Life of a Second Banana

My name is George Nicolson and while you may not know my name, you might remember the show I was in, The Stig Miller Show. The show ran for five seasons from 1960 to 1965 staring Stig Miller. At the time, Stig was one of the biggest comedians in Hollywood. Known for his cutting remarks, he was an A-List celebrity. I was hired to be his second banana which is why a lot of people don’t know my name right off.

I was doing stand up comedy in Brooklyn throughout the 1950s until I got hired to do the show. Sheeese, you think I won the lottery or something landing that part on this new comedy show, but I soon found out being second banana ain’t shit when the star next to you on the set shines a lot brighter than you do. I don’t really like talking about it, but since you stopped by asking, I figured I owed it to our fans to tell my story. Ain’t a lot of people beating down my door asking anyway.

While I was doing my schtick at the Dead-End Comedy Club near Harlem, my agent got a hold of me. Did you know Lenny Bruce did the Dead-End like me? I met him one night. Nice fella.

“Hello, Georg? Charlie here.” My agent Charlie Brice’s voice vibrated in my ear, “I gotcha an audition.”

“Where?” I asked fingering the phone cord.

“There is a new show.” He replied.

“A show? What kind of show?” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“It’s in Hollywood.” He continued.

“That’s a long way from Brooklyn.” I glanced out the window of my apartment.

“We gocha covered pal.” He blew some air through his teeth.

“What does that mean?” I asked leaning against the window frame and looked down at the traffic in front of building.

“I gotcha a plane ticket.” He mumbled, “Max Stindell is the producer and he’s looking for a second banana.”

“Charlie, I ain’t no second banana.” I shook my head as the traffic light changed and the cars began to move.

“Look George, with the mullah they are willing to pay, I’d be a second banana.” Charlie’s voice trembled a bit.

I paused, closed my eyes and tried to talk myself into going to the audition.

“George, this will be the big break we are looking for.” His voice was exuberant which I seldom heard lately. “What are you gonna do? Spend the rest of your career playing these nowhere clubs?”

“The Dead-End? It’s an upscale-“Who was I kidding? “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow.” He nearly sang.

“The heck you say.” I coughed as my voice caught.

Pan A

The next day I caught a flight on Delta to Chicago where I would catch a American Airlines flight to Denver with a four-hour layover to catch a Pan American flight to Burbank. When I got to southern California late in the evening Pacific Coast time, I was exhausted. Charlie gave me the address of the studio when he gave me the plane ticket. The audition would be the following day after a good night’s sleep, but the mattress at the hotel was hard as a brick wall and I did not get a good night’s sleep. Without a good night’s sleep, sometimes my brain would get foggy which is not a good thing for my line of work.

I took aa cab to the Marvin Studio which had opened just three years before in a rush to produce television broadcasting. When I exited the cab, I saw the studio was a converted trailer. The receptionist was a young woman with an hourglass figure and a beehive hairdo.

“Can I help you?” She smacked her gum.

“I’m here for an audition.” I explained.

“Which one?” She looked up at me.

“Ah, the Stig Miller Show?” I read Charlie’s note

“Yes, that will be trailer eight.” She pointed toward the door, “The trailers are in numerical order.”

“Thank you.” I tipped my fedora hat and found my way out the door. When I was standing once again in the warm sun, I took a deep breath to clear out the musty smell in my nostrils. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Eight? I did not see a number eight. I saw a security guard.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where Trailer Eight is?”

He gave me the once over, “I’m not sure there is a Trailer Eight.”

“I am here for an audition for the Stig Miller Show.” I shrugged.

“Oh Stig Miller, you say.” He finally smiled, “Follow me.”

I did what he told me to do, but when he stopped, I was standing in front of what appeared to be a hallowed out trailer.

“This is it?” I was immediately disheartened.

“Well, they don’t have it up and running yet, but there will be a crew out here to put the guts back in it.” He assured me.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with Max Stindell.” I nodded.

“Max? He’s on the other side of the lot.” He pointed down one of the alleyways.

“Holy crap.” I sighed.

“He’s a new producer.” The guard nodded as he walked away as I began the long trek to Mr. Stindell’s office. It was late morning and the sun was already uncomfortably warm. By the time I got to his office, I was drenched with sweat.

I knocked on the door with his name stenciled on the flat black door in gold lettering. A man with heavy framed glasses and a modest bald spot opened the door.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. Stindell.” I answered.

“That would be me.” He tilted his head, “What can I do you for?”

“I’m George Nicholson.” I tipped my hat.

“You’re late.” He went to close the door, but I put my hand on it before he could do so.

“I’ve had a heck of a time trying to find you.” I shook my head.

“I am not that hard to find.” He pursed his lips, “I had you scheduled for nine and it’s almost ten.”

“I flew all the way in from Brooklyn and spend a lousy night on a hard mattress. I am sweating my ass off. Please give me a break.” I said looking into his dull dishwater eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

He sighed and bowed his head.

“Alright. Come on in.” He held the door open.

There was a man sitting in a swivel chair dressed in a pin stripe suite with a fedora had on his head. There were four people standing around him laughing.

“Oh Mr. Miller, that was a very funny story.” A woman was doubled over in laughter.

His piercing blue eyes and dimpled chin seemed like something from Metro Studio named Jimmy Stewart. Glib of tongue and adept at conversation, this would be the first time I had seen Stig Miller in the flesh.

“My, my, look who just walked in.” He rose from his chair in a very smooth motion, “Who might you be?”

He was actually talking to me.

“Me? I’m George Nicholson.” I smiled.

“We have auditions six fellas in the past two days who want to be on my show, but none of them had Houts’ve to pull it off.” He withdrew a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket of his suit.

“Well, I’ve been doing stand-up for over ten years.” I nodded.

“Where?” He asked lighting his cigarette.

“Harlem and Brooklyn.” I answered.

“Bah.” He waved his hand as a cloud of smoke obscured his face. “Ten years? Why did you waste your time down those dead ends, George.”

“I was doing alright.” I shook my head.

“Peanuts? You’re okay with making peanuts?” He laughed as he blew smoke into the air. “You could be waltzing in the big time if you sign on with us.”

“I really don’t think Mr. Stindell likes me.” I shook my head again.

“Pahh! He’s a just a bean counter.” Stig crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the end table next to where he was sitting. “If I say I want you on my show, you’ll be on my show.”

I really thought Stig Miller was just shooting the breeze until I signed the contract making more in one month than my old man made in a year. In the contract it said that I would be the brunt of his jokes, that second banana as it were. I didn’t mind. Why should I as long as I was pulling in that kind of money.

I met the Marx Brothers on the studio lot and some other well-known funny guys, but everyone knew Stig. He would walk around the lot, and everyone would say, “Hello,” as he passed wearing his ascot and his white patten leather shoes.

“Saw your show, kid.” Milton Berle would smile with his cigar tucked in one side of his mouth. “Brilliant.”

“Thanks Uncle Milt.” Stig would nod.

Our shows were recorded in front of a live audience. At least once during the show, I would be the brunt of one of his cruel jokes. Where normally I would have socked him one, I had to remember our ratings were on top of the heap and my paycheck was enormous. I could not afford to ruin a good thing. But in the entertainment business, things change quickly.

“Hey kid, you wanna go to the Glitz?” Stig slapped me on the shoulder after we taped our next show.

“What’s that?” I asked removing my make up in the mirror.

“The hippest place in town.” He unbuttoned his shirt.

“Sure, why not?” I shrugged as my eyes teared from the mascara I was trying to wipe off. Some of it got into my eyes.

“It’s the newest hot spot.” He winked as he walked out of the dressing room. When I got into my real clothes, I hailed a cab.

I leaned into the open window on the passenger’s side, “Do you know where the Glitz Club is?”

“Bud, everybody knows where the Glitz Club is.” He took his cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out in his ashtray. “Hop on in.”

He drove me up to Rodeo Dr. where a crowd of people had gathered.

“This is it.” The cab driver pointed to the crowd standing outside. “Doors open in five minutes.”

“Thank you.” I handed him a generous tip along with the fare.

“Aw thank you sir.” He smiled, “Call us again.”

He drove away when I got to the sidewalk.

“George!” I heard Stig call. When I got to him, he was surrounded by a bunch of people. “Say hello to friends.”

Most of his friends were female who were fussing over him as he stood there. Just like the cabby said, the doors opened and club security began letting people past the velvet rope. Once inside, the we were greeted by this lovely hostess. Smiling all the way she led us to the table reserved for Stig Miller.

There was a live swing band filled with very talented musicians, especially the trumpeter who had quite a few jazzy solos.

“It’ s some guy named something Armstrong, I believe.” Stig lit a cigarette, “Says he’s from the Big Easy.”

His laugh matched the music being played.

“Hey George, why doncha come with me for a moment?” He stood up and walked straight to this closed door. Removing a key from his trouser pocket, he opened the door as we stepped into a dark room.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“We are in my private room.” He removed a bag from his pocket. Inside the bag was some white powder. He put some on the table making each line straight with the Ace of Spades from a Bicycle Deck. “I get no kick from champaign. But this stuff will kick you for sure.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Cocaine. Pure as the driven snow.” He laughed as he rolled up a hundred-dollar bill. With one sniff, he managed to clear three lines. “Now it’s your turn.”

He handed me the rolled-up bill, but I shook my head as I held the bill.

“Stig, I can’t do this.” I exhaled.

“Why not?” There was a puzzled expression on his face.

“I grew up in a neighborhood where we had coke and heroine dealers in our streets.” I put my hands on the table, “My brother got mixed up in the stuff and he would up O.D.ing on his sixteenth birthday. I was just ten when I went to his funeral.”

“C’mon, George. It ain’t gonna happen here.” He shook his head, “This is where I come to have some fun.”

He placed his index finger on my sternum.

“In a few minutes some high rollers are gonna walk through that door.” He laughed, “And we are gonna have us a night to remember.”

“You gotta count me out, Stig.” I shook my head and backed away, “I have a ton of respect for you. You are the best in the business, but I can’t do this.”

“Are you some pansy?” He snarled at me as blood began to drip from his nose. “What the hell have you gotta be afraid of?”

He voice rattled in my head on my way home in the cab.

After that he treated me like some punching bag as his routines became almost cruel. While I was getting paid top dollar, I just couldn’t take his abuse in front of the cameras.

I picked up a Variety Magazine where I read a review of our show. The reviewer talked about his abrupt change of behavior toward me. The article did not name me directly, but I could tell he was talking about that second banana, me. I toss the magazine in the trash and walked into the studio.

“Hey kid, I gotta talk to ya.” Mr. Stindell was waiting for me. “Come inta my office.”

He opened the door and I walked in.

“Have a seat, kid.” He pulled out a chair from in front of his desk.

“What’s up, sir?”

“Stig Milller wants you fired.” He folded his hands in front of his chin.

“Why?” I asked.

“He says you are unreliable.” He answered.

“That is a lie.” I snapped.

“Regardless. Stig Miller is the top man in this city as far as the press is concerned.” He wiped his double chin with one of his hands, “I know he’s a pain in the ass. Nobody knows that better than me, but he runs the show.”

“I will resign if that’s what it takes, but I’m not going to let him fire me.” I jabbed my finger on the edge of his desk. “Even as the second banana, I have my pride. I won’t let him take that from me.”

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Stindell held out his hand in surrender.

“Me? I’m going back to Brooklyn.” I stood up.

“You are making a mistake, kid.” He shook his head.

“Naw, I’m not and the name is George Nicholson by the way.” I walked out the door and caught the first plane back to my home. As soon as I put my bags on the porch of my mom and dad’s house, I went to the cemetery to visit my brother Alvin. I bow my head as I standing in front of his headstone.

“Hey big brother, I miss you more than ever. And I came by just to tell you I am home for good. I had fun out there in Hollywood, but it was more than I could handle.” I wiped away a single tear rolling down my cheek.

It was a month after that; I remember if clearly when I turned on the television and there was this bulletin saying that Stig Miller had hung himself in his hotel room in Las Vegas. The show had been cancelled, but he got this gig at Caesar’s Palace. Everyone told me he was happy to be free of the hassle of Hollywood, but I think he was lying to himself all along. Guys like him do that to themselves; they mistake the applause and the laughter for approval of their behavior. They forget there is a delicate balance between who is telling the joke and who is receiving cruel bring of the joke as the second banana.