Charlie McCarthy I Hardly Knew Ya

Sears Catalog was the go-to for all possible things in my life. It had roller disco skates. And outfits like Kristy McNichol wore as Buddy in "Family." Cassette tape recorders that we could record songs playing on WNBC (the only radio station that played pop music AND made it up the river valley into my house). And, for the kid who was looking for a back door into show biz without having to admit it out loud, ventriloquist dummies. A whole page of instant Borscht Belt acts without the mess of a skill. I was a kid. Me and the dummy would ride adorable all the way to Wonderama stardom! I worked on my parents for a year until, for my 10th birthday, Charlie McCarthy arrived.

Charlie being cheeky to my sister, Chrissy.

I picked out Charlie from the dummy herd on the page of the catalog and am, in retrospect, grateful for my choice. Because, as much as Charlie would wind up scaring the shit out of me, the other choices would have easily turned me to drugs by the time I was 15.  Particularly Simon Says with his Kingston Trio V neck and molded side part hair emanating the air of a 1963  hipster with a child porn collection in his desk drawer or The Clown whom I believe went on to flash-in-the-pan stardom screwing with young Robbie Freeling's head in the movie "Poltergeist." Charlie was  already an established personality. He was respectable, dressed like a pint sized Fred Astaire complete with a tuxedo jacket, a top hat and a damned fine monocle. Oh how I loved that monocle, often wearing it myself to create that Angela Lansbury feeling.

Then, just a couple of months after Charlie and I really started cooking up good ideas for the act, the television ads started running for the movie, "Magic" staring Anthony Hopkins and the most demented  psycho to ever be whittled from a tree.

The doll  in the movie wasn't exactly like Charlie. He wasn't as classy. Or was he? Every time I saw that commercial, I lost a little more faith in the Mike Nichols to my Elaine May. I was an imaginative kid to begin with, for years waiting for Frankenstein and skeletons to get me in the dark. And Charlie was right there, in my bed or on my shelf, always looking like he was waiting for something to happen. He had arms and legs that began to look more and more likely to move when my sister and I  were conveniently asleep in our room.  Magic Psycho Dummy looked like he was trusted too  and Anthony Hopkins certainly regretted his choice.

 I tied Charlie's arms and legs up in knots after I removed his monocle so he couldn't see where he was going. It didn't sit right with me, though. I imagined it would just piss him off more if he got out of it. So I moved him into the hamper in the laundry room at the other end of the house. At night I would listen for feet with tiny plastic shoes skittering across the linoleum. Eventually, my mother removed Charlie from the house.  I kept the monocle.

Years later, I ran into Charlie at a comedy club. He was working as comic Chris Coxen's War Doll with  his character Danny Morsel. I didn't recognize him at first. He had become less formal, sporting a moustache and had a large well toned man strapped to his back. I felt silly. Chris didn't look frightened at all.

Photo of War Doll at Mottley's Comedy Club thanks to Chris Coxen

On the other hand, I was listening to an interview with the Way brothers from My Chemical Romance  on Kevin Smith's Smodcast. Mikey Way spoke about a film he made in college that involved a Charlie McCarthy doll chasing someone (I am paraphrasing and possibly getting it wrong entirely).  I was glad that Charlie had that effect on other people too. Not only did it justify my irrational reaction to him a little, it emphasized his diversity as a performer.

Wherever you are out there, Charlie, I am glad that time has not lessened your power to entertain. I was never meant to be your sidekick anyway, being more of the solo artist sort. And you look better without a monocle anyway.