Mimi Gonzalez

Chinook 101

One of the things a young comic does while on the road, is to showcase for free at clubs along the way. This gives the management a chance to see you and makes an impression on them about your commitment and your ability. Usually, a comic shows up and the other comics bitch and moan that someone else is taking up stage time* and making the show longer. Because most comics would rather return to their rooms and sulk in front of the TV or try to run down fresh flesh in the town after their shows. How do I know? Three plus years and counting on the road. And I've been just as grumpy as the rest of them.

A particularly great perk of being a comic is finding other comics in the country and crashing at their places when you're having a dark night — one in which you're not working and hence have no club-provided accommodations. But if you're road-dawgin' the one-nighters and you're on the way from one gig to another and you've got a night off, you're going to try to save your measly feature pay and find a comic who'll help you out.

Back in October 1998, I had the fortune of hanging with some great comics in

Houston thanks to Ralph May, a buddy and my first road warrior partner. His friends let me crash on the sofa and I made dinner for them or cleaned up a little around the place.

At night, I'd hang with them and do free spots at clubs in town. I was driving an '84 Volvo at the time. Big, safe, not comfortable to sleep in.

My next stop was all the way over to El Paso. And Texas is big, but we've been hearing that all our American lives. I decided to stop in to San Antonio and do a guest spot. I called the manager the night before and he was expecting me. I cleaned and make-upped my face in a nearby McDonald's and was ready to shine. It was a 9:00 show and the audience was sparse in the mall location of this huge comedy room. The Guadalupe River had flooded and there was loss of life and income so the show was held until at least the first two rows out of 14 could be filled.

I'm naturally independent but I'm thrifty too so I'd called a bunch of cheap motels I'd spotted on the way in and as usual, either they were full or they couldn't give me directions to their locations. I'm convinced men are correct in never asking directions because it's been my experience that hardly anyone knows where the hell they are!

Since lodging was becoming a problem, I asked the manager if they put the comics up in a comedy condo. Sometimes a scourge of an apartment that's been sleeping one to three different comics a week for years and other times a beautiful place with a washer and dryer. Most look like frat house guest holes where amateur porn is shot. But I'd have gladly taken a berth on the floor of one if it would have saved me money and desperate searching.

This club didn't have one. So I asked the other comedians. The headliner, a magician with a whiskey and cigarette soaked voice who'd clearly done his act for years assured me there'd be no way his girlfriend would ever understand a chick staying in his room with him. I said, "But I'm a comic not a chick." To which he replied, trying to muster all the flattery he could, "Oh trust me darlin', you're a chick."

I moved on to the local emcee who said just about the same thing except he threw in the tidbit of truth, "If you were a guy there'd be no problem." "But I'm a comic? What about helping another comic out?" "My old lady'd have my head for that." I offered to meet her but he shot that idea down with a chuckle and a head shake. Okay, maybe the feature'll let me crash at his place. "You mean you're not staying anywhere?" No, I reaffirmed for him, hence the request in the first place. "Well…" I almost started to plead, but he finally said, "Okay, but I'm gonna treat you like another guy. Walk around in my underwear and stuff." "I promise not to look. And thanks for helping me out, 'brother.'"

As a result of the evening I spent there which was complete with after-show bonding with the headliner who, upon leaving, said something low and insinuating to the feature at the door which made them both share a comradish laugh and look over the shoulder in my direction … after having to ward off simple verbal insinuations, after appearing from the bathroom in full flannel pajamas, after having to witness a display of his manhood to ensure him he's adequate (but first I said, "Lemme put my glasses on"), after sleeping for three hours and bolting upright in the rollaway bed that was a part of each of these rooms and hence truly not a problem to help another comedian, I got up at 5:00 am and left quietly without waking him and got on the road. I knew I'd never put myself in that situation again. I'd spring for a motel, I'd sleep in my car, but I'd never ask comics I didn't know for an assist.

I bought a 1977 Toyota Chinook from a retired, sweet old Jewish man in Santa Monica and headed out in March 1999 to San Diego for my first gig. The next stop was Modesto. From there I took that Chinook to Vancouver Island — all of it, including Alert Bay, British Columbia, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Santa Fe, Colorado Springs, Arkansas, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama (where I slept in downtown Birmingham), Missouri, Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, Minneapolis, Wisconsin, Washington DC, Tennessee, Nevada and finally back to California in January 2000.

That Chinook served me so well and perhaps being from Detroit made the relationship even sweeter. Anytime anything went wrong, I was usually capable of diagnosing it myself. I couldn't fix it, but I knew what it needed.  Like getting shocks or a front-end alignment which took three different shops and finally some guys in Detroit to get right. Seems dual tires in the rear make it tricky but not for my people in the Motor City.

The worst disaster was the fan belt breaking late one night on the Ohio Turnpike. I saw the problem and knew I couldn't drive without lights which would be dimming every moment without the alternator turning. Plus, the engine was overheating. I was towed to the nearest garage which woke me up in their lot the next morning by pounding on the door. The manager assured me I shouldn't have slept there (it was about 38°F but I had a warm sleeping bag and confidence in my obscurity in the Chinook. See, there's one thing about driving in a vehicle that old, everyone takes you for poor and doesn't think you're worth bothering with. Must be a hippie without much cash, is what you're usually taken for, which is fine by me.) But this manager's concern was that I might have been hurt or worse in his yard and then where would his business be.

He then charged me almost $100 to fix the fan belt, which is a piece of rubber that costs about $5 at a parts store. The next time I'll do it myself! I hope the lovely young miss who participates in Renaissance festivals to whom I sold the Chinook has had many a Bacchanalian safe and sweet night behind its doors. I recommend taking the chance and heading out across America in one to everybody.

*Old comedy joke: How many comics does it take to screw in a light bulb? Three. One to do it and two to say, "You went over your time."