n the early 1950's, Toby Temple's success was growing. He played the top nightclubs - the Chez Paree in Chicago, the Latin Casino in Philadelphia, the Copacabana in New York. He played benefits and children's hospitals and charity affairs - he would play for anybody, anywhere, at any time. The audience was his lifeblood. He needed the applause and the love. He was totally absorbed in show business. Major events were occuring around the world, but to Toby they were merely grist for his act.

In 1951, when General MacArthur was fired and said, "Old soldiers don't die - they just fade away," Toby said, "Jesus - we must use the same laundry."

In 1952, when the hydrogen bomb was dropped, Toby's response was, "That's nothing. You should have caught my opening in Atlanta."

When Nixon made his "Checkers" speech, Toby said, "I'd vote for him in a minute. Not Nixon - Checkers."

Ike was President and Stalin died and young America was wearing Davy Crockett hats and there was a bus boycott in Montgomery.

And everything was material for Toby's act.

When he delivered his zingers with that wide-eyed look of baffled innocence, the audiences screamed.

Toby's whole life consisted of punch lines. "...so he said, 'Wait a minute; I'll get my hat and go with you...'" and "...to tell the truth, it looked so good I ate it myself!" and "...it's a candystore, but they'll call me...." and "...I would have been a Shamus..." and "...now I've got you and there's no ship..." and "Just my luck. I get the part that eats...." and on and on, with the audiences laughing until they cried. His audiences loved him, and he fed on their love and battened on it and climbed ever higher.

But there was a deep, wild restlessness in Toby. He was always looking for something more. He could never enjoy himself because he was afraid he might be missing a better party somewhere, or playing to a better audience, or kissing a prettier girl. He changed girls as frequently as he changed his shirts. After the experience with Millie, he was afraid to become deeply involved with anyone. He remembered when he had played the Toilet Circuit and envied the comics with the big limousines and the beautiful women. He had made it, and he was as lonely now as he had been then. Who was it who had said, "When you get there, there is no there...."

He was dedicated to becoming Number One and he knew he would make it. His one regret was that his mother would not be there to watch her prediction come true.

The only reminder left of her was his father.

The nursing home in Detroit was an ugly brick building from another century. Its walls held the sweet stench of old age and sickness and death.

Toby Temple's father had suffered a stroke and was almost a vegetable now, a man with listless, apathetic eyes and a mind that cared for nothing except Toby's visits. Toby stood in the dingy green-carpeted hall of the home that now held his father. The nurses and inmates crowded adoringly around him.

"I saw you on the Harold Hobson show last week, Toby. I thought you were just marvelous. How do you think of all those clever things to say?"

"My writers think of them," Toby said, and they laughed at his modesty.

A male nurse was coming down the corridor, wheeling Toby's father. He was freshly shaved and had his hair slicked down. He had let them dress him in a suit in honor of his son's visit.

"Hey, it's Beau Brummel!" Toby called, and everyone turned to look at Mr. Temple with envy, wishing that they had a wonderful, famous son like Toby to come and visit them.

Toby walked over to his father, leaned down and gave him a hug. "Who you trying to kid?" Toby asked. He pointed to the male nurse. "You should be wheeling him around, Pop."

Everyone laughed, filing the quip away in their minds so that they could tell their friends what they had heard Toby Temple say. I was with Toby Temple the other day and he said...I was standing as close as I am to you, and I heard him...

He stood around entertaining them, insulting them gently, and they loved it. He kidded them about their sex lives and their health and their children, and for a little while they were able to laugh at their own problems. Finally, Toby said ruefully, "I hate to leave you, you're the best-looking audience I've had in years" - They would remember that, too - "but I have to spend a little time alone with Pop. He promised to give me some new jokes."

They smiled and laughed and adored him.

Toby was alone in the small visitors room with his father. Even this room had the smell of death, and yet, That was what this place was all about, wasn't it, Toby thought. Death? It was filled with used-up mothers and fathers who were in the way. They had been taken out of the small back bedrooms at home, out of the dining rooms and parlors where they were becoming an embarrassment whenever there were guests, and had been sent to this nursing home by their children, nieces and nephews. Believe me, it's for your own good, Father, Mother, Uncle George, Aunt Bess. You'll be with a lot of very nice people your own age. You'll have company all the time. You know what I mean? What they really meant was, I'm sending you there to die with all the other useless old people. I'm sick of your drooling at the table and telling the same stories over and over and pestering the children and wetting your bed. The Eskimos were more honest about it. They sent their old people out onto the ice and abandoned them there.

"I'm sure glad you came today," Toby's father said. His speech was slow. "I wanted to talk to you. I got some good news. Old Art Riley next door died yesterday."

Toby stared at him. "That's good news?"

"It means I can move into his room," his father explained. "It's a single."

And that was what old age was all about: Survival, hanging on to the few creature comforts that still remained. Toby had seen people here who would have been better off dead, but they clung to life, fiercely. Happy birthday, Mr. Dorset. How do you feel about being ninety-five years old today?...When I think of the alternative, I feel great.

At last, it was time for Toby to leave.

"I'll be back to see you as soon as I can," Toby promised. He gave his father some cash and handed out lavish tips to all the nurses and attendants. "You take good care of him, huh? I need the old man for my act."

And Toby was gone. The moment he walked out the door, he had forgotten them all. He was thinking about his performance that evening.

For weeks they would talk about nothing but his visit.