Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (13 page)

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much food with them as they could carry. The crew had left as the last word on the page was spoken.

William closed the door. “It’s safe,” he said, sincerely.

Safe? What is this?
Marathon Man? J.T. thought as he remembered Dustin Hoffman and Sir Laurence Olivier, and the phrase of the decade: “Is it safe?”

Marcus, who was standing by the craft service table, suddenly

started hurling breads, then rolls, then bagels; then, when throwing food lost its dramatic effect, he began to throw chairs around the room.

“Settle down, Marcus. It’s okay. We’ll take care of it,” Stephanie said as if the two of them had rehearsed this moment.

“The fucking kid! I hate that fucking kid! I want that fucking

kid fucking fired,” Marcus Pooley fumed, slamming a hand on one of the tables. It smashed a sticky bun, one of his earlier projectiles, which completely upstaged his tirade. He stared murderously at

his gloppy hand. “He’s like this goddamn sticky bun!”

“I didn’t think he was
that
bad,” Debbie said.

“We know where the network stands on this issue, but the

network doesn’t have to spend endless hours on him while other

things like our scripts and even our shows suffer because of so much displaced attention!” Stephanie screamed at Debbie.

J.T. stared at the Pooleys. They were either ensconced on their own planet and believed in isolationism, or they needed a fall guy for a script that was unshootable.

“We can’t fire him. You guys know that. He’s testing through

the roof. The group of Buddies is your show. He’s one of the Buddies. It wouldn’t be very Buddy-like not to treat him like a . . .
Buddy,
” Lance insisted.

So
that’s
it,
J.T. thought, smiling to himself.
The Pooleys aren’t
the big shots anymore, Kirk is
. It wasn’t their witty banter that was testing through the roof; it was an unsuspecting kid, who happened to be the perfect television star: a little bit of talent and a 9 0

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

whole lot of looks. That’s why they hated the kid. He was indeed inextricable from the wild maze of unforeseeable idiosyncrasies that make up a hit TV show.

“Did you hear that reading?” Marcus Pooley yelled as he lit-

erally jumped up and down like a two-year-old throwing a tan-

trum.

“He’s tanking the show!
My
fucking show!” Marcus shrieked.

“Our
show, sweetheart. Our. Fucking. Show,” Stephanie said with authority.

“He’s on drugs!” Marcus carried on. “I know he’s on drugs!

You can tell by the way he can’t read his fucking lines!”

That was as long as J.T. could last on good behavior. “
Excuse
me?” he said, leaning forward.

Everyone suddenly looked at J.T. as if they couldn’t believe they hadn’t bullied him out of the room. Lance and Debbie wondered

just who that big, um, African-American sitting next to J.T. was.

“Yes, if you don’t mind my saying, accusing a young actor, with his entire career ahead of him, of being on drugs—in front of the studio and the network—just isn’t . . . appropriate,” J.T. said, aware of the irreparable damage a rumor like that could inflict on Kirk.

“What the fuck?” Marcus Pooley said.

“Wait,” Stephanie jumped in, “did you just
say
something?”

“I guess I did. As a vested member of the Screen Actors Guild

of America, I really don’t want to report this verbal violation to the union. Now, if you know
for a fact
that this young man is on drugs, please, let’s deal with that. Let’s think of his well-being and get him some help. But if you are making an accusation based on assumption, I’m going to have to call you on it,” J.T. finished, righteously.

Once again, J.T. went to bat for the oppressed, the downtrod-

den, the young actor who went from waiter to making forty grand a week overnight.

“They don’t mean he’s
on
drugs, J.T.,” Debbie said quickly,“they are implying that he read
as if
he were on drugs.” She smiled.

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“Yes,” Lance jumped in, knowing the implications of what had

just transpired. “The Pooleys were implying that when he read his part, it
sounded
like a person who was on drugs. They would
never
accuse Kirk Kelly of
being
on drugs. Never. Believe me,” Lance said.

He looked deep into J.T.’s eyes to make a point, something he had learned at Executive School.

The Pooleys had just made a decision without having to

speak to each other. They would blacklist J.T. from television.

They would call all of their friends who were making television shows and nobody, from this point on, would ever hire J.T. to direct television again. Never. Ever. Again. His fate had been sealed.

Less than two hours into the first day of work and he was blacklisted again.
He had spoken to the network and the studio! How
dare he!?

“I really love how this episode is going to be the
best ever
Christmas!” Debbie finally said, breaking the awkward, hateful silence.

“The
best ever
!” Lance repeated. “And I love how the explosion is going to be the
best ever,
too!”

“We’re very excited about this being the
best ever
episode . . .

ever,
” Marcus Pooley said petulantly.

“And it will be. You know us,” Stephanie added. “We never

let anything go. We’ll shoot this show until we have
the best ever
Christmas
and
the best ever explosion
—even if it kills someone!”

She slowly turned and looked pointedly at J.T.’s collar.

He smiled back politely.
Sounds like a fun week,
he thought.

“So, like, lemme make sure I understand the ‘A’ story of ‘The

Best Ever Christmas,’” Debbie said in Executive-speak harmonics (the melody being a sincere statement; the third being a condescending hint at a question—but never so obvious as to give away her own ignorance; and the fifth vibrating with a tuneful, pleasant-sounding
I’m not really sure this is what the network is looking for
in this episode
).

“So,” she continued, “the fact that Janice survives an explosion 9 2

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

while shopping makes the

‘A’ story the
best ever
Christ-

The Hollywood Dictionary

mas?”

The “A” Story:
The “A” story is

Finally,
J.T. thought. the prominent story line of an
Someone is taking a look at

episode. Many times there isn’t

how absurd this story is.

“a” story in the “A” story. The “B”

“I’m sorry,” Debbie story can be woven into the “A”

turned and looked at J.T.

story or it can be a satellite story

“Did you say something?”

that conveniently resolves at the

“Oh, um, no. I was just

end of the episode, or gives us a

. . . thinking.”

hint of stories to come.

“Anyway—am I right,

you guys? Is the fact that she

survives the explosion and then makes it to the Christmas dinner scene where she gives out all her Christmas presents—is that what makes this the
best ever
Christmas?” Debbie asked with an ener-getic, Red Bull-plus-Starbucks smile. “And the ‘B’ story is all warm and fuzziness with our characters just being funny?”

“Yes,” Stephanie Pooley answered in such an ugly timbre that

even the musical quality of Debbie’s voice couldn’t blend in pitch or tone.

“I love it!” Debbie squealed.

“Love it!” Lance repeated.

Holy shit. I can feel the ghost of Rod Serling floating around the
room,
J.T. thought.

“It’s a great story! Original and exciting and so unsitcomlike!”

Debbie exclaimed while she thought,
If I don’t like it at the first
run-through, we’ll have a page-one rewrite.

Can we really make the best ever Christmas show ever?
Stephanie Pooley thought, suddenly very excited about her show.

How much fucking money are these cokeheads going to spend on
an episode that’ll be mediocre at best?
Lance thought as he nodded his head, smiling in a silent show of agreement.

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The best ever. That’s because we
are
the best ever. And we’ll prove
it!
Marcus Pooley thought.

Damn, I’m glad I’m a teacher and not working this show,
Ash thought.
Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t get any work nowadays.

“Okay, the studio is slightly worried about the cost of this

episode,” Lance understated. “If Jasper Jones falls under the

heading of
force majeure,
then, forgive me, J.T., but the truth is that the insurance will cover Jasper’s death and we won’t be paying two director’s fees for three straight episodes. But that still doesn’t cover the exorbitant expenditures to make this the
best
ever
ever.”

“Excuse me. First off,” Marcus Pooley said, standing and pos-

turing, “don’t you want the
best ever
coming from your studio’s show
I Love My Urban Buddies
?”

“Not if it’s the most expensive ever, to be quite honest,” Lance gently explained. “I’d settle for . . . the most average ever, if the numbers were right.”

“Well, fuck!” Marcus Pooley shouted. “Now I understand the

state of television.”

“And what’s with the French?
Force mature?
” Stephanie barked.

“What’s with that? Speak the fucking King’s English, for chris-

sake!”

“Actually, if you want to get technical, the King’s English is

not—”

“Je m’appelle Marcus
! But what the fuck does that have to do with our show?!”

“Force majeure
—” Lance was about to explain, but was interrupted by Stephanie Pooley.

“See? There you go again!
Oui! Bonjour!
How do
you
like it?

Huh?” she said.

“It
means
. . .” Lance was trying to compose himself, “in French, that if a part of a superior force . . . is . . . unexpected, or let’s say . . .

an uncontrollable event should take place . . .”

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“Say what?” Stephanie asked, trying to make Lance feel as fool-

ish as she felt. “Wait a minute—who’s superior?”

“Force majeure,”
Lance said again, trying to keep his voice steady, “is a
legal
term, Stephanie. An insurance term. In other words—it could save everyone a lot of money.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” both Pooleys said in concert.

“I just did,” Lance said in a very Executive-like way.

“How?!” both Pooleys demanded, like dogs in heat competing

for the same bitch. “How will it save us money?” The idea of saving money meant more money in their pockets, and that made this

French term suddenly of value.

J.T. and Ash were aghast. Not by the machinations of the stu-

dio trying to manipulate a dead director’s
destiny
into an act of God, but by the Pooleys’
density
.

Lance just didn’t know when to give up. “It’s a situation,” he

went on, “where the law casts a duty on a party—”

“Doody?” Marcus interrupted.

“Du-
tee,
” Lance articulated. “Duty. The performance shall be excused, if it be rendered impossible by an act of God—”

“God?”
Marcus asked in earnest. “Like, God-God? Or Muham-mad or Buddha? We don’t wanna lose our international audience

by fucking offending anyone or starting another war.”

“Um, it’s just a phrase that means Nature, only they say God,”

Lance continued, wishing he could just get past all of this and let the legal department at the studio handle this matter. But no. He was forced to carry on.

“If the party—” Lance was interrupted again, this time by

Stephanie.

“We don’t have parties on this show. It’s all work and no play.

I say, ‘Let everyone play on their own time, not on my dime,’ that’s what I say.” Stephanie looked around with a self-satisfied smile that dared anyone not to like her little rhyme.

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“If the
person,
let’s say JASPER JONES, were to engage in an act, and that act is deemed to be his own fault and folly—”

“I’m lost,” Marcus Pooley said.

“We finally agree, don’t we, Poodles?” Stephanie deadpanned.

“That’s my
wittle witer
. . .” and they kissed.

“Force majeure
is something so extraordinary and unavoidable and devoid of human agency that reasonable care would not

have prevented the consequences!” Lance spit it all out as fast as he could.
And this is why I went to law school?

“Human Agency,” Marcus said, warily. “Don’t tell me they get

ten percent, too.”

“You know what?” Lance pulled out a monogrammed hand-

kerchief, took off his glasses, and wiped sweat from his face. “Let’s just say there’s a lot of legal mumbo jumbo that my parents spent hundreds of thousands of dollars for me to learn so I could jump headfirst into the entertainment field, disappointing them for all eternity.” Lance lied, continuing his Ivy League ruse, to the point where he even believed his pedigree.

Stephanie Pooley suspected someone else wanted a cut of their

action. “What do your
mother and father
have to do with this?”

“Yeah. Why
your
mother?” Marcus asked. “Why not
our
mother?”

“Forget everything I just said. Look. There might be a way

where we don’t have an obligation to pay Jasper Jones’s estate for the three missed episodes,” Lance finally finished.