Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (14 page)

“His estate?” Marcus Pooley asked. “You mean, like his house?

Why would we have to pay his fucking house?”

“His wife! His children! Whoever is left! We may have an obli-

gation to stick to the actual document otherwise known as a contract! For the last time, we may be able to null and void said contract and save the production two directing fees!” Lance spit out.

It took more than a mini-moment, and then the Pooleys began

nodding their heads in agreement.

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

“Well, why didn’t you just fucking say that instead of ordering
escargot
and getting all French and God-worshiping and all?” Marcus Pooley said with exasperation.

“Right,” Lance quickly said to appease the Pooleys.

And with that and a few other mumblings, it was over.

The notes session went swimmingly,
J.T. thought
. Not a single
note
.
Oh, I am so fucked,
he kept saying to himself.
At least I can get
away from all this insanity and dive into the real work with my actors.

Then he checked himself.
“Fucked” . . . I’m starting to sound like I
never left the cave. There are better words than “fuck.” Use them.

“Fuck. Er, I mean, excuse me,” J.T. said. “What would you like

me to work on today with the cast?” It was a perfectly legitimate question, the first one a director on a sitcom normally asked after table-read notes.

“What would we like you to
work
on?” was Marcus Pooley’s reply. “How about: THE SHOW!”

“Well,” J.T. asked, “which show? Considering that there’s

enough text for at least two shows, which scenes or sections of the teleplay would you like me to start with?”

“I’d like you to work on your attitude, buster,” Stephanie hissed.

“In all my years in this business, and I’m not exaggerating, I’m sure I’ve never seen a guest director behave the way you’re doing.”

“You’re sure you’re not exaggerating or you’re sure you’ve nev-

er seen a director behave this way?” J.T. just had to say.

Marcus Pooley started hopping up and down. “You had better

make this the best ever
fucking
Christmas and the best ever
fucking
explosion, because if you don’t, the studio and the network will know that it is
your fault, completely
! Understand?”

Ja, mein Führer!
J.T. thought, and turned on his heels, grabbed his stuff, and goose-stepped with Asher out of the room.

“I don’t care for the way he walks,” Stephanie Pooley said un-

der her breath.

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9 7

“I hate this director. How ’bout you?” Marcus Pooley asked

his wife.

“Hate him.”

J.T. and Ash walked to the stage in silence, both trying to replay what had just transpired.

“Things are a bit more nasty since you were last
here,
J.T.”
Here
being Hollywood. Ash was now in the awkward position of filling his boss in on the ways of Hollywood—after his boss left Hollywood because of its nastiness.

“More . . . nasty?”

“Well,” Ash tried to explain, “no one even attempts faux de-

cency. They just cut your throat and get it over with.”

“Wonderful.”

“Don’t worry,” Ash said soothingly, “I’ve got your back.”

They were greeted by William, who was wearing his sincere,

sad, puppy-dog look. “Yo, homies,” he jived, sincerely.

J.T. stared at William unblinkingly. “You can stop with the Eb-

onics, William. Ash studied at Oxford. I’m sure he doesn’t want . . .

special treatment,” J.T. mumbled.

“Jus’ keepin’ it gangsta. Gotta keep it real. Right, bro?”

Ash didn’t have the heart to hit a man when he was down—or

dumb, so he just smiled and said
“A’iight
.
”

“So,” William said to J.T. brightly, “how were the notes . . . during sex?”

“Fascinating,” J.T. responded as he looked around at the empty

stage, slightly surprised. By its emptiness.

“I’ve got some bad news and some badder news,” he went on.

“Which would you like to hear first, boss?”

“Why don’t you just tell me . . . the baddestest,” J.T. sighed.

“Well,” William began, “the cast thought that it was such a long 9 8

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

script that there would be a page-one rewrite tomorrow. So they decided to go home.
After sex.
”

“Stop it!”

“Sorry.”

“The cast went home? They—
decided
—to go home?” J.T.

asked, smiling. He’d heard this one before and knew this was the least of his troubles on a Monday, but they did all say,
We’ll see you
on the set
. “Who signed the cast out? Who allowed the cast to go home, William?”

“Well, boss,” William said, sincerely, “I did, sir. But I knew

you’d approve because that’s what we usually do on a Monday—

you know, we did, before you got here. Before Jasper was dead.”

“I’m
here now, William. I’m still alive, so when you refer to what you usually do, I guess you’re referring to what you
want
to do?”

“Well,” William said, smiling sincerely, “I guess you caught me, boss. But I knew you’d approve.”

“You knew I’d approve. So . . . William, since we worked to-

gether last, you have not only forgotten the way I work but you’ve become clairvoyant? How wonderful for you,” J.T. said, his voice menacingly low.

Asher put his hand on J.T.’s back and suddenly, as if Ash were

the connection to Natasha and Jeremy, J.T. calmed instantly.

Jeremy
.

“Okay, William. Let’s just say . . . you did the right thing,” J.T.

had to say. William had cowered like an abused toddler. “And

what’s the
other
bad news?”

“Well, boss,” William said, sincerely nervous, “there are no sets because the studio won’t approve the Christmas budget for set design.”

J.T. looked up at the ceiling, hands on hips. “No cast. No sets,”

J.T. said. “Okeydokey.”

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9 9

“Even badder,” William continued.

“Badder. Okay. Hit me,” J.T. said.

“The kid. Kirk? He’s
still here
. He wants to
work,
” William said, sincerely horrified.

“Yeah . . .” J.T. said. “That’s horrible news. Appalling! An actor stayed behind! And he wants to work, no less!
And
on a Monday!

I’m staggered. Galled! It’s unspeakable. How could he!? How could you even manage to tell me? It’s unbearable. I think I’m having an allergic reaction. Do you have a Benadryl? I’ve got hives popping up all over me. Work? Monday? And
the kid,
no less! The one who obviously has an attitude problem! How clear could it be?! He’s a slacker! How disgusting! I’m ill, William.”

Sarcasm was lost on William. “No, really! This kid is such a

problem. He has such an attitude,” he whispered, sincerely.

“Yeah,” J.T. whispered back, “he’s the only actor who just won’t go home!”

“Ah, you’re pulling my leg? Same ol’ J.T.,” William said, sin-

cerely. “Hey, um . . . since everyone’s gone and the kid is here and there are no sets, you mind if I check out for the day? I’ve got a lotta exercise to put in before that big triathlon. Pain

The Hollywood Dictionary

makes gain. And bro,
pain is

TO CALL IT:
To have the privilege

subjective
!”

of yelling “That’s a wrap!”

“You know what, Wil-

TO YELL “THAT’S A WRAP!”:

liam?” J.T. said. “I think you

To

have the privilege of yelling

should go. That would be

“We’re done!”

very good for the show, sub-

jectively speaking.”

“You are the man,” Wil-

liam said, sincerely forgetting his Ebonics. “Wanna call it?”

“We’re the only people standing on the stage, William. Why

would I want to call it?”

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

“Tradition,” William said, sincerely.

“You do the honors, William. You call it.”

“Thank you, boss,” William said. Then he cupped his hands

into the shape of a megaphone and yelled, sincerely, into the empty cave: “That’s a wrap!”

“Thank you, William. Now it’s official and the time-honored

tradition continues.”

“Thank you, boss. And Ash, call up a couple honeys, man!

Time to pop the colla an’ live chilly, bro. Git down on it! Go on witcher bad self!”

“I will certainly try to accomplish all of that, William. My only hope is that I’m not arrested and beaten on the way home during my drive-by.”

“I hear ya, bro! Life’s tough with the lower bottom.” Already

packed, William was soon gone.

J.T. sat down on the cement floor of the empty stage. “I am so

fucked, Ash,” he said, voice barely audible.

Ash sat down beside him. “Yup. I agree. You are so fucked.

Lucky for you, I’m a spiritual being and I can handle William’s shit. Today. I have no clue what I’ll do tomorrow, so, please—you gotta do somethin’ about your A.D., director-man.”

“Why? You can just add this part to your ‘How to Survive in

Hollywood’ syllabus.”

Ash gave J.T. a flat, perfectly timed stare that meant,
Do something.

“Done,” J.T. said.

They relaxed on the cold cement floor and stared up at the cat-

walks. Then a weak voice came from behind Asher and J.T. “Excuse me, sir? Mr. Baker?”

J.T. sat up and turned. He saw Kirk Kelly. The twenty-one-

year-old
problem child
. “That’s me, Kirk.” J.T. waved to him.

Kirk walked forward, extending his hand. “I didn’t really get a chance to say what an honor it is to meet you, sir,” he said, genu-R o b b y

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1 0 1

ine admiration in his voice. “When I heard you were going to be directing, I went online. Man, you’ve done a ton of stuff.”

“Yeah. I wish I were proud of all of it. But it’s been a great education.” J.T. stood up and shook Kirk’s hand.

Kirk wiped his eyes. They were red. His nose was running

slightly, and it too was red.
From being rubbed, or from chemical
abuse? Too early to tell
, J.T. thought. “Kirk, um, I’ve lost my reading glasses somehow. I’m such a boob. Really. I’m a flaky guy. I’m the only director you’ll ever meet without a sense of direction. I once landed an airplane the wrong way on a runway when I was a

private pilot. A little Cessna. On the wrong runway. In the wrong state. Great landing, though.”

J.T. was rambling because it was his way of trying to get a fix on this young man. J.T. was tormented by detail. He studied Kirk in his detail mode. “So would you do me a favor, Kirk? I can’t seem to read this call sheet. Would you read it for me? It would really help me out, since I misplaced my reading glasses and all,” J.T. said.

“Um, sure,” Kirk said nervously, taking the call sheet J.T. hand-ed him. He read hesitantly, with the same rhythms and problems

that had plagued him that morning during the table read.

Got it,
J.T. thought.
Kirk does have a learning disability. Probably dyslexia
. “Thanks, man.” he said. “Kirk, I’d like you to meet my assistant, Ash Black. He was my student when I was a professor, and now he’s a professor and basically I’m
his
student. But, please, don’t tell anyone.”

Kirk tried to laugh. He rubbed his nose and wiped his eyes

again.

“So you got a cold? Allergies?” J.T. asked Kirk.

Kirk tried to hold back his emotions the best he could. J.T.

looked at this young man and wondered what his own son would

be like when he was twenty-one.
Will he still be such a compassionate person?
J.T. was flooded with thoughts of his family. Kirk brought it out in him.

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

J.T. immediately took a liking to Kirk.

“I was . . .” Kirk faltered, then gathered himself. “I was, um . . .

Stephanie and Marcus Pooley just, um . . . spoke to me. I’m just a little shook up, but I heal quickly.” And with that, Kirk began to sob uncontrollably. As awkward as it was, J.T. managed to put his arms around the young actor.

“Hey . . .” J.T. gently said, “I promise I’m not hugging you for sexual satisfaction.”

Kirk instantly began to laugh. He wiped his red nose and

cleared the tears away from his eyes with his sleeve, irritating the skin around his eyes even more.

“So how do you like showbiz, Kirk?” J.T. asked.

“I like it, sir,” Kirk said. J.T. was sure he heard a hint of Canada in Kirk’s inflections.

“Professional baseball in Canada? I mean, what is wrong with

this world?” J.T. said.

“I know,” Kirk immediately said, his face lighting up. “Hockey

in the States, eh? What’s with that?” Kirk was a good kid. J.T. was now sure of it.

“So . . . um, you don’t have to answer this, but is it hard being away from home? You miss your family? Your girlfriend? In . . .

now don’t laugh . . . this is a guess. I love to try and guess where people are from. Okay, here goes: Vancouver?” J.T. asked.

Before Kirk could answer, Ash answered.

“Toronto. Not only the wrong place but also the wrong side

of the map. You’re slipping,” Ash said, patting his buddy on the back.

“Jesus! Toronto. How did he know? How did you know?” Kirk

asked.

“Ash teaches voice. He’s not only been all over the world, but he has studied with some of the best voice teachers on the planet, and he specializes in articulation and enunciation and all of that stuff that makes him so damn smart. He’s teaching over at UCLA.”

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“Oh, stop it, boss-man. You makes me feels so red in my black