Читать книгу Bill Hicks: Agent of Evolution - Kevin Booth - Страница 5

“I’m not from the States, I’m from Texas.”

– Bill Hicks

As a kid in grade school, Bill Hicks was a phenomenal athlete. He was strong, fast, agile. Anyone who ever saw Bill perform stand-up comedy in later years would have a hard time imagining this. With a cigarette dangling off his bottom lip, he’d tell his signature joke about smoking: perusing the front rows of the audience, he’d find someone with a lit cigarette and ask them how much they smoked.

“A pack a day…?” He’d take a drag of his cigarette and inhale like his life depended on that tar-laden cancer stick. “Pussy. I go through two lighters a day.”

Bill wasn’t exactly a posterboy for athletic prowess. Doubters wouldn’t be alone in their skepticism that Bill could ever have run anything but his mouth. A fellow comedian from his Houston hometown who accompanied Bill to New York City for an early Letterman appearance recalls seeing him in the hotel: “He took off his shirt and he didn’t have a muscle in his entire upper torso. I’ve never seen anything like it, it was completely slack. Utter lack of definition. Just zero. It almost had a morgueish quality to it in retrospect.”

Dwight Slade, Bill’s friend and comedy partner in the formative stage of his career, was in San Francisco in 1991 to perform on the bill with Bill at the Punch Line. The two comedians made an appearance on Alex Bennet’s radio show where Bill presented the host with an old 8x10 promo photo of the pair taken when they were just starting out. Bennet looked at the picture and remarked, “Dwight, you look exactly the same. Bill, what happened to you?”

Bill replied, “I’d only been drinking for two years then.” Bill was 14 in the picture. It was a joke.

Born William Melvin Hicks on 16 December 1961 in Valdosta, Georgia, he was given life and a name he was never ever able to live down. Bill hated his name. “Hate” is a strong word, but Bill hated his name. In the early years, he would step on stage and introduce himself, saying, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is William Melvin Hicks … Thanks, Dad.”

He made a short-lived hobby of trying to find successful comedians who had monosyllabic first and last names. He couldn’t come up with any besides Bob Hope. Bill even gave serious consideration to legally changing his name. Obviously he stuck with it, but his dissatisfaction never left him.

In late 1991, Bill was at friend Stephen Doster’s house in Austin. Nirvana had just started to make it big and Bill insisted on taking Doster, a well-respected local guitar player, singer-songwriter, and producer, to local institution Waterloo Records to buy him both the band’s albums, Bleach and Nevermind, then drive around town listening to them.

That was cool with Doster. First, though, he had to take his toddler son, Django, out for a walk. They headed down to the hike-and-bike trail along Town Lake and they walked. Bill says, “So, Stephen. You named the kid Django?” Django: named after guitarist Django Reinhardt.

“Yeah, that’s his middle name, but it’s what everyone calls him,” says Doster.

“Of course, you know what’s going to happen,” Bill baits him.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going to happen to him.”

“Surely you, of all people, know what’s going to happen,” says Bill.

“No, Bill. What do you mean? What are you trying to say?” Doster asks. What, is he destined to suffer a disfigured hand in a fire accident à la his namesake? That’s not nice. Bill is just confusing his friend.

“His dad is a songwriter. His mom is a photographer. You named him Django. Surely you know what is going to happen to him?”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Doster isn’t sure where this is going and is more than a little perplexed. Then Bill grabs Doster around the neck with his hands – friendly, not hostile – and says, “He’s going to get sucked and fucked more by the time he’s 17 years old than you and I ever did in our goddamn lives.”

Bill the reductionist had figured it all out: cool name equals hot ass. His experience was the opposite. Redneck name equals not much ass at all. Jim and Mary Hicks, Bill’s parents, should have just called him “Cletus". In addition to the distinctly redneck name, Bill also had the misfortune of being born into a devout Southern Baptist family. With about sixteen million practising patrons, Southern Baptists constitute the largest fundamentalist denomination in the United States. And as fundamentalists they believe the authors of the Bible were inspired by God, making the Bible inerrant. That makes it easy to read: take everything literally.

Convenient for people without any imagination, but it also leads to some bizarre beliefs. Many Southern Baptists really do believe it is a sin to dance. The movie Footloose wasn’t just pulled from the dregs of a Hollywood executive’s brain. Some, not all, but some Baptist theologians maintain that dance is a social form of sexuality. So no go.

When Bill was growing from boy to teen in the Seventies, the Southern Baptists Convention was becoming even more extreme in its beliefs. There was an internal conflict in the church between moderates and fundamentalists, and the liberal factions lost. So, the church then began issuing statements on topics like the submissive role of women and criticizing feminist organizations. It issued a series of prayer guides to help save the non-Christians and lead them to salvation.

Despite his persistent protests and weak attempts to weasel out of it, every Sunday morning Bill was required to go to church. No exceptions. This is the doctrine he was fed; these are the beliefs he was expected to buy into. If every philosophy presupposed a sociology, then it’s not hard to see how a reactionary teen looking to get enlightened as much as he was looking to get laid, might have a field day with a religion to which the phrase “figuratively speaking” was meaningless.

Bill’s parents claimed they weren’t particularly religious; but every Sunday, there the Hicks were in the congregation. According to his mother Mary, “We just knew to go and went.”

Unfortunately for Bill, church took place on Sunday morning and Saturday night was the best time to catch late-night comedy. NBC had Saturday Night Live. Other networks would program movies late, and later still. Bill was usually up until 2 a.m. watching TV in his room. To him this was the kind of studying that mattered. An 8 a.m. wake-up call for church, though, didn’t exactly jive with his preferred sleep schedule.

Like any well-evolved creature Bill had to adapt. He tried resisting entirely, but when that failed, as it invariably did, he would make do. After services Bill would skip Sunday School and go nap in the church library.

Bill’s dad, Jim, worked in management for General Motors. He even wore the big GM ring, sporting it like he was a proud graduate of General Motors University. The company odyssey of the South sent Jim to Florida, Alabama, and Georgia, before affording the Hicks family an extended stay in Houston, Texas. The Hicks family bought a two-story hybrid of a colonial and a box in a slice of suburbia called Nottingham Forest, where an olio of shade trees sheltered both sides of the street. It was somewhere between upper-middle and lower upper-class America. The only danger was the boredom.

From the outside it all looked very Norman Rockwell: an immaculately kept house with a pristine lawn (Hicks mythology has it that Jim would measure the cut of the grass with a ruler) in a desirable zip code; 2.3 kids (well, three if you want to get technical – a brother Steve and a sister Lynn, both older); one dog named Sam, another named Chico. But, the veneer of the happy family wasn’t so thick as to be opaque.

As one of Bill’s childhood friends recalled, “There were pictures of Bill with Steve and his sister, and I’d ask, ‘Bill you’ve got a sister? You never told me you had a sister.’

“He was curt, responding, ‘I don’t have a sister.’

‘"Well, who is this?’

‘"Just some person that was in the house.'” Clearly something was rotten in the state of Denmark. Suburban Houston, too.

As a by-product of this household Bill spent a ridiculous amount of time in his room. It was a sanctuary where he could isolate himself from the foreign world of his parents and inculcate his friends to the virtues of sanity, reason and rock ‘n’ roll music. Camped in the permanent mess of his bed he listened to everything from Leadbelly to Led Zeppelin while he typed out one-liners.

His brother, Steve, recalls: “He used to write jokes and slide them under my bedroom door. And I would critique them and give them back … I didn’t even know what it all meant, he just said he was in his room writing all of this stuff.”

He was naturally gifted at almost everything. As a junior high football player, Bill’s speed and strength made him a natural at running back. He was even more gifted as a baseball player – amazingly so. Little League games are just six innings long; each team needs to get three outs in its half inning. That’s eighteen outs. With his wicked curveball and his gangly delivery, Bill regularly accounted for fifteen of those with strike-outs when he was on the mound. That’s so unheard of at that level it’s gaudy.

It was strange, though, that for all of his natural athleticism, Bill didn’t enjoy interacting with direct sunlight, preferring the bright but artificial light of the indoors. Bill and the sun didn’t see eye to eye. As a rule, he kept the blinds in his room drawn. The truth is, Bill probably saw as much sun on the small black-and-white TV in his room as in the sky outside. He wasn’t a shut-in, latch-key kid, but his room was his refuge from his family. He would stay up and watch The Tonight Show. He would read, he would write, and he would listen to records. Everything you needed in order to divine the make-up of a young Bill Hicks, you could get by watching him in his native habitat. Muddy Waters on the stereo, dog-eared copy of The Hobbit on the bed, posters of Jimi Hendrix and Woody Allen papering the walls.

That was Bill’s yin and yang right there – Jimi and Woody. Bill gave the credit to Allen, more than anyone, for inspiring him to get into comedy. He was 13 or 14 when he first saw Allen in the movie What’s New, Pussycat? Later in life Bill himself gave conflicting accounts of that seminal moment. In fact, as Bill got older, the age at which he claimed Allen first infected his life got younger. In an interview Bill gave in the last month of his life, he said that he was 12 and that movie was Casino Royale.

Either the next day or the following summer – again, he gave multiple accounts – Bill was in a bookstore and picked up a copy of Without Feathers. Years later he confessed to an interviewer he couldn’t even explain the affinity. “I’m not Jewish. I’m not short. I’m not a schlemel.”

A pre-teen Bill had just seen Allen in Casino Royale about the time he met one Dwight Slade. It was in the summer of 1974, when they were both between the 6th and 7th grades at Spring Forest Junior High. They were playing touch football with mutual friends. Dwight recalled simply, “He was odd-looking. Very odd-looking.” With jet-black hair, black eyes, and vaguely Asian-looking features, Bill’s appearance was not what you would expect for someone with such an authentically Southern genetic make-up.

Bill had become enamored with Woody Allen’s character of Dr. Noah in Casino Royale. It was the basis for the goofy impersonations he was doing at the time. The physical humor was something that Dwight not only instantly understood, but could match Bill in doing. The two became fast friends and developed a relationship that was part collaborative and part competitive. Recalls Slade: “We would mutually crack each other up, but we also had a sort of sibling rivalry as to who could make our friends laugh more.

“I don’t remember the specific moment, but he told me: ‘We ought to be comedians. We ought to be a comedy team.’ I said, ‘I want to be an actor.’ That was my dream when I was a kid. But when he said that I thought, ‘Well, finally here’s a guy that speaks my language.’ He goes, ‘We should be comics. I’ve written some jokes.’ I went over to his house and he showed me. Here’s a guy who thinks like me, I thought. And for Bill I think there was even more of a sense that, ‘Oh my God, I’m not the only crazy person here. I’m not the only person that wants to do something out of the norm.'”

Corny as it sounds, the two developed a really sweet friendship. For example, Dwight’s Boy Scout meetings took place at St. John Vianney Catholic Church, whose grounds ran right up to the Hicks’ backyard fence. During breaks in the Boy Scouting, Dwight would go over to Bill’s and throw a rock up at Bill’s window to get his attention. Bill would open the window and they would talk.

By the time Bill got to high school, despite his natural physical gifts he had all but left sports behind. He stopped playing football; he stopped playing baseball. He kept running track in the 9th grade, then in the first part of the 10th grade. But that was it. Slade explains, “It wasn’t because Bill didn’t like athletics, but he hated what it was becoming in high school.”

High-school sports were like a religion in Texas. High-school football was a religion in Texas. Stadia across the state turned small-town communities into congregations of a sort. Texans from Snook to Shiner easily spent more time on Friday nights in the fall watching the local kids run around the gridiron than they ever spent listening to sermons on Sundays. It was a ratio of about three to one. And Stratford High School didn’t just win, it won state championships. Okay, a state championship during Bill’s junior year (“State in ’78” was the rallying cry); but still, for a 17-year-old kid in Texas, being part of a state championship team would endow you with near god-like status. Stratford’s football team was fairly exceptional. The star running back, Craig James, later started for the New England Patriot team that played in Super Bowl XX. And Stratford standout Chuck Thomas was the back-up center for the San Francisco 49ers team that won Super Bowls XXIII and XXIV.

This is the environment Bill grew up in. If he had wanted it, Bill could easily have been part of the privileged jockocracy. He had all the physical tools needed to be a star athlete. Coolness, popularity, cheerleaders – if Bill had kept playing football and baseball, he could have had access to all the things that make high school a nontraumatic experience for a teen. But he opted out, and that’s where Bill spent the “best years of his life” – a common moniker for that four-year high-school slice of American life.

On the outside. That’s where he belonged. Bill was a misfit, both within his family and, with few exceptions, amongst his peers. He didn’t drink, and couldn’t understand why people did. He wasn’t social and he didn’t go to high-school parties (“keggers”). He liked to read. He was obsessed with Huckleberry Finn, The Hardy Boys and The Hobbit. Mystery and adventure were clearly his favorites.

Bill wasn’t a loser, but high school is pretty binary: either you’re cool or you aren’t. Bill wasn’t in the cool clique. But he had friends and, even though he valued his privacy and being left alone, he wasn’t a loner. Most importantly he had Dwight and, once in high-school, Kevin Booth, a neighborhood kid in the class one year ahead of Bill and Dwight.

It was serendipitous that Bill hadn’t dropped out of sports completely during his freshman year at Stratford because it was in track that both Bill and Dwight first formed a relationship with co-conspirator-to-be Kevin Booth. They were on the track for practice – well, they were out there in their track clothes, but not doing much practising – when Booth approached the pair to say hi. “What’s up? I’m the guy you met yesterday at lunch.”

With the two similarly subversive minds of Dwight and Kevin, Bill would begin dabbling in the two activities that would occupy the rest of his life – music and comedy.

That day on the track with Kevin, Bill and Dwight started talking about putting a band together. They had outlandish ideas about what they wanted to do – “We need to have a big stage show with lights and smoke and we want to have bombs going off and lights and big speakers.”

“I told them, ‘Okay, I know how we can do that,'” Booth remembers. “They were thinking I was full of shit, but I said, ‘Why don’t you guys come over to my house tonight and we’ll get started.'” In Booth they had stumbled across someone with the technical know-how to pull off their oversized designs. They took Booth up on his offer and that night they began their journey to rock stardom. But there was a slight hitch: they didn’t have musical instruments; nor did they have the ability to play instruments.

They called themselves Stress. It was perfect. It sounded punk rock. More importantly, it was monosyllabic and ended with two s’s. That sounds a bit arbitrary, but it turned out to be an unintentional asset. Every child of the Seventies in America knew the phrase: “You wanted the best, you got the best! The hottest band in the land, Kiss.” It was the band’s stage introduction on the multi-platinum-selling Kiss Alive! Dwight and Bill were big Kiss fans. Huge.

It was hard not to be. In the mid-Seventies Kiss were omnipresent.

One day the guys were talking about making smoke bombs for their stage show. Kevin, of course, chimed in: “I know how to make smoke bombs.” He went out and got some dry ice, then they all convened at Dwight’s. They sat in his room in a little circle around a bucket. Kevin poured some water on the dry ice in the bucket. The teens watched this tiny stream of smoke frothing up from the bucket while they listened to Kiss records and talked about how they were going to be bigger than Kiss and have a bigger stage show than Kiss. Bill and Dwight held flashlights, pointed them into the smoke and waved them back and forth. They understood the theater of rock, but they weren’t even community theater of rock.

But now they were Stress, it was like joining Kiss vicariously. All they had to do was substitute the one word. “You wanted the best, you got the best! The hottest band in the land, Stress.” Bill and Dwight would pass each other in the halls of school and greet each other with that rock ‘n’ roll catchphrase intra. It was plug and play hype. They started taking pictures of themselves in their best rock star poses and circulating the pictures at school. Never mind that they didn’t have things like songs or proper instruments. They had pictures. That made it real.

One day Bill was called into the vice principal’s office. Bill looked down at the table in the room and saw the word “Stress” carved into it, complete with the Kiss lightning bolt s’s. Graffiti was a pretty solid accomplishment for a band that hadn’t actually played in front of anybody.

Stress became almost a daily activity for Bill, Dwight, Kevin and miscellaneous other friends who floated in and out of the still-amorphous band. Bruce Salmon, Mike Groner, Steve Fluke, John Terry, all had stints of varying length as members of Stress. Basically, all it took was showing up some afternoon to play at least once. That earned you a place in the lore of Stress genealogy.

Salmon wasn’t just a frequent participant early on, but was a co-founder. His older brother had been in bands with Kevin’s older brother, and between Kevin and Bruce, they offered an invaluable asset to the fledgling band: Kevin could borrow a bass guitar from his brother; Bruce knew how to play it.

Still, initially it was a band by committee. Who wants to play what? Bill had an acoustic guitar that, depending on how you looked at it, had either a couple of strings missing or had a couple of strings. Sometimes Dwight sang, sometimes he played bass. Kevin played a plastic garbage can for a drum. They miked up everything as best they could to achieve maximum distortion, and proceeded to make noise. Again, their aspirations were way beyond their abilities, but that didn’t deter them.

Comedy was something Bill did in parallel to music. The two weren’t mutually exclusive: he loved both, and he invested hours of time working on both. Bill and Dwight were already spending much of their after-school time hanging out, but in the 7th grade, joke writing was still a solo activity for Bill. By the time the summer of 1975 rolled around, things began to change. Bill and Dwight were listening to sets by comedians – Johnny Carson, Merv Griffin – taped from the late-night talk shows with a hand-held audio recorder.

They were also developing more characters; better imitations of their goofy parents. Then, a couple of months into 8th grade, Dwight’s brother got his hands on a copy of Woody Allen doing stand-up in his nightclub routine. Big deal? In the mid-Seventies it was. This was like finding a copy of the Zapruder film. This was cooler than being made a general in the Kiss Army.

And it’s what really brought them together not just as friends with similar interests and tastes, but as a comedy team. “It was our first writing of jokes together,” Slade recalls. “Most of them were his, and I mostly just tagged on to them in the beginning. I was writing my own, but Bill was way ahead of me. My jokes were really simplistic and idiotic, to be honest. It wasn’t until then – and it’s so ridiculous to talk in these terms – but it wasn’t until 8th grade that I started to mature in my joke writing.”

Bill and Dwight also started working on their own play, Death. It was highly derivative of Woody Allen’s play Death Knocks (not to be confused with the Allen play of the same name, Death, that would become the loose basis of his movie Shadows and Fog). They tried out for the 8th grade talent show. Woody Allen, however, apparently wasn’t good enough for an 8th grade talent show. And as his apostles, Bill and Dwight weren’t either. They failed the audition. “Inspired” as it might have been by Allen, the play was not without its own originality and humor. Thirty years later, Slade half-jokes, “I’m still bitter.”

There was a silver lining. The Spring Forest Junior High drama teacher asked them to perform their play for the speech class. They happily obliged. In front of the willing audience, Bill and Dwight were stellar. They got real laughs, real applause. They were now as encouraged as they had been dejected after the rejection from the talent show. Their intuition that they were good at this – at writing, at creating, at getting laughs – was correct.

By that time Bill and Dwight (performing under the stage names of Mel and Hal – their middle names) had a fair amount of material: three monologues of about fifteen minutes each, plus the play. They had already put together a half-hour tape of their best stuff and sent it to local agents in hopes of having someone do the legwork of getting them gigs, and also gaining some legitimacy. As it was, they weren’t doing so great by themselves.

They still had some hard lessons to learn. Later that month Bill and Dwight saw an ad in the Houston Chronicle for open auditions for the Easter Seals Telethon in April. They were still keeping their ambitions clandestine, and couldn’t ask their parents for rides. So they took their bikes across town. Drenched from the effort, with the aid of Houston’s humidity – like a natural sauna 365 days a year – they arrived at the local school for the deaf where the auditions were being held.

Trying to cool off and stay calm, they did about ten minutes for the judges. Mel and Hal were told they were great writers. They got a “we’ll let you know.” For artistic teens, this was doubly hellish: in their budding social lives they were getting, “let’s just be friends” from the ladies; in their budding careers they were getting the showbiz equivalent. Mel and Hal never heard back from the Easter Seals folks. Neither did Bill and Dwight, for that matter.

On the upside, Bill and Dwight had done their first stand-up gig together.

They soon came across another ad in the paper: an open audition for a restaurant that put on live entertainers. Again, they took their bikes to the restaurant. They ended up in a room in front of five or six adults – restaurant and nightclub owners – who, in Slade’s words, “laughed their asses off.” Not because two kids showed up, but because of the comedy the kids did. These adults, with no obligations to like them, loved them. Bill and Dwight knew one thing: even if they weren’t getting work, they were getting laughs. They had a good solid six minutes of material.

They had also got themselves hooked up with Universal Talent. When Dwight and Bill started looking for agents, they didn’t even know what a headshot was. It’s not the kind of thing a 14-year-old should know for any particular reason, but it was indicative of the gap between what they were and what they wanted to be. Even the most basic facts about the business of entertainment as a business were beyond them.

Add this ignorance to the fact that they were essentially sneaking around behind their parents’ backs, and it’s all the more miraculous that they even dared to endeavor this endeavor. They had to call around studios looking for a photographer. When they were able to lowball someone to a price they could afford, they still had to ride their bikes (again) miles across town to the get the shots taken. On top of that, Bill was having to pilfer sweaters from his dad so that he could wear something presentable in the pictures. Finally, when the contact sheets arrived at Bill’s house for review, Mary Hicks opened the package before Bill could intercept the mail. That caused another row in the house. One: what the heck were the pictures for? Two: why the heck was Bill wearing his father’s sweater in them?

A meeting at Universal Talent? That was another 20-mile bike ride across town. Two hours on two wheels for about two minutes in the offices. Beverly the assistant told the sweat-drenched duo, “We’ll give you a call.” Nothing was easy. At least they were staying fit.

That summer, 1976, Bill attended camp. Church camp, actually. Somewhere out in West Texas. There he did his first solo stand-up gig. “I was absolutely terrified,” he confessed years later. “Not the least reason was that it was a church camp and a lot of the guys who I had been watching were like nightclub comics and Richard Pryor, so obviously I had to edit on my feet a little bit. I felt like I had made a huge mistake and I should have been in the ‘Kumbaya’ chorus that went up before me.” But after the show Hicks was accosted by more than one of his peers wanting to know how he had the courage to get up and do that in front of people.

“I don’t remember the exact thing that got the first laugh. I know I had, like, fourteen minutes of material, and, like, seven minutes of it was stolen, or someone else’s, like, Woody Allen material which nobody in Baptist West Texas country would ever be able to trace.”

Bill didn’t tell his parents but it wasn’t like he could keep it a secret. He did have the camp, staff and all, as an audience. One of the jokes he told was: “Ladies and gentleman, I had a rough upbringing. I was breast-fed … On falsies.”

Mary Hicks found out about Bill’s stand-up performance from one of the other ladies at Sunday School. Mary then went to the church’s assistant pastor to get more details. The pastor told Mary, “You might want to look at how you raised him.” Clearly Bill was correct in thinking no one there would ever be able to source his material. (Allen’s actual line: “I was in analysis for years because of a traumatic childhood; I was breast-fed through falsies.”)

Another faculty member of the Sunday School told Mrs. Hicks that her son thought Bill’s comedy was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Bill’s first show; Bill’s first rave review.

In the fall of 1976, Bill and Dwight were starting as freshmen at Stratford High School. Stratford was a shit-brown brick building with a mod-deco facade. And the near-windowless exterior made it look more like the kind of place where you would have line-up and lock-down than you would take roll. It was somewhere between eyesore and oddity. It hadn’t produced any poet laureates. It produced country music star Clint Black.

Right about the time Bill and Dwight were supposed to start high school, they also got a shot at what could have been the biggest gig of their lives … or the worst. While, over time, the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon has morphed into a parade of has-beens, back in those days it was a fixture of Americana: Elvis, John Lennon and Sinatra all made appearances. Plus, it was raising money for kids with muscular dystrophy.

The way the telethon works, there is a national show supported by dozens if not hundreds of smaller, regional shows all running concurrently. During the broadcast, the network cuts back and forth from the national to the regional shows. In Houston, this was being held in a restaurant, and the restaurant needed to book acts for the entire forty-eight hours of the telethon.

Frantic to fill the time slots, the telethon’s bookers called all of the agencies around town asking, “Who do you have? What can you give us?” Universal Talent called Bill and Dwight asking how much time they could do. They had their normal set of about a half hour, and they had the play. Beverly at Universal told them: “We have three hours we need to fill.” Bill replied: “We can fill it all.”

“Our idea was that it was going to broadcast on TV,” says Slade. “In reality, maybe it was going to be on in the background of the local show.” They had no idea even what kind of gig it was. It didn’t matter. When they went to their parents to ask permission, they got turned down flat.

Bill spent the bulk of his freshman year working on comedy by using his classmates as his audience. One teacher tried a creative solution to curtail Bill’s interrupting of class: she offered him the first five minutes of class. That time was his to get it out of his system. The rest was hers for teaching. Giving Bill the Sudetenland. Bad idea.

Mary recalls, “One of the teachers called me and asked me if I could help her get her class back from Bill. She said, ‘I told him he could have five minutes while I was checking the roll,’ and she said, ‘I can’t get it back.’ I said, ‘That’s your problem, you shouldn’t have let him get up there.'”

At lunch Bill and Dwight would resume their tag team activities by terrorizing the lunchroom. It was a low-paying gig, but it was a guaranteed booking five days a week. It was proto-guerilla theater. They would perform fake fights, do outrageous character pieces, flip tables and chairs. It was adolescent lunacy. And it was non-stop.

This would continue in track, at the end of the school day. Dwight and Bill would be jogging around the oval. Bill would inch in front of Dwight, slow, then bend over. An oblivious Dwight would unwillingly nail Bill in the ass from behind. Mime sodomy. During the fall, this went on in front of the football team. The team would be practising on the field; Dwight and Bill would be doing their schtick on the track encircling that field. They were performing for their friends on the football team, the people they knew who thought they were funny; but they were also pissing off some of the upperclassmen. It was bad enough that the comedie kids were getting attention in the lunchroom, but carrying it out to the sports arena – that was just showing them up.

“It was almost like doing antics in front of an ape in the zoo. They were initially just confused, then they would want to kill and beat and hit,” says Slade. “I remember seeing them once look at each other and nod and take off running after us. It was terrifying because these were very large Texas football players.”

Late in their freshman year, Dwight handed Bill a book by Ruth Montgomery called A World Beyond. The light went on. Dwight had had a very intense dream about death, and something in the book spoke very specifically to him about what had happened. When Bill read the book, he was similarly blown away. Destiny, fate, choosing your life; the way Montgomery wrote about these things Bill found very comforting. Bill and Dwight spent hours together talking about these concerns. Hours and hours. Southern Baptist tenets, those were his parents’ beliefs. Other spiritual avenues were opening up to Bill.

The Beatles had made the Maharishi a hipster-household name in the late Sixties, but by 1975 he had become mainstream, appearing on the 13 October cover of Time magazine with the teaser: “Meditation: The Answer to all Your Problems?” Still, it was a bit of a coup when Bill got his parents to allow him to attend a transcendental meditation retreat over the Thanksgiving weekend of his sophomore year. While largely a secular celebration, Thanksgiving is one of the top two family-centric holidays in America. For Bill to be able to leave the Hicks family to hang out with strangers (save Dwight), and do things that his parents not only didn’t fully understand but also didn’t subscribe to belief-wise, was astounding.

It’s no less amazing that Bill and Dwight (this time with Dwight’s older brother Kevin) gained permission to attend a second retreat over Christmas break. It was not only longer – a full week instead of a holiday weekend – it was right as families are about to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. If the Thanksgiving retreat was a coup, the Christmas one was a minor miracle.

It wasn’t the last bit of karmic kismet the pair had in store. During the following semester of school, in April the Houston Chronicle ran a feature on a new comedy club in town. This was it. This was the answer. Prior to this, Dwight had been combing the want ads for “Entertainer” under “E", or “C” for Comedians. Obviously there was nothing available for 14-year-old stand-ups. As he describes it, “It was just stupid.” Now they had an outlet. About a week after seeing the feature in the Chronicle, Dwight and Bill sneaked out of their houses and were standing on the stage of the Comedy Workshop, performing their material in front of a paying adult audience. But it was just a little too late. Dwight had known for months that at the end of the school year his family would be moving to Oregon.

“It was intoxicating,” as Slade recalls, “but there was this horror because here we are and we are really clicking, but we knew I have to leave.”

They were also found out by their parents and grounded for the rest of their adolescence.