Collections - 15. Chapter 15 -- My High School Theater Teacher

My High School Theater Teacher

The funeral mass for my former high school teacher, Vince Tampio, was something he would have been able to find funny. For one thing, it was somewhat on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Barnet Kellman, one of the three other classmates who was there, described the location more specifically, but to repeat that would risk censure. It was scheduled for a Friday night, shortly after rush hour. Barnet, Amy Lieberman, Paul Zegler, and I left in three different cars, from three different places, and kept in touch by cell phone. The plan was to meet at 6:00, at Vince's favorite Italian restaurant, near the church. We all wanted to be at the service, because, 40 years ago, Vince had started our careers: Barnet's now a director, Amy's a casting director, and Paul acts.

At 6:00, I called Amy, who was riding with Barnet. "I'm gonna be late," I said. "I'm stuck in traffic on the 210."

"That's OK," Amy replied. "We're stuck on the 60. Do you have any idea where Montebello is?"

"Nah. I always mix it with Montclair."

By 6:30, Paul had also been heard from: he was jammed behind an accident on the 10. To appreciate these numbers, you have to understand how many clogged freeways there are in L.A.

The funeral began at 7:30. I squeaked in at 7:25, Barnet and Amy close behind me. Paul and his girlfriend Becky arrived shortly after the service started, and just before I quietly said, "Excuse me" to Barnet and slipped out.

It wasn't the middle-aged blonde woman with the guitar, providing the only music for the mass, and seemingly trying to honor John Denver. It wasn't the mariachi band, playing at a supermarket across the street and bleeding into what were supposed to be considered silences. It was the well-intentioned priest, coincidentally also named Vince -- Father Vince -- who'd only met Vince Tampio several times, shortly before his death, and was trying to give him a savvy show biz send-off. And, as Barnet put it, he was also trying to channel Mr. Rogers.

Father Vince somehow started talking about dissecting piglets in seminary, then segued to the wonder of creation, then to the folded flag on Vince's otherwise white-draped coffin. "What branch of the military was Vincent Francis in?" he asked.

"The Army," one of Vince Tampio's childhood friends answered. "He was in Korea, with Special Services."

Meaning he sang and danced for the troops. But Father Vince thought the friend meant Special Forces -- the Green Berets -- and zoomed off, praising Vince's bravery and the miracle of his even having returned from treacherous Korea alive. At this point, Amy was patting Barnet's knee in sympathy, and I'd taken off my glasses, trying to focus on my thumbs to keep from rudely humming "fighting hoofers from the sky." Then Father Vince slipped orbit and began talking about Vince's design career.

To begin with, there's a difference between a scene designer and a scenic artist. Vince was primarily the latter, a painter, working in, then heading up, the CBS-TV paint shop for 30 years. Father Vince soared about the magic of creativity, the joys of inspiration, and the selflessness of unknown and unheralded designers. At one point, he actually used the words "passive" and "quiet" to describe Vince. That's when I left.

Vince Tampio was a lot of things, but passive and quiet, he wern't. His ability to show either of these attributes ranged in nano-fractions, and that might be what I liked about him most. Vince taught his students -- and friends -- to question constantly, by steadily questioning everything around himself, not always in the subtlest way. "Whatever gave that dumb dyke the idea she could direct?" I once remember him spewing -- and "dyke," here, is a euphemism.

After I left the church, I walked its grounds, noting the police coming to silence the mariachi band, and a pair of teenagers doing not-solely-teenaged things in a parked car. I wandered into the nearby parish house, where a parallel mass was being said in Spanish. After listening for a while, understanding nearly nothing, I slipped back to the church.

The double doors from the front vestibule were open, so I could hear and watch the rest of the service. After seemingly-infinite huffing, Father Vince rambled to a close, and the amplified, acoustic, John Denverette warbled "On the Wings of Eagles." Vince's friends had been invited to say a few words about him toward the end of the mass, but only his 40ish godson dared. Then, when I figured the worst had passed, Father Vince resumed.

"There's something our beloved Vincent Francis probably wanted all his life," he explained cryptically, "though I'm sure he was far too shy to ever admit it." (Shy!) "And it might be against all the rules to give it to him now, but I'm sure it will be all right -- for just a few minutes."

From a cardboard box, Father Vince pulled an old, dirty Emmy, and he set it on Vince's coffin. Moments later, the coffin rolled up the center aisle, coming straight at me, still draped in white, with the folded American flag pointed at its head like a nose cone, and the tarnished Emmy serving as the tail fin of a wingless jet.

"I just wanted to call Vince and tell him how awful it was," one of Vince's closest friends almost laughed in the vestibule later, while still wiping away tears.

Afterward, everyone was invited to the godson's house, but Amy, Barnet, Paul, and I still wanted to try for Vince's favorite restaurant. As chance had it, we got there just as it closed, but Barnet and Amy charmed our way in. They explained how much Vince had loved the place, how frequently he'd eaten there, and how he'd practically known every waitress by name. The young manager agreed, so long as we ordered simply, which we did. But it was only after chatting with him as he delivered our drinks, and only after each of us took a turn trying to describe our former teacher to place him for the man, that he clearly understood it was Vince Tampio who had died -- and not his local parish priest, Father Vince.