Assignment 2: For Lucille Ball, Whom I Hate

I’ve never been able to fall asleep to the sound of silence and, contrary to all advice given on good sleeping habits, I go to bed with the television on. For years, my go-to channels have been home shopping networks, because there is no plot and I’m not particularly interested in anything that’s being said. Recently, I discovered Buzzr – and my shelter-in-place life has been upended. I keep it on all day. Volume up when I’m just puttering around; volume low at night.  

And so last week, instead of falling asleep as I should have, I found myself rapt watching an episode of Body Language. Anyone who ever spent a sick day on their grandmother’s couch knows about the big name game shows: The Price is Right, Press Your Luck, Password, even Card Sharks; Body Language wasn’t one of those shows. It is more of a niche or esoteric choice, for the game show completist. The game itself is pretty much just Charades, but with unusually game, B-to-C list celebrities teamed up with everyday folk. Most of the time, you would expect the younger “stars” like Todd Bridges, or Kim Fields, or (original spelling) Jm J. Bullock. Oh – but not tonight. Tonight we would be treated to the classic pantomime of Charles Nelson Reilly and the legendary Lucille Ball. I will stop on a dime for the chance to watch my dear Charles on anything at all: Match Game, Dinah!, that episode of The Love Boat about the fierce behind-the-scenes rivalries of the cruise ship racing world. But tonight, I would be disappointed because, on this night, like a million others, the spotlight was directed completely toward Lucy. Wretched, haggard Lucy, in head-to-toe khaki and badly applied pink lipstick.

I just can’t with Lucille Ball. I have, perhaps, an unreasonable distaste for her brand of comedy, even though she is an undeniable comedy legend. I can’t think of a single thing I like about her that doesn’t involve some boozy talk show appearance when she was in her 70s, still wearing peachy-red wigs and tossing off barbs in a croaking smoker’s voice. Some of my earliest memories are of watching black and white television shows on summer mornings, when there was no school and nothing to do. My older sister, who was married and lived in government housing, kept an eye on me. There was no money, nothing to do but kick up dust on the grassless playground, and drink red Kool-Aid from the knockoff Tupperware glasses she and her husband owned. So I would curl up on the hard wood-framed couch with the velvety-but-scratchy fabric, patterned with barns or something, and watch Hazel, I Dream of Jeannie, and I Love Lucy. For the life of me, I could not figure out what was supposed to be funny about Lucy. The husband and wife banter bugged even then. Her mugging was out of control – like she was pulling her personalized versions of Commedia dell’arte masks out of the old bag for another drag across the boards. I was not, as they say, here for it.

 But tonight – oh, tonight – Lucy would shine in a way I’d never seen before. My poor Charles barely had a moment of camera time, which was actually fine; I think he’s strong in other ways, but maybe not the most skillful Body Language team leader. Miss Lucille was paired with the star-struck Dennis, who was so lucky indeed. He could not have received a more capable partner because Lucy, with her smeared lipstick, motioned to someone off camera to bring her a beverage and then prepared for battle. All of those years pouting and warping her face into wacky shapes and twisting and flopping around on camera made her the number one, ideal, perfect partner.

On the first puzzle, she acted out a whole list of words and Dennis guessed each at a moment’s notice. They were on fire and everyone knew it. Puzzle solved, just like that. Up next, Charles and whomever he was paired with – who even remembers? – did their best, but my Charles really wasn’t up to the task. That, or his heart wasn’t in it after what he’d just witnessed. They were ultimately not very successful and he returned to his seat, panting ever so slightly and relieved to have that moment of his life completed. They were being steamrolled and seemed resigned to their fate at this point. Mr. Nelson Reilly was likely just waiting for this to be over so he could call his agent, and his teammate was hoping that the consolation prize would be a Service Merchandise gift certificate and not a year’s supply of International Delight flavored coffees.  

After being crowned the undisputed Body Language winners, it was now time for the bonus round, where Dennis could win more money and walk away with hundreds of dollars! Lucy bent down and grasped the knees of her khaki uniform, like a weary basketball player might bend over and grab their trunks as they catch their breath at the foul line. The first word was “lipstick,” and when she screwed her face into the classic Lucy pout and pretended to apply the makeup, then you could just SHUT IT DOWN. This game was over, kids. They blew through “scissors,” “frozen,” “rain,” and a whole list of other words. The crowd roared when she did the hula. You can imagine how she really threw herself into “backache.” This kind of physical comedy was muscle memory for her and instinctual resentment for childhood me. My left eye twitched. By the end of the round, she’d ended up on the floor and had to find a way to get herself up. Oh, how she milked it. It was now after midnight in the real world and I was far from asleep, wondering how the fuck this show ever got greenlit. Anyway, good for Dennis and good for Lucy.

But, in the end, Dennis didn’t guess all of the words. Miss Lucille Ball somehow failed to get through to him and foiled his attempts to win the $1,000 grand prize. I’m sure it didn’t matter to Dennis. After all, he just spent an entire afternoon with America’s legendary comedy queen, with some cash to boot. And Lucy – well, she’d probably already forgotten the entire thing. But I hadn’t. While this middle-aged woman rolled over to look at the clock and groan about how tired she would be tomorrow, the bitchy grade schooler inside was saying, “Fuck you, Lucy.” I won that night. I won.