Tim and I were once booked to perform together at a fund raiser for a Synagogue in Washington DC. I was already in the hotel the night before our show when Tim arrived. We were sharing a room that night, and as he walked in I smiled, and said “Hey there Timmy.” He said “Please don’t call me that.” Strange to me because a number of Tim’s older friends, Scotty York, Bill Wells, a few others, always called him Timmy and he never said a word. I asked about that, and he said, “I’ve known them for so long, I can’t correct them now. But I hate it and I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” OK. Never again.
The next day we arrived at the Synagogue for our show, and it’s a nightmare. About 100 small children, totally unsupervised and running around, with a handful of adults pretending not to notice. Tim immediately went outside, lit a cigarette and began to pace. I came out to talk to him, and he was a nervous wreck. “I’m doing mind reading. They’ll hate me. They’re kids. My show’s not for little kids, I should have brought magic stuff.” I told him I would open the show, I would tame the room so at least they would be sitting and paying attention when he came on. “What about your introduction, what do you want me to say?” He smiled that big smile where his eyes would go squinty, giggled a little bit and said, “Just say ‘Heeeere’s Timmy.” And we laughed until tears rolled down his face. (They loved him, by the way.)
Eric Mead
Aspen, Colorado