The Man Who Cancelled Himself (14 page)

“Blah-blah-blah?”

“Shit. She led Leo on. Let her believe whatever she wanted to about her, okay? When the whole time she was just using Leo to get in the door. Soon as she spotted something better—Lyle—she went for it. Dumped Leo cold. Wham, zoom. Told her never to call her again. I heard she’s done it before, too. With this musician she used to live with. She treats people like sponges, okay? Squeezes every last drop out of them. Check it out—Leo loved her. She
let
Leo love her. And that’s a pretty shitty thing to do when you don’t love a person back, if you ask me. Not that I’m a feelings specialist like you are, Hoagy. I do know Leo
hates
her. And hates Lyle for stealing her. And that’s not gossip. That’s fact.”

“I’m surprised Leo has stayed around,” I observed. “Why doesn’t she quit?”

“Too illegit to quit,” Annabelle replied. “She and Lyle have
so
many crooked deals cooked up together. No way she’d pull down those kind of bucks anywhere else. Besides, she’s not the type to walk. She’s the type to get even, if you know what I’m saying.”

Our waitress brought our food. The barbecue was tangy and peppery and I was starved. Bobby ate his with his fork held underhanded and his face over his plate, like a little kid shoveling down a bowl of Maypo. Annabelle just nibbled.

“B-Boys will be halfway through their rewrite of Act One already,” Bobby mentioned between forkfuls, glancing at his watch.

“They’re awesome how fast they are,” Annabelle agreed, nodding her headdress.

“They’re total hacks,” he sniffed. “B-Body-and-fender men. No commitment to their art.”

“This isn’t art,” I reminded him. “It’s television.”

“T-Too damned cynical for their own good,” he went on, with mounting intensity. “Tommy especially. I mean, Tommy’s a really smart guy. And talented. But he b-believes in
nothing.
”

“And why do they stay around? Same reason as Leo?”

Annabelle shook her head. “It runs deeper than money,” she hinted darkly.

“How much deeper?”

“D-Don’t listen to her,” Bobby argued, blinking at me. “It’s strictly the money. They both have m-monster overheads. Marty’s ex-wife, Beth, Lives in West Nyack with their three teenage kids. And then he and his new wife, B-Brandy, have a baby and a four-year-old. Plus they just bought a house in the West V-Village. Tommy’s oldest son, Ronnie, goes to Harvard. His daughter starts college next year. He’s got a big house in Tarrytown. …”

“He commutes?” I asked.

“He never goes home,” Annabelle replied. “At least not during the week. I’m, like, Tommy hates his wife. She is, after all, a woman. He stays in town at a really, really grungy hotel in Times Square. He likes to fuck hookers and go to porn movies. He and Lyle used to go to them together all the time.” She made a face. “Tommy is … Tommy is …”

“Skeegee,” I said. “He mentioned something about that.” He had not, however, mentioned anything about how he and Lyle used to go to porn movies together. Not one word.

Bobby took a gulp of his Coke. “The point is there’s nothing else that would p-pay them this kind of money. Especially in New York. Lyle’s got the only sitcom going here. Everything else is done out of Los Angeles.”

“And if they moved out there,” Annabelle said, “they’d have to uproot their families and—”

“They’d get drop-kicked right out the door,” said Bobby bluntly. “They’re shlockmeisters. No style or vision of their own. Which is f-fine if you’re twenty-five and working your way up, but they’re over forty. Forty is
old
for TV.”

“If you’re forty you’re part of the past,” Annabelle concurred. “Forty is ancient. Forty is—”

“You can pull over and stop any time on this one.” I sipped my tea. “You’ve staffed out there?” I asked Bobby.

He shoveled more barbecue. “I was on a N-Norman Lear show for a season. Hated it. I’m no sitcom writer. I’m a p-playwright. My first play,
Cold Storage,
was produced three years ago at Playwrights Horizons. Amber Walloon directed it. It was about a m-man who puts himself in cold storage when he can’t figure out what to do with his l-life.”

“It was brilliant,” said Annabelle, nibbling at her corn bread.

“Lear’s people saw it and flew me out there—paid me a shitload of money, too.” He was starting to puff up, his arrogance seeping out as he got more relaxed. Bobby was not, I felt sure, someone I’d want to go out drinking with. “There were eight of us. They’d sit us all down in a room with the first draft and say, ‘Okay, kids, we need t-twelve new punch lines.’ We’d each write two or three per gag and initial them, then the executive producer would p-pick one. It was about as human as taking an SAT exam. And the
p-people.
They spend twelve hours a day on the lot talking about their show, their d-deal, other people’s shows, other people’s deals … I c-couldn’t handle it. I was miserable. P-Plus it’s way too far away from Boston.”

“Got a girlfriend up there?” I asked.

“M-Morris Helfein, my shrink.” He went back to twisting his napkin over his knuckle. “He’s been helping me deal with my anger ever since I was thirteen. Like when I walked out of the notes session this morning. That was p-positive. I didn’t let L-Lyle get to me. I went to the men’s room, I controlled my feelings, and then I came back. I’d be lost without Dr. Helfein. I see him Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday mornings. I’ll f-fly back up tonight and be back here before noon tomorrow for rewrites. I can do that from New York, but when I was in L.A., I c-could only see him Saturdays and Mondays. I had to fly back out and skip my Tuesday session, which was really tough.”

“Expensive, too, I imagine.”

“Still is. The shuttle c-costs a fortune.” He reddened, blinking furiously. “To save money I stay with my m-m-mom when I’m up there.”

“Lyle gives you a pretty hard time,” I observed.

Bobby let out a short, humorless laugh. “Lyle thinks he’s being nothing but good to me. He d-did give me a job, after all. I have Amber to thank for that. And he
is
trying to teach me the sitcom ropes, in his own cruel, abusive way. Maybe … Maybe I’m just not cut out for this business. B-Because all it’s about is learning how to pitch. I want to learn how to write. I-I want to grow, and you don’t from TV. You get much too used to reducing life to simple problems with simple, feel-good solutions that can be reached in twenty-two simple, feel-good minutes.”

“Lyle seems to feel
Uncle Chubby
is the exception.”

“That’s his standard line,” Annabelle scoffed. “That and about how he never sweetens.”

“He does?”

“I’m, like, of course he does. He just won’t call it sweetening. Because that would be him admitting a joke bombed. He can’t. Check it out, he figures the laugh
belongs
there, okay? He
bears
it, okay? As long as he does, to him that’s not sweetening.”

“He always g-goes on and on about how he’s d-doing a unique show,” Bobby sputtered angrily. “B-Better than Neil Simon. Total bullshit. He knows
Uncle Chubby
sucks. He only says it t-to psych everyone up for the grind.”

“Including himself?” I asked.

“Especially himself,” Bobby replied. “If he ever stopped t-to think about how bad it was he’d b-burn out in a second.” Bobby drained his Coke and smacked his glass down hard on the table, startling Lulu. “I should be doing g-good work,” he groaned. “I should be doing theater.”

“So why aren’t you?” I asked him roughly. His self-pity was getting to me.

“You write a p-play and maybe a couple of hundred people hear your words,” he replied bitterly. “If you’re lucky and it runs a while, a f-few thousand. You live in a c-crummy studio apartment with roaches and no heat. Women won’t have anything to do with you. Your family wonders what’s wrong with you. You’re a f-failure. You write a TV show and tens of millions of people hear your words and see your name on the screen. I made a hundred and ninety-seven thousand d-dollars last year, Hoagy. I have a two-bedroom apartment with a d-doorman and built-in bookshelves. Women want to go out with me. I’ve got everything a person could ask for—except for p-pride and self-respect. Because those
aren’t
my words they’re hearing. L-Lyle has rewritten them. Or The Boys have. Or the network has. They’ve been twisted, m-made cute … I’ve sold them away, for money. If I were stronger, I’d do nothing but plays. My words. My way. Only, I-I’m not that strong.”

I turned to Annabelle. “And how about you?”

“Me, I’m, like, clam happy,” she answered brightly. “Everyone I went to school with bageled out in the job world. Took meaningless, low-paying McJobs. They all sit around talking about downscaling, lessness. I’m, like, making more in one year than my father makes in five selling Oldsmobiles in Paramus. Plus, I
love
being in production. I get a buzz from it.”

“And what do you get from Lyle?”

She pulled a pocket mirror out of her black leather drawstring bag and began to swab purple lipstick all over her mouth. She reminded me of a little girl playing at her mom’s dressing table. “Lyle gave me my start, okay? I mean, I wrote a spec script and submitted it and next thing I know I’m on staff, okay? I’m, like, no way! I was about to take a job selling sportswear at Nordstrom’s. So, I’m, like, totally grateful to him. Only, he’s
so
extreme. Like last season he hired and fired me three times in the same week, okay? He’s, like, ‘You’re too young and immature to get the show.’ So I’m, like, out the door in tears, and he’s, like, ‘Hey, sit down—I just drought of the perfect story for you to write.’ So I’m, like, ‘You fired me.’ And he’s, like, ‘You can’t fire family.’ So I scene it out and go in to pitch it to him and he’s, like, ‘Annabelle, what are
you
still doing here? I thought I fired you.’ I mean, fer sure. Still, I can deal with that head shit, okay? What I can’t deal with,” she confessed, her dark button eyes flashing with anger, “is the way he’s all the time in my face. Like he’s my father. I can never forgive him for Lorenzo. That was
low.
We fell in love last season, Lorenzo and me. We met on the show. And when Lyle heard about it he called me into his office and he, like,
ordered
me to stop seeing him, strictly because Lorenzo’s below the line.”

“That’s production jargon for blue collar,” Bobby explained.

“Lorenzo’s a cameraman, like his father,” she went on. “Like that’s not good enough for me or something. Like it’s any of Lyle’s goddamned business or something. I’m, like, Lorenzo’s the great love of my life. He sucks on my toes. He writes poetry. He cooks. And I’m, like, he’s not a pinhead. He has his degree in pharmacology, F.U.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fairfield University. When he and I moved in together, Lyle
freaked.
Fired him from the show—for being ‘difficult,’ which he isn’t. No way.”

“What is Lorenzo doing now?”

“He got on a soap for a while, filling in for a guy who was on sick leave.” Annabelle looked away uncomfortably. “I’m, like, he’s kind of free-lancing now, y’know? I mean, steady gigs are hard to find, especially if you’ve developed a bad rep. Which is totally unfair. Lorenzo’s still bumming about Lyle. Hates him. I mean, the man’s ruined his career. Or tried to. But, hey, as long as I’m working, we’re cool.”

“And if you’re not working?”

“I can always go out to LA. and get a job.”

“Can he?”

“No,” she confessed unhappily. “He’s not in the L.A. union. He pretty much can’t leave New York.”

“So you need
Uncle Chubby,
too, don’t you?”

Annabelle shot a glance at Bobby. “Cut to the chase, Hoagy. We all need
Uncle Chubby.
It’s our lifeline. The writers, the actors, everyone.”

“Including Marjorie?”

“Supervising
Uncle Chubby
is Marjorie’s whole reason for being here,” Annabelle replied. “She has some daytime stuff she oversees, but nothing that couldn’t be handled by the West Coast. If
Uncle Chubby
goes off, she’ll probably get the ax. If she can keep it on the air for another year or two, running smooth, she’ll be made a vice president. Maybe even develop some new shows out of New York.” Annabelle patted Bobby’s hand. Her way of telling him to signal our waitress for the check. He tried, but the waitress ignored him. “Marjorie loved Lyle major, y’know. And he broke her poor little heart. She still isn’t over him.”

“Yes, I believe Amber mentioned something about that.”

For the third time Bobby tried to catch our waitress’s eye and failed. He was starting to blink and squirm in anguished frustration. I couldn’t take any more of it, so I honked Lulu’s big black nose with my shoe. She promptly sneezed, causing our waitress to glance our way. Bobby signaled her, relaxed, mission accomplished. Lulu snuffled in protest. She doesn’t like anyone to touch her nose. I assured her that it was an accident. She bought it. Sometimes it’s a plus having a partner whose brain is the size of a chick pea.

“Me, I never understood why Marjorie fell so hard for Lyle,” Annabelle confided, leaning forward over the table intimately. “I’m, like, the man got off on being cruel to her. Still does. She deserves better. Only, she scares most guys off. I mean, she’s a stone fox—in a wholesome, drop-dead sort of way. Plus, she’s kind of six or eight inches too tall for most of the guys in television.” Her eyes glittered at me. “But for the right guy, she’s Ms. Right.”

“Any particular reason you’re looking directly at me?”

“I’m, like, you do happen to be tall.”

“I also happen to be Mr. Wrong.”

“Positive you’re not in play?” she pressed.

At my feet, Lulu growled.

“Now why did she do that?” Annabelle wondered.

“Because she’s positive. Does Marjorie confide in you?”

Annabelle shrugged. “We’re pals. I don’t know if she tells me everything.”

“Has she told you God wants to ease Lyle out?”

Annabelle and Bobby exchanged a guarded look.

“I’m, like, there’s no telling what they’re planning to do,” she replied evasively. “I mean, we never know.”

“Because
they
n-never know,” Bobby added, his eyes avoiding mine. “Until they d-do it. They just aren’t that t-together.”

“She hasn’t said anything.” Annabelle forced a smile. “Not to me, anyway.”