Free I, Fatty by Jerry Stahl

whooping it up good when a short, wild-haired pistolero with a giant mustache and twin cartridge belts criss-crossed over his chest rode his horse right into the middle of the soldiers, who instantly dropped our theatrical offerings and looked solemn. The power accorded this surly figure was apparent without a word being uttered.
    El Jefe turned his eyes from his soldiers to us and we all fell silent. Then he announced, in a commanding voice, "I am Pancho Villa!" There was a long, tense hush, until I bellowed back, "Have a pie, Pancho!" and threw a blueberry pie I happened to be holding across the river. An audible gasp rose from soldiers and actors alike as the pie sailed over the water. And then, an ever bigger gasp—this time of delight—as the Mexican leader turned on his horse, almost casually, and caught the pie one-handed with flawless timing. An amazing feat!
    Pancho tossed the pie back to me. I bobbled it but managed to hang on. His men and my own ragtag troops cheered wildly. I wasn't sure if I should throw it back again, then figured the Mexicans had probably gone a lot longer without pie than I had, and flung the thing back over. This time Pancho smiled and fired two shots that winged the pie plate before snatching it out of the air.
    Now this was a showman! I shouted, "Viva La Revolution!" Then "Bravo!" Pancho acknowledged my kudos. He smiled big, took a bite out of the pie, and fired his pistol straight in the sky as he galloped off with his freshly fed soldiers in the same direction he'd galloped in.
    "My God, that was Pancho Villa!" Reed kept saying. "There's a thousand-dollar reward on his head!"
    "Well," I said, "if he ever gets out of that jam, he's got a future in vaudeville."
    Something, I'd be lying if I didn't admit, I was no longer sure I wanted for myself.
    The Grind
    After the El Paso run was over, we were out of bookings, so Minta and I worked our way back to Los Angeles doing pass-throughs. We'd announce to whatever theater we could find that we were passing through, then I'd snag us a slot on the bill, pop onstage for some songs and patter, and finish with a surprise duet with Minta. Of course the regular acts weren't too happy about a "name" showing up. And half the time I had to practically sit on the manager to get us our money.
    The two of us got back to Los Angeles ragged and crabby—with little more cash in our money-sock than when we'd started out. This meant we had to live with Minta's parents. I actually liked the Durfees. I liked their little house on Coronado Street in Echo Park. But I felt more squeamish than ever taking to bed with Minta knowing her Mom and Dad were two inches of plaster away. Lounging around one morning—"Pick up your feet, Roscoe, I'm dusting!"—I read a story in Variety about James O'Neill, who made 50 grand free and clear touring as the Count of Monte Cristo. For one role— 50 grand!
    That was the thing to be: a real actor, making real money. Like I told Minta later, I must have forgotten about the money part when I prayed to the theater gods for a long-running role. (I also forgot to pray for the right long-running role, but never mind.) When, out of nowhere, impresario Ferris Hartman offered me a part in The Mikado, my first thought was Why me? But what was even stranger than the idea of Roscoe Arbuckle in The Mikado was the idea of where we were performing it—in the Far East. What could the audience possibly think?
    Still, after lounging around imitating furniture for all those weeks at the Durfees', I'd have played Queen Victoria in Pago Pago just to get out of the house.
    The Mysterious Orient
    The closer we came to departing, the more the whole notion made me nervous. How would we like a bunch of coolies coming to our shores, playing white men and making carnival of us? As I kept saying to Minta, it's like taking a minstrel show on a tour of plantations.
    But hunger, like I told you when I was stranded in San Jose at 10, always trumps nerves, so off