Dr. Heckle and Mr. Jives

Author’s note: As you may have surmised by the title, this is a parody of the famous story, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Interestingly, Robert Louis Stevenson reportedly wrote his first draft in three days while sick in bed. This is meant as dark humor and should be read in that spirit. Enjoy!

*

My name is Dr. Heckle – well, that’s my name now. I used to be Clive Johnson. I’m a comedian. As a rookie, I got heckled a lot. I owned it – literally, by changing my name legally to Dr. Heckle. I made it into my signature bit. Members of the audience heckle me, and I dig back into them. They eat it up. The more vicious I am, the more favorably they respond. It’s not in my nature to be cruel. It makes me think about Robin Williams with his depression, John Candy with his addiction, Sarah Silverman with her mental health issues, and other comedians who struggled or are struggling similarly.

I’ve been on the pro circuit for a few years now. When I’m not traveling, my home is Las Vegas. I gig there too. I make a respectable living by getting laughs.

The sad thing is that my true love is music, especially jazz. I can play a little, but I don’t have the talent for it. So, I live vicariously through club musicians around Vegas. When we're able, my friend, Cliff, and I go club-hopping until we find a band we like. We drink too much, joke around, and enjoy our friendship. Occasionally, one of us will hook up with a girl, hoping for some action. Cliff says I’m too polite to get a typical club girl. That’s accurate.

Once, Cliff called on a Sunday, around noon. He exclaimed, “You’ve got to hear this new guy, Mr. Jive. He was playing last night at Spazmatics. He’s a pro on almost any instrument, and he has a smooth singing voice. I heard he’ll be back next Saturday. Wanna come?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gigging. I’ll catch him another time. I’m glad you had a great time!”

It was a busy week. When I started my monologue in San Diego, some guy yelled out, “You suck!”

I said, “Too bad your mama didn’t, ‘cause maybe you wouldn’t have been born.”

He put his arms up and cheered like he had won Olympic gold.

Then, a woman yelled, “I bet you don’t have a girlfriend.”

I said, “Maybe, maybe not. It looks like you do. I hope she’s good with her fingers, because I wouldn’t want that face down on me.”

The audience went wild. I felt like shit. And on and on it went.

I asked Cliff the following Sunday, “How was Mr. Jazz?”

“You mean Mr. Jive? Oh, he was even better last night. You’ve got to get one of these Saturdays off so I can watch your reaction to his music. He’s really something special.”

“I’ll try, but Saturdays are prime paydirt for comedians.”

“Yeah, I get it. Next time, I’ll record a piece or two.”

“Naw, it’s not the same as being there. Thanks though. Maybe he’ll play some other night.”

The next Saturday, Cliff called in the afternoon. He asked, “Where are you tonight? I haven’t seen you perform lately. Maybe I’ll catch your show.”

“I, uh, haven’t been feeling that great, so I called it off. They’ve got someone on standby.”

“Well, that’s great! You can come see Mr. Jive with me.”

“No, I think I’ll just relax here tonight. Performing is exhausting.”

“Well, okay." I could hear the dejection in his voice. "I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Cliff didn’t call. He showed up at my place. He said, “You should have seen him, H! This girl said it was her birthday. He invited her up on stage and he sang The Way You Look Tonight just for her. She was swooning. Hell, all the girls were. He kissed her hand, and she about fainted. I swear, I wish I was half as smooth.”

“You and me both, dude.”

“Hey, I gotta use your bathroom. Too much coffee trying to wake up this morning.”

“Sure, man.”

A few minutes later, he came back holding up a suit. He said, “What the hell is this? Mr. Jive was wearing a sparkly navy suit just like this last night. Were you there? Was… he… here? Are you gay? I mean, I’m cool with it if you are, but you should have said something.”

“Slow down, Cliff. I’ll tell you the whole story, and no, I’m not gay.”

We sat in my living room.

I began, “As you know, I was down in New Orleans about a month ago. On a lark, I went to see this woman who calls herself a Cajun witch doctor. I told her that more than anything, I want to be a jazz musician. I figured if anyone would get it, it would be someone from New Orleans.”

Cliff nodded intently.

“She said she could make it happen if I paid her $1000. She warned me that if I committed to it, there may be consequences. She waved this smoking branch around me and it put me in a sort of trance. Then, she said some words I couldn’t understand. I completely blacked out. When I woke up and she was gone, I figured I had been scammed. But she had a guitar sitting there, so I picked it up. It was like I had been born with it in my hands. I could play anything my mind could conjure up.”

Cliff’s mouth dropped open. “Unbelievable! Are you trying to tell me that YOU’RE Mr. Jive? How could that even be? I never saw him closeup, but he has a different demeanor, and his hair sticks up, and…wait! If you’re him, play something for me now. That’ll convince me.”

“Okay.” I grabbed my nearest instrument, a saxophone. I moistened and reattached the reed. Then, I played an improvisational version of All of Me.

Cliff’s eyes were bulging. When I finished, he applauded like he had just heard a Grammy-winning performance.

I said, “I think the witch doctor woman is right in a way. The consequence of this new me is that I am giving up the old me. Being a comedian didn't feel right for me anyways. I’m going to stay at home and find one of those swooning girls to marry.”

“Living the dream?”

“Living the dream!”

“I’ll be at every show, man. I love this new you.”

“Thanks, buddy, and for the record, I wouldn’t care if you were gay either!”

*

Thanks to my friend, Ron, for planting the seed of this story. I hope it flowered to your liking!