“Knup’s” April Fools joyride to Texas

The April Fools is one of those terribly mod (and borderline terrible) late ’60s romantic comedies that for reasons both numerous and peculiar, earned its unit of storage in my memory bank.

The one-sheet took up temporary residence in the Coming Soon poster case of a neighborhood theatre. No sooner did the Best of CBS’s pan-and-scan presentation of The Apartment introduce me to Jack Lemmon, than it became my sworn duty to see everything the actor appeared in. (I have!) Eyes closed and looking remarkably content, Lemmon posed with head pressed against the shoulder of a very pretty French actress whose name had yet to cross my radar. The April Fools not only introduced me to Catherine Deneuve (at age 13, Buñuel would have to wait), it marked the first movie I ever saw in two different states.

Uncle Jerry, a traveling salesman for Superior Coffee, married Babe’s sister, Aunt Tubby. For years, summer vacations meant following Jerry’s java route as the couple zig-zagged across America, first to Cleveland, then New Orleans, followed by Philadelphia, and, in the summer of ’69, Houston.

Larry loaded up the Chevy station wagon, handed co-pilot Babe the AAA TripTik, and together we drove into the sunrise. This was before Sony came out with its Walkman, and a friend’s mom was nice enough to offer the use of a battery-operated portable phonograph. Three LPs, all soundtracks, of course, made the trip: The Great Race, Mary Poppins, and Gypsy. Not wanting to scratch the vinyl, I waited until we were off the pothole-dimpled city roadways and onto smooth stretches of less-traveled turnpike before dropping the needle.

The trip took two days. Tubby and Jerry greeted us at the door with the same kind of acclamatory unrestraint generally reserved for returning vets. After bearhugs were exchanged, it was time to get down to business: where’s the newspaper and what’s playing? Answer the second question first.

Tubby smiled as the ash from her Carlton Ultra-Light 100 (one needed an iron lung to get a drag) parachuted smoothly to the ground. “Oh, Knup” she wheedled, her hand a claw crane slowly reaching out to pinch my right cheek so hard it practically spurt blood. “Why would anyone want to spend part of their vacation sitting inside a movie theatre?”

Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Look here, Tubby! Not only am I your guest, if what you say is true, I’m also your favorite nephew. Suppose you rest your tonsils, slip me some popcorn money, and arrange for safe passage to and from the theatre.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of us to join you, honey?” Babe asked. Chicago is where I was born, but every movie theatre is my home. I flew solo.

A brief cessation before arriving at the cinema to explain the Marks family nicknames is probably in order. Ma earned “Babe” based on her physical resemblance to the Sultan of Swing, coupled with the fact it took a dozen hot dogs and a gallon of beer before my old man could get to first base with her. (No wonder I was adopted.) But seriously, Esther Aaronson Marks was a vision of loveliness, a shaina maidel so comely that my sexist pig father, and every other cabron on the block, took to calling her “Babe.”

Sarah “Tubby” Glickman was on the zaftig side to say the least; throw a doily over her head and she doubled for a Chippendale wingback. Little Scotty couldn’t wrap his mouth around “Sarah,” but “Tubby” flew off the tongue faster than a hummingbird through a wood-chipper.

As for “Knup,” it’s punk spelled backwards. Get it? The gag, originated when I was four, was long played out by age nine. Tubby insisted on keeping it going well into my twenties. I suppose I had it coming in light of the unflattering handle I laid on her.

I can’t remember the name of the theatre, but it was in a mall and possibly the first multiplex (it had four screens) that I ever attended. All this and Peter Lawford in Panavision and dye-transfer Technicolor!

At the time, I was a big fan of composer Burt Bacharach (still am!) and the soundtrack album — with Ms. Dionne Warwick singing the title tune — was an instant must-have. I became a child possessed. Ahoy, Tubby: you want I should not stay indoors and that I might venture out and absorb some southern hospitality? Okay, let’s start with every record store within a ten-mile radius.

Jerry stood as tall as your average Stooge, the waistband of his Sansabelt slacks hiked so high it brushed up against his nipples. His feet barely reached the pedals as we drove to a hopping downtown record mart. In no time it was mine. Back home, Jerry lifted the imitation wood lid of the hi-fi and swapped out Andy Williams’ Under Paris Skies for my latest acquisition. The adult’s enjoyment of the music made me instantly question the purchase.

As for the quality of the movie, after a second viewing a few weeks later at Chicago’s Nortown Theatre, that was the last I saw of The April Fools. Almost. A bootleg copy sat on the shelf of a Hillcrest smoke shop. For two bucks I took a chance and was rewarded with a flat, muddy dupe. I couldn’t make it past the opening party sequence. There’s a Region 1 widescreen copy available for under ten bucks, but some memories are better left unvarnished.

So where does all this kvetching lead? You’ve heard of guilt by association? This is gold by association! It wasn’t until yesterday, while going through a few of her albums, that I discovered Aretha Franklin recorded a version of the title tune. Franklin covered the song; Marks covered the movie. Start the weekend early with a little Lady Soul.