Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (18 page)

The security guard gave J.T. a hard looky. He took out a packet of gum. He slowly opened it, unwrapped a single piece, placed it in his mouth, disposed of the wrapper, opened another piece, placed it in his mouth, and disposed of the wrapper before turning his attention back to J.T. “I’m sorry, sir, but if there is no pass in my computer, then I cannot allow you onto the lot. These are still difficult times.”

“Screw difficult times! I have a producers’ run-through at

noon and I haven’t even seen my sets!”

The security guard had a way of chewing that placed the gum

perfectly between his teeth, creating sealed bubbles that would pop over and over again.

“What if you were a terrorist, sir?”
Pop.
“What if you were al Qaeda?”
Pop.
“What if you wanted to blow up the stage?”

The guard was actually serious. “Look at me,” J.T. said, trying to compose himself. “Do I
look
like a terrorist?”

“Dunno. Never met one,” the guard said flatly, chewing his

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gum in an annoyingly slow rhythm. J.T. straddled the boy’s bar

between the seat and the handlebars as if that would make him

more believable.

“Do you have to meet one to know what a terrorist looks

like?”

“To be quite honest, sir, I hope never to meet one.”
Pop
.

“Well, your wish is coming true, because you still haven’t met

one!”

“Yet
. You see what I mean?”

“No!”

“How can I be sure?”

“Okay. Good question. Consider this: Why would I be here

early to work if I weren’t a diligent director?” J.T. tried to reason.

“No director gets here early. Especially this early. That makes you
very
suspicious to me.”

“Strangely,
that
I can understand.”

“And if you really were the director, you would have a pass.

And a car
. Not a bicycle.”

“That’s absurd. This is a perfectly nice bicycle.”

“How many speeds it got?”

“Three.”

“If you were a director with a bicycle, you’d have a ten-speed.”

“That’s not necessarily true.”

“And wear better clothes. No offense.”

“None taken. Look, I can understand where you’re coming

from,” J.T. said. “But since I
am
a director, and these
are
my clothes, this is a perfectly good example of why stereotypes are . . . stereotypes,” he finished lamely.

“And your backpack looks very suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Why? Because it’s red? Schoolkids carry back-

packs!”

“That’s my point. Schoolkids carry backpacks. Directors

don’t.”

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“That logic is corrupt!”

“Corrupt? What are you getting at?”

“Bogus!” J.T. was getting angry. So angry that he began to dis -

mount his bicycle. “Look—”

“Get back on your ve-hi-cle, sir.”

J.T. understood that tone. He got back on his bike.

“Why don’t you turn your
ve-hi-cle
around, sir,” the guard said firmly.

“I respect you,” J.T. began, “I respect your job and I respect

how difficult it must be during these trying times—”

“Yeah. Everybody respects me until it’s them I gotta turn away.

I’m always the bad guy. It’s a shitty job and shitty times, so I won’t even try and be nice anymore. Turn your crappy bike around or I’ll call the cops. Do we have an agreement of understanding?”

“Yes. To recapitulate the redundant, we have an agreement of

understanding.”

“Don’t be an asshole. Just go. Now!”

J.T. turned his bike around and headed for a small 24/7 cof-

fee shop he used to eat at, more than twenty years earlier, when he had a three-year deal at the same studio to write screenplays.
Now,
I can’t even get onto the lot
, he thought.
How pathetic. And twenty
years ago, I rode a bike to work because I wanted to. Could this be my
all-time low?
He considered a moment.
No. If I didn’t have the job,
that would be an all-time low.

“Perspective, perspective,” J.T. kept muttering. “Think of Jer-

emy. Think of
Jeremy
. . . where’s Natasha on my shoulder? Where is she?!”

J.T. continued to mutter as he pedaled. How could he not have

a pass?
Even if they hated me, what purpose would it accomplish to
not allow me to get onto the lot, into the stage to do my homework?

What kind of twisted minds am I dealing with?

Even inside the restaurant, J.T. kept mumbling as he drew

blocking configurations like a madman. What would make the al-

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mighty words of the Pooleys funnier? What blocking would com-

plement this so-called joke? What would play in concert with this bit? What wouldn’t take away from these words? “Who stole the

funny? I thought this was supposed to be funny!” J.T. shouted.

The patrons in the restaurant stopped for a moment, stared at

J.T., then went back to their isolated, behind-a-wall, Los Angeles preoccupations.

He fumed. His plate of egg whites arrived, and he started shak-

ing Tabasco sauce on it.
Funny isn’t rocket science. It’s harder.

He took a bite of his eggs, sputtered, and reached for his water.

Maybe it can’t be fixed.

J.T. was incapable of indifference about anything. He was

trained like a thoroughbred to be a winner. It was instinct, not al-truism. It was genetic, not sympathetic. The only thing time had taught J.T. was that his hot-blooded passion was a W.M.D., and to be very careful not to blow sky-high over something as trivial as a
parking pass
. Nevertheless, he continued stewing as he sat in the restaurant. He simply couldn’t calm down.

By the time J.T. finished his notes and his spicy egg-white om-

elet, he had made himself nauseated with his inner monologue.

Subtle! A naked blow-up doll
. He took out his cell phone and called the production office, just on the off chance that someone might actually show up for work on time.
At least the “A” story is the same.

Not that surviving an explosion makes a great “A” story in a sitcom,
but at least we have something to hold on to. Just chill. You can handle this
, J.T. thought.

A guy at the next booth, his eyes red and his nose bulbous and

even redder, laughed, “You think you can handle it. But you can’t.

It’ll get you in the end. It gets everybody.”

“I’m sorry,” J.T. said, trying to harness politeness from some-

where in his anger. “I didn’t actually mean to say that out loud.”

“That’s the first stage of losing it, pal. You work in TV, right?”

“Yes . . .” J.T. was suddenly pulled into this man’s world.

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“I’d wish you good luck, but fuck—I’d just be wasting words.”

The man with the bloodshot eyes and the Rudolph nose got

up and left.
Whoa
, J.T. thought, making sure it remained only a thought. Then a sound came from his cell phone and brought him

out of one man’s nightmare and back into his own.

“Y’ello?” a bored, I-work-in-sitcoms-and-you-don’t voice

said.

A Valley girl. Great.
“Yes,” J.T. began, “I am J.T. Baker.”

“And that means . . . what?”

“And that means, I’m directing your show and there was no

pass for me at the gate this morning,” J.T. said, trying to hold it together.

“What time did you get here, J.T. Baker?” the I-think-I’ll-hu-

mor-him voice asked.

J.T. tried to keep his voice level. “It should not matter what

time I get anywhere. The stage should be made available to a director around the clock so that the director can get the show shot by Friday!”

“Oooh, aren’t we, like, a teensy bit full of ourselves?”

“We?
What is your name?” J.T. demanded.

“My name is Julia Pooley. I’m, like, the niece of the cousin

of the creator of the show you’re supposedly directing,” the I’m-so-important-and-you’re-so-not voice said. “What is
your
name again?”

J.T. took a cleansing breath. “I am coming back to the lot and

will be at the gate in five minutes. If there isn’t a pass for me to come onto the lot and do my work after I have had this conversation with you, Julia Pooley, I will consider that my services are no longer needed and I will go home. And home is not in the San Fernando Valley. Home is five hours away. By plane. Please, I beg of you—do the wrong thing and let me go home.” He hung up.

He gathered his notes, paid his bill, and left to face the day’s adventure. He was already exhausted.

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* * *

“No, sir. I do not.”
Pop
. New gum, no doubt.

“You’re just saying that! You’re messin’ with me!”

“My job isn’t to mess with you. My job—”

J.T. dropped his act. “I know what your job is! Shit! Is there a pass for J.T. Baker in your computer now?”

“I’ll check. What did you say your name was, sir?”

“Oh, give me a break. J-T-B-A-K-E-R!”

The guard went inside his little guardhouse and closed his

guardhouse door. J.T. saw him look at his computer screen. The

guard reacted as the intermittent glow of the screen flickered on his face. He opened the guardhouse door and leaned out of the

guard gate.

“I’m sorry, sir. I have a pass here for a J.T. Baker. But not for a J.T. B-A-K-E-R.”

“Very funny. Very good. You should be a comedy writer. You

should be a shoe salesman. You should be anything but a studio

guard!”

“What’s up, Joe?” A Los Angeles police officer got out of his

vehicle, which J.T. only now noticed had been parked to the left of the security gate. “This gentleman seems to be a bit agitated.”

“Want some gum, Larry?”

“Gum sounds good. What kind ya got there, Joe?”

The police officer walked past J.T. and over to Joe, the security guard.

“This is that new kind that ya use when ya can’t brush your

teeth. Makes ’em white and fresh-feelin’. Minty fresh.”

“Yeah. I’ve seen commercials for that. Lemme give it a try.”

Joe slowly unwrapped a piece of gum for Larry. Larry folded

the gum into fourths before he put it into his mouth. For some

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reason Larry felt it necessary to gaze upward while coming to a taste conclusion.

“Yup,” Larry said, “minty fresh. Feels good. Tastes good.”

“Either arrest me or give me a piece of gum!”

Both faux cop and show cop turned and stared at J.T. without

blinking.

“He’s been giving me trouble since early this morning.”

“I thought you said you didn’t remember me!”

“Calm down, sir,” said the cop. “This really is good gum, Joe.”

“I told ya.”

“Does he have a pass, Joe?”

“If he can show me ID that he’s J.T. Baker, he’s got a pass.”

Larry turned and straightened his belt. The one with the stan-

dard-issue, real live, this-could-make-you-dead gun on it.

“Where is your ID, sir?”

“Finally. Some sanity. It’s in my wallet, which is in my back-

pack.”

“Step away from the vehicle and let me search your backpack,

please, sir.”

“If I step away from the vehicle, the vehicle will fall over. The vehicle doesn’t have a kickstand.”

“That is your problem, sir. Not mine. Next time you might

want to save up and get yourself a kickstand. Now—step away

from the vehicle and hand me your backpack.”

J.T. got off of his bike and gently let it go. The vehicle-bike, of course, fell over.

“There. Satisfied?”

“No, sir. Please give me your backpack.”

“Ray-dee-oo.” J.T. took his heavy backpack off and held it out

for the police officer to take. And held it out. Eventually it was too heavy to continue holding, and J.T. just—let go.

As the backpack hit the ground, most of its contents came out

onto the ground too. His papers, his cell phone, his wallet.

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At that moment, J.T.’s cell phone rang.

“Dive for cover!!! His cell phone rang!!! It could trigger a

bomb!”

Everyone in the vicinity—passersby, studio workers, a cy-

clist—all bolted. The studio guard hid in his guardhouse with his fingers in his ears, praying. The cop dove, going airborne for a very unspectacular distance of two feet. Everyone froze. The cell phone rang. And rang.

“This is a terrible misunderstanding. I can ex—”

“Nobody move. No real director uses a cell phone anymore—a

Razr, maybe. Everyone stay down.” The cop slowly rose to his feet and gently, oh-so-carefully, opened the cell phone. He could hear a voice. He slowly put the phone to his ear, keeping his weapon and his eyes trained on J.T.

“Hello?” the officer said.

Everyone’s eyes went from the cop to J.T. Back and forth. No

one dared move any part of their body other than their eyes. This cop looked scared and a bit trigger-happy.

The cop walked over to J.T. His weapon was still pointing

at him.

“It’s for you.”

J.T. slowly took the phone. “You might wanna consider hol-

stering your weapon, officer.”

The cop handed J.T. the phone, then put both hands around

his weapon and aimed it between J.T.’s eyeballs.

“Or maybe not.”

J.T. slowly put the phone to his ear. “No funny business. See?

I’m just talking on the phone. Please don’t shoot me for that.”