Chapter 10: The One With Cherry On Top

When the First Class Passengers were called for boarding, Hairdo was of course at the front of the line. We held back. It’s not like overhead luggage space is limited in the front of the plane, and we even let the handicapped and the families with children board before we formed line at the boarding pass check. We had our seats in Row 2, and when we claimed them, I could see that Hairdo was way back in Row 8, shooting us vitriolic glares. Sticks and stones...

For the first two hours of our 11+ hour flight, we kept up a light conversation. Cherry’s real name came out — Jane Margoulis — and that she was the youngest of four children and the only girl. Her father was a pipe-fitter, so were her three brothers, and young Jane was headed there, too. While learning the trade at construction sites, she was ribbed about her size constantly, and she learned to return the digs with interest. At almost seventeen, two of her brothers took her to an improv night. She was tall enough that nobody thought to see her ID. She loved the atmosphere, she loved the coarse humor, and when an amateur performer laid into her because of her height, she turned the tables by making digs about the guy’s lack of size. The guy was a douche, and most of the patrons cheered her on when he got angry and called her an ‘ugly slapper’. That ended his gig, for the two Margoulis brothers made rather short work of showing him to the door and the pavement beyond.

The manager apologized to her, and for the heck of it asked her to take the mike herself. She was raw, she had no program, but she found that being a pipe-fitter was enough to make the drunk patrons laugh. She was hooked then. Three weeks later, she and her brothers returned to the club with a half-assed program that still relied heavily on the pipe-fitter connotations, but also on situations at work and towering over her male coworkers.

She still learned the trade, but weekends were spent at the improv club, developing her act, but also watching and listening to more established comedians. When she received her journeyman certificate at eighteen, she went journeying all over England, Wales and Ireland, always stopping to work in the larger towns which could boast comedy clubs. Earning her living with construction site work, she spent weekends in the clubs, developing her act and getting routine. She also acquired some ink to project the tough chick image, and soon she got her first paying gigs.

At twenty, she could support herself with comedy, spending most of the year on the road, and later that year a talent scout discovered her. She had her first television gigs in late-night comedy shows, which suited her coarse humor. At about that time, she discovered that her programs and her style would forever restrict her to late night TV and low class clubs, and having saved a bit of money, she went back home and completed her A levels, focussing on English language, writing skills and sociology. She also visited theatre classes whenever possible and worked on her diction and speech skills.

Now, at 26, she had her own tours, organized by her manager, a retired comedian of national repute, and she filled theaters, small concert venues and large clubs. Her manager had also organized her tour of California venues, but decided to stay back due to a deteriorating neurological disorder. We spontaneously promised to help her along and to find affordable lodgings for her at her tour stops.

About three hours after the start, we decided to catch some shuteye and tilted our seats into sleep position. Of course, we slept lightly, but I was pleasantly rested when the lights went on again and we were served a second meal which we truly enjoyed. In the middle of the food service, the plane was hit by a few minor bumps in the road and the seatbelt sign went on. We were rather undisturbed, but then there was a real jolt, with the plane dropping by a few feet, followed by a shriek from behind. Screwing my head around, I saw our friend from the lounge fairly soaked in rather expensive Rioja. It was a shame; the wine I mean.

This was only the start to a tantrum worthy of a 5-year-old on a sugar rush. The flight attendants of course rushed to help Hairdo, bringing wet wipes and dabbing off red stains, but the bespoke costume was clearly ruined and the muslin blouse had a second life as dish rag coming. At first, the Rioja victim was close to tears, but soon she picked up steam, berating the flight attendants, threatening legal action, and loudly complaining about the captain for flying ‘too fast over those holes’.

At this point, we were convulsing with laughter, fortunately shielded by our headrests against Hairdo’s angry stares. The purser appeared now, trying to calm the woman, but to no avail. She had a full head of steam by then, questioning the purser’s qualification, calling the pilots, the attendants and the ground crews idiots and worse.

“Don’t get involved, Jenn,” I whispered urgently. “You of all people won’t calm her down.”

“I don’t want to calm her, I just want to slap her silly,” Jenn hissed, but I could hear the laughter in her whisper.

It took indeed the captain to get the woman settled down. We could not hear most of his words, but I swear the acronym ‘TSA’ was mentioned at least once. One of the crew provided her with a short coat, while another helpful soul took her jacket and returned it after fifteen minutes with the stains gone — they must have some powerful stain removers for emergencies. It was of course wet, but in the dry cabin air, there was a chance it would largely dry during the remainder of the flight. If Hairdo said ‘thank you’, it must have been under her breath.

With all that entertainment, an hour passed unnoticed, and soon the flight attendants handed out the immigration and customs forms. Jenn helped Cherry with the entry form, having some experience from before she’d gotten permanent resident status, while I filled the customs forms, which was easy since we returned with exactly the same stuff in our luggage with which we had left.

Once landed, we passed immigration, but we had to wait for Cherry to have her 3-month work visa properly stamped and her immigration form stapled into her passport. Still, we made good time and, after collecting our luggage and moving through customs, we found the studio limo Sharon had promised us and settled in for the long drive along I-405 and the Ventura Freeway to finally land at my condo in Conoga Park, once located close to where I used to work back then, but now decidedly out of the way. Still, I had a guest room where we let Cherry bunk. The room was there anyway, and Cherry could save a bundle by cancelling her hotel reservation. She was not exactly operating on an opulent budget.

With the fridge switched off and empty, we climbed into Isabella — Cherry with some difficulty — and drove to a Mexican family restaurant for a dinner. After that, we stopped to buy groceries to restock pantry and fridge, and after a glass each of Spanish Rioja which we drank in memory of Hairdo’s late and lamented costume, we called it a long day and went to bed.

The jet lag pretty much messed up our sleep, and by 4 am, we were wide awake, and after a quick breakfast, used the early morning for an easy commute to Burbank, leaving Cherry behind to acclimatize herself and make whatever phone calls she had to make.