird story ideas?

            Maybe my parents weren’t so crazy after all.  

 

"Homeless Equity" was performed at the Beckmann Theater in 2007 as part of the series, "Six Tens from a Fifty," by the Etcetera Theatre Company. 

My new book, "Some Kind of Lonely Clown: The Music, Memory, and Melancholy Lives of Karen Carpenter," will be published by BearManor Media later in 2015. 

The book referenced in the article above is called "Grandpa Had a Long One: Personal Notes on the Life Career & Legacy of Benny Bell." Click the title. It's a link to the publisher's website. 

JoeltheWriter.com. JoelSamberg@gmail.com.