IF you happen to meet Nelson Camacho on the streets of New York, you’ll have to meet his partner, José. They have a long history – Camacho, 47, has worked the past 25 years as a ventriloquist, and through it all he has had only one dummy sidekick.
Camacho grew up in Washington Heights and lived there until he was 11, when he and his parents and five siblings left to see if his father could make it back in their native Puerto Rico. It was a rough road. To help with the expenses, Camacho dropped out of school in the fifth grade and went to work, doing menial jobs. He unloaded trucks, cleaned horse stables and did a stint at McDonald’s.
In 1981, Camacho came back to the States and lived in Colorado. He was training to be an auto mechanic when he entertained some co-workers at a packing plant by throwing his voice, and they suggested he could make some money at it. He bought José for $1,000 and did a show for his father, a former ventriloquist. The two ended up returning to New York, and Camacho hit the streets to do shows.
I met him and José on Central Park West, while kids squealed at José’s bushy eyebrows and jokes. Camacho, whose suave demeanor is a sometimes jarring counterpoint to José’s exuberance, took a break and talked about life as a street ventriloquist. José sat on his lap, silent.
Sometimes I get hired for kids’ parties, but almost all of the work I do is on the streets. I’m a fifth-grade dropout, so I don’t really have the knowledge to take this to bigger venues. I come from a father and a grandfather that were ventriloquists. My father used to take our dolls when we were kids and do an act. At the age of 3 I started doing it, and I was the only one in my family born with the gift.
I was 21 when I did my first shows, outside of Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, on 168th Street and Broadway. I would catch kids, patients, doctors and nurses coming out. If I had a good crowd, I could make $300 to $400 for three or four hours of work.
Back then, I could pay for all the bills from my shows. Now, things aren’t as good. The cops harass me more now. I don’t understand it. I do a clean show and kids love me, and they’ll chase me away.
I have no idea if I need a permit. Is there a ventriloquist permit? I wish I knew. I can’t go downtown anymore. I used to make a lot of money on 34th Street and 14th Street, and now I get chased away. Same with Fordham Road in The Bronx. I’m lucky I can still work outside the museum.
The kids still love José, but now I’ll make, like, only $10 to $40. The money has gotten tight, but I’m surviving – and I’m not going to quit. Being a ventriloquist is something I love. I love making kids happy and seeing their faces light up when they see José. I have had sick kids who wouldn’t smile at anything -but they smile at José. The Lord gave me a gift, and I will not give it up.
The hardest part of this job is that sometimes I haven’t eaten breakfast because I have no money, and it’s hard to perform on an empty stomach. It’s also tough because I need decent weather to do outdoor shows. Also a lot of Dominican people tell me that they’re scared of Jose – that he looks too real. I thought that was the point.
When I put José away, I put him away. It’s not like I think he’s real, but I’ve been with him for 25 years, so he is a part of me. I can’t use his voice unless he’s sitting next to me.
Someone told me that on David Letterman’s show they claimed there were only 200 working ventriloquists left in America. Well, there are 201, because they never counted me. I want to bring back the glory days of ventriloquism, like that of the great Charlie McCarthy. The kids today should see that again. I would love to make it on TV as the best ventriloquist around. I have no children, so that’s what I would want my legacy to be – as the world’s greatest ventriloquist.