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| Tim Conway, Harvey Korman, Vicki Lawrence, and Lyle Waggoner |
Perhaps it
was that famous dentist sketch that once made me believe he was a real dentist.
I swear,
it’s not as idiotic as it sounds.
Years ago,
I was in Georgia for a writers’ conference and had arrived at the hotel a day early.
The place was quiet, as a large group had just checked out and no one else had
arrived for my event. I wanted to see where a particular meeting room was
located so I wouldn’t have to hunt the next day, when I knew the place would be
crowded, so I took an elevator to the lower level and followed the signs along
a wide, green carpeted hall.
Around me,
nothing stirred. The entire floor boasted late twentieth century hotel conference
center décor: large round overhead lights, the occasional tropical plant or
gilt mirror, pairs of straight-backed chairs on either side of tables set at
intervals along the wall so attendees would have places to chat. Most of the lights
had been dimmed, given that no activities were scheduled that evening.
I was
about two-thirds of the way to the meeting room when I spotted a man sitting
alone in one of the chairs, reading a paperback. He wore khaki pants, a
collared shirt, and a dark brown sport coat. He straightened as I approached,
then smiled as if he’d been waiting for me. I slowed. The guy looked very familiar,
but I was certain he wasn’t a writer or part of the conference I’d come to
Georgia to attend. It felt as if I’d known him many years earlier, maybe while
I was growing up. I couldn’t place him, though, and he didn’t speak to me, so I
smiled in return, then rounded a corner and continued toward the rabbit warren
of conference rooms.
As I
walked, I scoured my mental database. I guessed that the man was older than my
parents, but not by a lot. Thanks to my father’s career as an Army dentist, we moved
around a ton when I was a kid, and I’d met nearly all of his coworkers over the
years. I’d babysat for probably half a dozen of them and had been to picnics or
dinners at many of their homes. Had my dad been stationed with the guy in the
hall? He’d looked at me as if he knew me…or thought he might.
After a few
minutes of being unable to place him, and having finally located the meeting room,
I headed back toward my hotel room. When I turned the corner into the hallway
where I’d seen the man, I was surprised to find him still in his seat. Once
again, he sat up and smiled at me. This time, though, there was a slight furrow
to his brow, as if he wanted to ask a question. I said hello, and he shifted
forward in the chair.
He tilted
his head, then said, “I think you might be looking for me.”
It was one
of those moments where you feel awkward, but you know the other person does,
too. There wasn’t another soul within shouting distance, and we were in a very long,
very empty hallway in the bowels of a hotel. I said, “I was trying to find a
conference room. Found it.”
He looked
disappointed. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I said something to the
effect of, “You look very familiar to me…you wouldn’t happen to be in the Army,
would you? A dentist?”
A beat or
two passed, then he gave me a wide, genuine smile, as if he’d just heard the
greatest joke. “No,” he said, “I’m not in the Army.”
I was
about to explain that he looked like one of my parents’ friends—but stopped
myself when I realized he might take it as a statement akin to, “wow, you look
old”—when we both heard footsteps coming from the direction of the elevators.
A woman in a skirt and jacket approached, a leather tote bag hanging from her
shoulder. Her hair and makeup were immaculate—television immaculate—and she moved
with the speed of a person who knows they’re late, but doesn’t want to run and
start sweating.
“She might
be looking for you,” I said.
His gaze
went to her leather bag, then back to me. “That’d be my guess.”
I left as the woman zeroed in on the man in
the chair, who rose to greet her. It was apparent that she was there to conduct
an interview of some type.
As the
elevator doors closed, I figured it out. He wasn’t one of my parents’ friends,
though we’d watched him together many, many times. The man in the chair was Tim
Conway, and one of his most famous sketches on the Carol Burnett show was as the
bumbling dentist who manages to inject himself with Novocaine.
Tim, may
you rest in peace. You gave millions of people joy and laughter. I hope, for
that one day, I gave you the laugh.
