The Bag (short story)

 

Harvey Pinwheel was not the world’s best stand-up comedian. If anything, he was a bit middling. But he left his mark.

 

While Harvey wasn’t the most successful funny man, few artists leave an indelible mark on their artform. Harvey Pinwheel was the creator of The Bag Joke—or as it is sometimes known, one’s Pinwheel. And that is certainly a mark to leave.

 

Nobody believes that Harvey Pinwheel was his real name—which it wasn’t. It was Paris Wheeler—which is a perfect name perhaps for a balloon entertainer, which Paris Wheeler happened to be before he became a standup comedian.

 

If Paris Wheeler had come of age during vaudeville, he probably would have been a marquee triple-threat balloon artist, joke teller and unicyclist. Paris, or Harvey as we shall refer to him from now on, also had a knack for riding on just one wheel.

 

For a time, Harvey Pinwheel was the talk of the town—well, at least in the Kansas City metro area—as that fellow at county fairs and other such gatherings who could ride a unicycle while making balloon animals for children and telling jokes that were a tad funnier than the ones dad told at home, and always clean.

 

Alas, Harvey Pinwheel was a product of his times, and by the time the late 1960s rolled around, the only path beyond fair stages was telling jokes on stage sans cycle and balloons. One, there was already a famous comedian whose act included turning balloons into venereal diseases; Harvey knew his emerald green crocodiles couldn’t compete. Also, no one gives a shit about unicycles.

 

There isn’t a stand-up comedian worth his or her late-night diner salt who doesn’t have his or her own version of The Bag Joke, as in, “Hey, tell me your Bag Joke.” Or if you were really in the know, “Hey, tell me your Pinwheel.”

 

And this is precisely what has been said over the years by numerous inebriated, professional jokesters, gathered around greasy diner tables at three in the morning, exhausted from another evening of hocking chortles for cash and outdueling hecklers, but yet still in need of one final gut buster to make the shit shift complete.

 

One seasoned, balding veteran gobbles a bowl of apple pie a la mode and addresses the joined tables, “All right, you fuckfaces, whose got a Pinwheel?”

 

A game of Hungry, Hungry Hippos erupts. Everyone tries to weigh in first. But one voice emerges from the maelstrom.

 

“I know the original.”

 

There is a sacred pause—except for Dottie, a bit of a rising star on the comedy circuit (some say it’s because of her tits), who is so sauced that she’s passed out and snuffle-snoring into a lox bagel.

 

All other heads are focused on Hoppie, a star among stars, a crossover comedian movie star and talk show host with her very own Hollywood Star. She’s working on a new standup special and has been stretching out in the clubs lately.

 

Larry wipes ice cream from his several day-old mustache. “You know the original Pinwheel?”

 

Hoppie smiles, has a sip of tea. “I gotta say. It’s so fun to be on the front lines again. Indeed. The original Harvey Pinwheel ‘The Bag’ joke.”

 

Larry has assumed the role of group judge. “And how, pray tell, did you come upon this unique slice of comedic history?”

 

Hoppie dramatically unwraps the scarf from around her neck, stands up, slides her jacket onto the back of the chair. Performance time. “From the source himself.”

 

The table whispers in unison, “You knew Harvey Pinwheel?”

 

“I knew Paris Wheeler, before he became Harvey Pinwheel. Harvey was a Catskills soul, if there ever was. A bit of a gimmick comic. Balloons. Unicycle. And he could sing. Hell, he was in a Broadway production or two, maybe Showboat? But by the time the late 60s and 70s rolled around, funny men like Paris Wheeler had to adapt to the times or die a slow death of birthday party acts.”

 

One of the comics had pulled out a notepad and was taking notes. Hoppie reached down for another sip of tea.

 

“So Paris became Harvey, and Harvey gave up his schtick of church potluck-level humor and tried on something new for size. He was, okay. Harvey was like the poor man’s Bob Newhart.”

 

Larry laughed. “So Harvey Pinwheel was the poor man’s poor man.”

 

Hoppie smiled sideways, “That he was.”

 

The table side-smiled.

 

“But Harvey stumbled onto something. And I’ll never forget it. Because I was there. It was an end-of-the-career club on the Upper West Side. Zingers. It’s not there anymore. Predates most of you. Especially her.”

 

Hoppie pointed at Dottie, who was still making out with her salmon and cream cheese.

 

“I was working the bar that night. Strutting about in my comedy training bra—finally had found the courage to go from behind the bar to behind the mike. I always felt bad for Harvey—he got stuck with the slots at the end of the night, when the only ones left are either paying their checks or waiting for someone at their table to finish taking a leak so they can go home.

 

“In fact, that night, it was so quiet—we were pretty much empty, anyone left was too bored to heckle. I remember Harvey’s first words at the mike, which were often hard to hear. He always started too soft.

 

“He said, ‘I was driving down the road, and there was this bag.’”

 

Larry led a table chorus of: “I was driving down the road, and there was this bag.”

 

And, of course, this is how every version of The Bag Joke begins. Followed by:

 

“And I was sitting at this red light. The bag was in the other lane. It was windy, so you could sort of make out the shape. It was a little bit lumpy. Too lumpy. And my imagination started to race…”

 

This is where the scripted preface to The Bag Joke ends. Though most professionals will take it to a second level, which is more or less verbatim what Harvey Pinwheel said that historic evening:

 

“I thought: Wait, is that a body? A human body? I mean, it’s rather small. Maybe about the size of a baby.”

 

Someone in the seats either asked Harvey how old the baby was as a joke, or he asked himself. Either way, the entertainer herein acts as if someone has asked the question.

 

“How old? I don’t know, I don’t know much about babies. Maybe an infant?”

 

The entertainer acts as if someone has vocally cringed at the thought of an infant in a bag in the middle of a busy New York City street.

 

“Too young? Hmm. Is three old enough?”

 

Hoppie placed her hands on the back of her chair. “And that was all it took. There might have been a dozen folks in that place—including staff—but you could feel every ear tuned in, like a column of radar dishes all turned in the same direction.”

 

And, in fact, every ear of every comedian within earshot—plus a good many customers and staff—was tuned in tightly to Hoppie.

 

“And this is the original Harvey Pinwheel Bag Joke, as I remember it, as if it were yesterday.”

 

Hoppie pushed in her chair all the way, then assumed a position at an imaginary microphone, and seemed to shrink into a mildly anxious, rumpled version of herself. The entire diner realized it was witnessing something special.

 

“I was driving down the road, and there was this bag.

 

“And I was sitting at this red light. The bag was in the other lane. It was windy, so you could sort of make out the shape. It was a little bit lumpy. Too lumpy. And my imagination started to race.

 

“I thought: Wait, is that a body? A human body? I mean, it’s rather small. Maybe about the size of a baby.

 

Larry chimed in, “How old was the baby?”

 

Hoppie shrugged her shoulders and screwed her face a bit, “How old? I don’t know, I don’t know much about babies. Maybe an infant?”

 

Somehow, Dottie had been listening all along. She groaned to her bagel, “Jesus Christ. Who puts bagged infants in the street? You’re supposed to put them in the crisper!”

 

The table erupted with laughter. For, of course, The Bag Joke is nothing but an exercise in the superlative macabre and grotesque. Hoppie waited for calm to return to the peanut gallery. “Too young? Hmm. Is three old enough?”

 

From there, it was all Harvey:

 

“Still too young? Well, I’ve got to say, if there was a four year old in that bag, someone hasn’t been feeding him very well. Or her. Guess it could be a baby girl. Either way, boy or girl, someone should call social services, if you ask me.

 

“Unfortunately, nobody did. Ask me. So I didn’t. I think there was an accident up ahead, it’s New York. Traffic was stopped dead. Just like that baby in the bag.

 

“But I thought: What if the baby isn’t dead? Wait. Is a three year old still a baby? Should I say ‘child’? Is ‘dead child’ better than ‘dead baby’? I feel more guilty when I said ‘dead baby.’

 

“Dead baby. Dead child. Baby. Child. Dead. In a bag. Dead baby child in a bag?

 

“I mean, the baby could be alive. An alive baby? An alive child? Living? Or just ‘baby.’ Because if you don’t add ‘dead,’ we just assume it’s alive. Right?

 

“But there I was—not even knowing whether I should assume it’s a live child or a dead baby. And for all I knew, there was more than one dead baby or alive child in that bag. Or, who knows? Maybe even a puppy. Or a kitten. Someone should probably call animal services too.

 

“And then I thought: What a bureaucratic nightmare this is going to be! We’ll have the fire department, police, EMT, child protective services, animal services—definitely the media, and probably even the mayor’s office. And then God knows every kid with a camera is going to show up here. And, technically, I’m still behind the bag. You know, I’m never getting out of here!

 

Thanks, living child or dead baby, whoever you are! Thanks a lot! Now I’m never getting to my appointment! But, I mean, it’s in my favor if it’s a living baby, right? Or child. Nobody’s just going to let a living baby in a bag sit there in the street forever. They’ll take some pictures, then squirrel the thing away to some social worker’s office until the crackhead parents show up to claim it. But if it’s a dead baby, then it becomes an above-the-fold story in the papers for weeks, and, hell, they’ll probably impound my vehicle for the duration of the investigation. Jesus, I’m within 20 feet of the thing. Well, what if I become a suspect? What if I get tossed into a small room and handcuffed to a table and there’s a heat lamp and everything, just like in the movies. What if they start asking me questions? ‘Why didn’t you report the baby?’ ‘But I did report the dead baby! I’m the one who made the call, detective!’ ‘And who told you the baby was dead?’ ‘Detective, I just assumed—I mean, I—’ ‘You told the 911 dispatcher that you wanted to report a dead baby. In a bag. Why did you assume it was a dead baby?’ ‘Because I didn’t think it was a child, sir.’

 

“Well, that didn’t go over very well, did it? I’ll be gosh-darned if I’m going to report a dead or a living baby—or child—or even a kitten or puppy—to anyone, that’s for sure. Nice try, blue. You’re not taking this comedian down!”

 

Here, Hoppie paused. But everyone sensed she wasn’t finished. She stared at the ground, seemingly lost.

 

“But sometimes I think about that bag. Sometimes I think about that bag.

 

“Sometimes, when I get home—and especially after a hard set up here—I take that bag out of the closet and look at it. And I think, how this bag has changed my life.”

 

Hoppie calmly reclaimed her seat, and the diner applauded. Someone at another table hollered, “What the hell was in the bag?”

 

Hoppie turned around, “Your guess is as good as mine. Harvey Pinwheel is now performing at the great comedy club in the sky.”

 

The diner was left to decide for itself.

 

Hoppie closed in her audience to her fellow comedians, “Of course, there’s a bit more. But that is actually where Harvey’s bit ended.”

 

Larry took the final bite from his bowl. “So you’re telling us that Harvey Pinwheel wrote the greatest joke ever. That’s a perfect version of it. Not bloody. Not over the top. Just, a washed-up comic. And a bag.”

 

“No diarrhea,” added another comedian.

 

“Not even a decapitated head,” Dottie drooled into her plate.

 

Hoppie corrected Larry, “Well, Harvey didn’t write it. He winged in. Afterward, he came to the bar and just sat there. By himself. Shadow-faced. I gave him a beer. Not one word. No awareness of what he had just done—of the history he had just created. But I eventually asked him.”

 

Larry played with his spoon. “You asked him what was in the bag.”

 

Hoppie nodded. “‘What was in the bag, Harvey?’ Harvey looked up at me. ‘What bag? My name is Paris. Paris Wheeler.’ He took a sip of beer and walked out the door. And I swear, that was the last time anyone ever saw Harvey Pinwheel.’”

 

 

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