 |
|
BETTER LATE: Miller finds her niche.
Rod Searcey |
Some people learn life’s lessons
in the school of hard knocks, some by example, but I sought my
answers in the classroom. I managed to build enough credits for
a bachelor’s degree in education, drift into a master’s in
creative arts, disintegrate into a certificate in library
science and soar to nirvana with a master’s in communication
from the Farm.
The year I graduated, I was sure I had arrived. But I could not
figure out where.
Indeed, it took me a full life span to discover my true calling.
I see me now, standing ankle-deep in a puddle of water,
attempting to swim while those around me splashed and spattered
me with laughter. I remember glorious proms when my stockings
sagged around my ankles, my strapless dress sunk to half-mast
and my date’s eyebrows soared at the sight of the little I had
to offer. I see myself, a three-time graduate, rushing to
capture the hot story that was yesterday’s headline. Through
this kaleidoscope of near misses and almost theres, I hear
laughter, wild delighted laughter . . . none of it mine.
Obviously I was put on this earth to make people laugh. Neither
my professors nor my parents nor my husbands realized my gift.
It took Kurtis Matthews at the San Francisco Comedy College to
ignite a genius no one suspected was there. In my 70th year, I
enrolled in his Beginner Comedy Class with five comedians barely
old enough to be my grandchildren. Matthews has been doing
professional comedy for 14 years, and he knows a joke when he
sees one. He looked me over as I entered class and said, “You
are funny!”
It must have been the red bonnet and the purple gown that
tickled him. In my day, no one went into the City de-frocked or
hatless. My fellow students were not as careful about their
toilette. They appeared: hips tattooed, tongues and noses
pierced, and belly buttons exposed by sagging jeans. I could see
I was hopelessly out of date. While my dress hinted at what was
beneath it, their see-through tops proclaimed “what you see is
what you get.”
I listened to comic routines that recommended substituting
Ex-Lax for Prozac to feel good, coming out in Sacramento, and
choking chickens before going to work. Why had Stanford not
prepared me for this kind of reality? All I learned there was
how to drink beer until 2 a.m. and get to my 8 o’clock on time.
What could I tell these sophisticates that they didn’t already
know? I rose to my feet, adjusted my girdle, shook my bra into
place and it came to me. I would explain underwear! None of them
wore it, and they probably weren’t even familiar with the term.
I waxed eloquent on the advantages of a good merry widow, a
solid foundation and an uplift that could change your attitude
even as it destroyed your innards.
They were amazed.
I knew then I was ready for graduate school. For the next five
weeks, I studied hard, rehearsed my routines and shattered my
assumptions. My fellow students discussed blow-drying their
privates and the delights of an open marriage. “He has a
girlfriend and so do I,” said our newlywed.
“Does that mean you have three mothers-in-law?” I asked.
“He does,” she said. “I have a dog.”
We appeared at Cobbs Comedy Club for our final exam. The crowd
had been drinking for an hour while we all gathered in a love
circle to give each other confidence. “Break a leg,” my
classmates said to each other, and then they smiled at me.
“You’ll be great,” they shouted.
“What did you say?” I asked.
My fellow comedians got on stage and discussed issues that
mattered to them. They talked about baboons in the gym, the
pitfalls of balding and the lies on package labels. Then it was
my turn. “Lynn Ruth is the only member of our troupe who might
die on stage,” warned Kurtis Matthews.
I nearly did.
 |
|
|
|
