The Jews in Oz
By Ophira Eisenberg
Early this December I toured with a variety show called Nice Jewish Girls Gone Bad. The group is comprised of some stand-up, a couple of songs, a few dance numbers (performed by dancers not myself) and hosted by Susannah Perlman under the name of Goddess Perlman. On this stretch my touring mates were a comedian from Los Angeles, Shawn Pelofsky and two dancers, Jessi Erian and Amber Bloom.
It was day six of the tour. We were en route to Charleston, West Virginia. I had never been to West Virginia before but had formed some snobby pre-conceived notions about it. Susannah claimed the online pictures of the town look really cute. Would we never learn the lesson of trusting online pictures? As we rolled into town, the gargantuan sized mullet wearing humans I saw walking slowly to their cars didn’t bode well.
Were there even Jews there? I had been performing with Nice Jewish Girls for quite a few years and I knew what assortment of audiences it drew: Jews. Other groups would come out too, including lesbians, a few gay men and a smattering of other non-Jews and non-gays who were just attracted to the title, or more often, knew someone in the show. Charleston actually has a Jewish population evidenced in numerous websites with images of beautiful synagogues and details on the Jewish cemeteries. None of it screamed: Vibrant! Active! Alive! But it did say “we’ve been here a while and we know how to post things on the internet.”
We pulled into the parking lot across from our venue, which was more a broken down dive bar surrounded by decrepit houses and prison-esque fencing. It was jarring change from our gig the night before in a beautiful 300-seater theatre.
We started to unload the large bags of costumes as Susannah went in search the manager named Roadblock, a mild-mannered twenty-year old man with a lip pierce. Roadblock was an appropriate moniker because, his width matched his height.
Entering the bar was like entering Cheers if everyone had really let themselves go. The joint wanted to be funky and cool but it had been forgotten about as the years passed and the grime settled in. On the far side five brightly lit gambling arcade games flashed the words “Keno!” flanked by two old televisions. In the middle of the room were two long black Formica tables, surrounded by vinyl chairs, all which had been expertly repaired with silver duct tape. It was possible that this bar was featured in the movie, “The Accused.”
Eleven people were already seated, waiting patiently for the show including an odd family made up of two extremely large women sporting neon pink and orange hair and their husbands or boyfriends or brothers. A few other older couples loomed, including women who looked like they adjusted their bouffant and walked out straight out of a Far Side cartoon. And then there was the table of the Jews. They ordered a round of waters and one woman in a festive red vest, who made a point of telling me that her name was Shelly, asked me when the show would start exactly. She would prefer if it started sooner than later.
The regulars seated at the bar were a whole different story; like Terry, an older man with snowflake white hair whose age matched the number of drinks he had already consumed, and a younger woman, Wendy, who vaguely resembled Janis Joplin and sported a turquoise T-shirt that read “I’m Kicking Ass”.
I was starting to find the whole thing amusing when the dancers stormed passed me. They had to deal with the hassle of finding a place to change into their costumes in-between comics. No such area existed. Roadblock came up with the solution of stuffing them in a dirty kitchen with caked on bacon grease from the early nineties. Since it had no door, Roadblock stapled a dirty kennel blanket to the doorframe, and voila! It was their “dressing room”. They were pissed and started stealing beers from a cooler in the back of the battered kitchen. I wasn’t particularly enthused about going on stage in front of these people either, but I have also been numbed by too many awful gigs over the years. The fact that this place had four walls, a working microphone, and an audience put it in the upper twenty-five percent.
More confused Jews rolled in as well as a collection of Charleston’s hipster thirty-something’s with their hoodies, expensive sneakers, and healed over facial piercing scars. The studs had to be taken out when they got the job at Wachovia.
Susannah in her blue and white sequin gown hit the stage. The crowd had reached its peak size of thirty. She threw down some jokes to silence as the crowd is collectively baffled by what is happening in front of them. Even the Jews squinted their eyes, as if that might help their brain understand the jokes. She peddled through five or six minutes and resorts to introducing the first act, which was me. As I made my way to the stage, two lesbians, one in a trucker cap the other in a skinny tie, took seats on stools near the Keno machines.
For a crowd that didn’t viscerally connect to half the stuff that was coming out of my mouth, they were doing their best to have a good time.The drunks were starting to get rowdy including Terry who decided to approach the stage like a slow zombie. Shawn joked around with him for the crowd’s enjoyment and asked him what he did for a living. Terry replied with long seconds between his words but finally spit out, “I’m an anesthesia tech.” How hilarious is it for the town drunk to claim he’s an anesthesiologist?! I turned to share a laugh with Roadblock but he just nodded sincerely in response. “Are you serious??” I mouthed. He nodded again. Terry’s status changed from harmless alcoholic to a representation of what’s wrong with the world, and more specifically West Virginia. Then I heard what sounded like a rim shot, as the lesbian couple had discovered the remains of a drum kit underneath the counter and began tagging all the bits on stage.
Wendy was the next to have her moment in the limelight after making the mistake of stumbling right in front of the stage on her way back from the restroom. She was called out by Susannah and also asked what she does for a living. Wendy seemed startled by the inquiry and responded in all earnest, “Well…most of the time I just try to get back to my chair at the bar.” Deep wisdom in that Wendy. No wonder she was “kicking ass.”
The scene had morphed into a three ring circus with Terry and Wendy hooting and hollering from their bar stools, the lesbians playing as the backup band, three hipsters dancing by the gambling machines, and finally the Jews in their Christmas vests staring at the show on stage, trying to get something out of the whole thing.
We took our bows to a thunderous applause that seemed inconsistent. The Jews were the first to leave but made a point to mention they felt they were part of something special. The impatient Shelly grabbed my hand and said “You were terrific!” It was the first time I had seen her smile all night. The neon haired women quickly surrounded Shawn like rabid fans and the bouncer gave me a fresh Jack and Coke and announced that Heather the bartender was getting her haircut by the dumpster. I peered out the back door and there was Heather at the far corner of a pitch black alleyway sitting next to a dumpster with her apron now tied around her neck getting a haircut. I approached mostly due to the confidence and curiosity a few Jack and Cokes gave me to get involved in any pocket of insanity and asked, “Are you sure you can see what you’re doing in the darkness?” The random hairdresser replied in a fitting Southern drawl, “Oh don’t worry, I’m a professional honey.” Clearly. Her hair salon was called the Cut and Dump.
I reentered the bar where the dancers were boogying with Terry. Shawn was signing autographs for the robust Day-Glo haired women while the lesbians had abandoned their rhythm section to help Susannah pack up her costumes and props. One of the hipster grunge guys approached me brandishing an extra beer as bait. He told me how much he liked the show and how it was very different from anything he’s seen in Charleston. He slipped something into my hand. I subtly glanced down to identify it as a small bag of pot. “As a tip,” he said warmly. I blushed. They were a strange bunch and maybe a little back-woodsey, their enthusiasm about the show maybe me feel inwardly guilty about how I had judged them. They were open-minded enough to express gratitude for something that they didn’t like…or even get. But they could identify that we had put some work into it, so they were thankful. At the end of the night I attempted to hug Roadblock. It was like hugging a rolled up carpet.
The lesbians continued to act as our unionized roadies, loading our stuff back in the car. Wendy and Terry stayed close, singing some favorite song while the neon haired fat women followed Shawn to the door like loyal pets. The remaining folks from the bar poured out onto the street and surrounded our car, and as if we were Dorothy finally on our way home from Oz, they waved us off and wished us well. Eventually Roadblock got out of the way and we were permitted to go. There’s no place like West Virginia.
Ophira Eisenberg is a comedian and writer from New York. Visit OphiraEisenberg.com.