Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny by Marlo Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

sign on the front door that read, “WELCOME HOME MOM & DAD!” then make pom-poms and write little cheers.
    “You are the best mom and dad in the land . . . !”
    The day our parents were to arrive, we’d watch excitedly through the front window to see when their car was approaching. Then we’d sprint out the front door and go into our routine. They would barely be out of the car, and we were all over them like puppies—hugging and squealing and looking for our presents. The circus was back.
    WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I wrote an essay in school called “Viva Today.” It was about how everyone was so busy working for tomorrow, that they sometimes forgot about living their lives today. I used my father as an example.
    “He’s always away, working hard to make a better tomorrow for his children,” I wrote, “but when he finally comes home for good, we’ll probably be grown and gone.” And I ended with the words, “So, I say, Viva Today! ”
    A few nights later, our parents made their daily call to us from the road. Every night, they would make the call person-to-person to a different child, giving each of us our own turn.
    “Long distance, calling Miss Marlo Thomas.” It was very exciting. Then we’d all get on the phone, one by one, and tell them about our day and what we did in school.
    On that particular night, I proudly told Dad that I had gotten an A on my school essay, so he asked me to read it to him. I did. When I was done, there was a silence on the other end. Finally, he said softly, “That’s beautiful, Mugs. Daddy needs to think about that.”
    Years later, I would learn that soon after he called Uncle Abe (Abe Lastfogel, his agent, mentor and surrogate father) and told him he wanted to get off the road. Could Abe get him a TV series? That set the wheels in motion. Dad spitballed with his writers, and they came up with the premise for the show—about a nightclub entertainer who is always on the road and desperately trying to have a family life. They got their title from what Mom used to say whenever my father was coming home from the road and she threw us out of her bed.
    “We have to make room for Daddy.”
    ABOUT A YEAR after my father died, I went on the road with the national company of John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation . It was an eight-month separation from my husband and home. At the time, Phil was taping Donahue five days a week, and I was working six days a week in the play. So we took turns visiting each other, finding as many ways as we could to be together on our days off.
    Opening in a new city every month, traveling and then promoting the show on your one day off is hard work. But Six Degrees is a wonderful play with a terrific part, and I loved performing it.
    At night I’d get back to the hotel feeling exhilarated by that evening’s performance—all the laughs, applause and affection of the audience. I’d have my nightcap of an Amstel Light and a Snickers from the minibar, look out the window at another strange skyline, and think, Is this what it was like for you, Dad? Loving the few hours of getting laughs and being appreciated by an audience, then facing a night alone away from home? You didn’t have the circus either, did you?
     
    DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .
    A Russian and an American were arguing about
whose country had the most freedom.
    The American said, “We’re so free in America,
if I want to, I can piss on the President’s car.”
    “Big deal,” replied the Russian. “We’re so free in
Russia, if I want to, I can take a crap in Red Square.”
    The American, feeling a twinge of guilt, confessed,
“Well, I have to admit. It’s true, I can piss on
the President’s car. But not while he’s in it.”
    “Well, since you’re being honest,” said the
Russian, “I will be honest, too. I can take a crap in
Red Square, provided I don’t take my pants off.”

Chapter 10
The First Laugh—Robin Williams
    If comic talent could be converted to nuclear energy,