Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (10 page)

“Now, why is it that it is only ten thirty-five and the fucking coffee is cold?”

Shit,
J.T. thought,
she wasn’t kidding.
He glanced at Ash, whose look said it all:
Yup, our comedy showrunner has no sense of humor.

Maybe it’s because the coffee was hot at ten o’clock when everyone else was asked to be here
, J.T. thought—then realized he said.

Stephanie Pooley stared past J.T.’s left ear. “I don’t like you,” she said, her voice low.

J.T. glanced behind him, wondering who the hell she was look-

ing at. No one was there.
Shit,
he thought.
She means me.

“I
said,
I don’t like you!”

Now she was staring past

J.T.’s right shoulder.

The Hollywood Dictionary

“Um . . .” J.T. tried to

COMEDY SHOWRUNNER WITH NO

move into her line of vi-

SENSE OF HUMOR:
A penis with

sion so he could get her to

no balls.

look into his eyes, or at least

at his face—any part above

the neck would’ve been fine—but wherever he moved, Stephanie’s

eyes darted away from him, as if the two of them were repelling magnets. He gave up and addressed her chin. “I was told to expect that, Ms. Pooley. But if you expect me to be here at ten o’clock to have a production meeting with you, then I expect you to be here R o b b y

B e n s o n

6 9

at ten o’clock as well. It’s
your
show, so if
you
would like to arrive at ten thirty-five, then I will tell my colleagues, who have been sitting around the table waiting, to arrive at ten thirty-five as well. I think that’s fair.”

J.T. could hear how he sounded. He could see Stephanie’s face

darken as he spoke. He should have held his tongue and had the

gunfight at the Okeydokey Corral when it counted. But he couldn’t help himself. He had the John Kerry disease.
Why can’t I just learn
to shut up?! What is it with me?
Now he had played his cards too early. But tardiness was a sore point with J.T.

Ms. Stephanie Pooley stewed, but then spun and spewed her

venom at the craft service lady, Annie. The last craft service person had been fired. The previous Friday. J.T. did not know this fact.

“Why is the fucking coffee cold?” Ms. Pooley snarled.

Annie looked like a North Carolina possum crossing the Blue

Ridge Parkway: no chance in hell. So J.T. intervened.

“That would be
my
fault, Ms. Pooley, and for that I apologize,”

J.T. said. He was setting protocol, which was the
right
card to play early.

“You what?” Stephanie Pooley asked, as if she’d just smelled

shit. Nothing short of ripe shit.

“I put ice in the coffee. It’s a southern tradition. Daniel Boone put snow in all of his men’s coffee before they went on a long journey for good luck, and you know what? It always worked. So I

thought I’d give it a try.” He kept his face straight, and a straight face.

Silence.

“So . . . um, Stephanie, would you like me to begin the produc-

tion meeting . . . after I call out for a fresh,
hot
cup of coffee?” William asked, sincerely.

“Thank you, William. Yes. I would like that very much. At least someone around here has common sense,” the female half of the

showrunning team said, glaring at J.T.

7 0

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

The door flew open again and a small, wiry man entered. His face was maroonish purple, as if he’d forgotten to breathe. His skin was oily and damp, and his tailored shirt was sticking to his body. The very expensive cotton it was made of was densely woven and looked like it would be extremely uncomfortable to wear in the heat, and even more uncomfortable since it was wet with perspiration. This wild-eyed man was caught in the storm of his own sou’wester fury.

“You fucking left the house locked and you know I don’t have

a set of fucking keys! What the fuck was on your mind?” the wiry man screamed at Ms. Pooley.

So
, J.T. thought,
this must be the mister in the Pooley equation
.

“Not now, Marcus!” Ms. Pooley hissed. Point, set, and match.

Mr. Pooley was immediately put in his place.

Well,
J.T. thought,
that was fast
.
Now I know who wears the Ar-mani pants in the family
. He glanced over at Ash, whose eyes said that he was thinking the same thing.

Stephanie followed J.T.’s glance and scowled. “Who is
he
? Why is that . . . why is
he
here?”

“He? That?”
J.T. answered. “
That
is Ash. Ash Black. And
he
is my assistant. And we both understand you had a
tortured
drive in from Malibu and there is no hot coffee, so we both know that when you pointed at Ash

and said
‘Why is
that
here?’

The Hollywood Dictionary

you were just asking a direct

and simple question. Rac-

MARCUS POOLEY:
A penis with

ism had nothing to do with

no balls.

it whatsoever.”

SAMMY GLICK:
A nice Marcus

This was another game

Pooley.

Ash and J.T. often played.

Unfortunately, once again,

J.T. had started the game way too soon.

“I believe you were about to use the word
nigger,
ma’am?” Ash said, politely. Then he smiled a big white toothy smile.

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B e n s o n

7 1

“I did not! Oh!! Ah!! I would never!! Don’t ever call me a . . . I can’t even say it! How
dare
you!” Stephanie sputtered, already frustrated to the point of a meltdown.

“But it’s okay,” Ash said, showing the pink in his black lips.

“We’ll just say it never happened, missus.”

“What? It didn’t—I didn’t—I never—I
would
never—ahhh!!!”

She was almost in ruins. J.T. and Ash were right on target. It was fun. Dangerous, but fun.

“If you would feel more comfortable with me having a . . .

Caucasian
assistant, I think Ash would be very understanding.

Isn’t that right, Ash
Black
?” J.T. asked.

“Yes’m. If ’n dat make de missus happy. I only needs me a airo-

plane ticket back home to M’ssippi. Dat’s all.”

Ash had never pulled this off better. J.T. and Ash were having

a blast, completely defusing the nuclear reaction that Mr. and Ms.

Pooley had brought into the room. The crew was fascinated.

The fun that should be associated with a sitcom just might be
hidden in this room after all,
J.T. thought. He rashly figured that these showrunners were no longer going to hit below the belt
.
He checked his watch again: 10:37.
Good one. Let’s put the director back
into the director
.

“What?”

J.T. turned and saw the Pooleys staring at him. He realized he

must’ve said something out loud, but he didn’t know
what
. So he just shrugged, sheepishly.

“Now,” J.T. quickly turned and threw it over to William, “I be-

lieve we are all ready to start the production meeting.” J.T. forced a smile at William, which he hoped communicated that, all disparities aside, he knew William was also a member of the Directors Guild.
So move it and don’t let me hang here.

“Um,” William sort of took the hint, “uh, um, well, why don’t

we uh, keep it gangsta and, uh, all take our seats and, uh . . .”

“Begin?”

7 2

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

“Thank you, J.T. Yeah, um, begin, would be a good idea.
After
s—
”

“Don’t even think about it.” J.T. glared at William as he and

Ash sat back down.

“I don’t think we should begin.” Marcus Pooley was looking

for his chair. The director’s chair that had his name on the canvas back so he wouldn’t forget

who he was.

Stephanie stared at the

The Hollywood Dictionary

standard gray metal fold-

DIRECTOR’S CHAIR
: A chair no

ing chair that was placed

good director has time to sit in.

where she normally sat as

A chair a producer lives in.

if she were going to pounce

on the chair and kill it.

Then her eyes went almost straight for William. “Where the

fuck is my goddamn chair? The one with my name on the back

of it?”

“Um, they were supposed to—” William began.

“I don’t give a shit who was supposed to anything!” yelled

Marcus. “My wife and I earned those fucking chairs and I’m not

going back in time and sitting my ass down on these fucking metal folding chairs ever again!”

“Um, well, sir—” William stammered.

“I asked William if your chairs could be placed on the set so

that you would be comfortable the moment you walked onto the

stage. I’m so sorry. Really. Sorry.” J.T. turned to William. “I’m really sorry, William.”

“Well, next time maybe you’ll listen to me. I told you they

would want their chairs, J.T.”

You little motherfucker
. “Yes. You certainly did. From now on I will certainly listen to you. Very carefully.” J.T.’s jaw muscles bulged from grinding his teeth again. Because of J.T.’s short haircut and receding hairline, it looked as if his forehead was the only part R o b b y

B e n s o n

7 3

of his body on designer steroids and his eyebrows were pumping

iron. It was far too revealing.

“Would you like me to send someone down for your chairs?

After sex?”

“Oh, thank the Lord someone around here has a sense of hu-

mor,” Marcus noted. “Yes. Please. Send someone down to get our

chairs.”

William turned and looked at Ash. “Ash, yo bro, could you

hook a brothah up an’ go downstairs—”

J.T. spun on William. “No. He can’t go downstairs,
brother
.”

“Hey—just keepin’ it real, y’all,” William said, trying to show off for the Pooleys using his communication skills with the urban types.

“It’s okay, Mastah. I’za go

down to da stage and fetch

The Hollywood Dictionary

dem special name-chairs.”

J.T. ignored Ash and

PRODUCTION ASSISTANT, a.k.a.

looked pointedly at his A.D.

P.A., a.k.a. THING ONE, THING

“William, use your walkie-

TWO, etc.:
Sherpa. Carries the

talkie and get a production

bourgeoisie’s baggage to the top

of Everest but never gets credit

assistant to bring the chairs

at the summit.

here, please. My assistant is

not your assistant. Or any-

one else’s. Is that clear?”

William used his very expensive walkie-talkie to relay the mes-

sage that the Pooleys’ chairs were to be brought to the production meeting ASAP.

J.T. shifted his stare to the Pooleys, who had fallen into a silent, seething paralysis. “I think it would be wise to start while your chairs are being moved here. That is, if the two of you don’t mind sitting in the same chairs as the rest of us schmucks—I mean laborers. I swear it doesn’t make you a Commie. Not even a Socialist.

It still means you’re Grade A Capitalists, for sure.”

7 4

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

No one knew exactly what to do. Since it is the job of a direc-

tor to choose a path and move forward, J.T. did just that. “Please.

Sit. Let’s work. We will all sign affidavits saying that you never sat in a folding chair while you were in this room. All in favor, say aye.”

The crew all chimed in. “Aye!” Lines were really being drawn.

Without eye contact or another word spoken, Stephanie

yanked her chair out from under the table and flung it across the room. “All those not in favor, say aye!” She looked at her husband.

The two nodded and turned back toward the table. “Aye.”

J.T. rose out of his seat. “You’re fucking kidding me.” He immediately felt a hand gently pulling his shirt downward.

“We may be Grade A Capitalists, but be warned, director-man,

this is not a Democracy. We’ll begin when our chairs arrive and not a second before.” Marcus sneered and looked to his wife and master: her eyes glinted in approval, and their mouths met in something that couldn’t—or shouldn’t—really be called a kiss.

The laborers sat awkwardly waiting. J.T. sat back down and

just looked at Ash, then down at his script. He stared at a page. Its words; its ink; the tiny specks that made up the ink. The Pooleys wandered over to the food and sampled a wee bit of everything

and were quite jovial with each other.

Finally, two of that young, interchangeable, and expendable

breed known as production assistants came running into the pro-

duction meeting room, out of breath, sweating but carrying the

two director’s chairs. The king watched magisterially as Thing One and Thing Two placed the chairs, then sat on his throne before

his subjects and nodded. “Now, William, you may begin,” Marcus

Pooley I intoned.

“Wait a minute. Wait!” Stephanie was squinting at the label on

the back of Marcus’s chair. “You’re in my chair.”

“Oh!” Marcus got up quickly and moved his royal ass over to

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7 5

his own chair. Stephanie then sat regally in her chair. The one with her name on it. Just in case she forgot who she was, as Marcus just had. “Now.
Now
we may begin,” she said with satisfaction.

At 10:40 the production meeting began with William looking

down and saying, “Yes. Um . . . okay, page one—”

“I’d just like to say, good work, everyone, last week. Ratings are in and we crushed the competish, and we’re still the number one show on TV!” Marcus Pooley already felt obliged to interrupt.