Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (19 page)

The cop didn’t move.

“Hello?”

“Hey, boss,” William said, sincerely. “What’s goin’ on out there?”

“William, where are you? You can see what’s happening here?”

“Stage door. See? I’m waving. During sex!”

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

J.T. thought about looking, then thought better of it. Only his lips and eyebrows moved as he spoke on the cell phone. All other body parts were rigid. “Listen, William, I’m not messin’ around.

As your director, I want you to tell these . . .
nice gentlemen
that I belong here,” he said. “They think my cell phone is some kind of bomb trigger-thingy.”

“Okay, boss, here’s the dilemma: I don’t wanna get fired or

blown up. Survival, boss. That’s what it’s all about. Survival.”

“I’ll survive your ass—”

“After sex?”

J.T. began to breathe deeply, imagining all the creative and bar-baric ways he would torture William if he ever made it back to the cave.

“Where’s Ash? Putting money down on some bling-bling?”

“William, this may come as a shock to you, but you’re a fuck-

ing racist.”

“No way. I love black people. Not crazy for Hispanics and

Chinks, but I really like black people. They play good basketball.”

“Forget it, William—do the right thing; here and now. Okay?”

“What would you do if you were me, boss?”

“I’d join the circus.”

“Funny you would say that, because ever since I was a ki—”

“William, tell them
on the phone
. Now!” J.T. looked at the cop.

“Okay if a clown posing as my assistant director IDs me?”

Jeremy.

J.T. wheeled his bike cautiously over to the director’s parking space, half expecting the cop to follow him. Since the bike had no kickstand, he propped it against the studio wall
. It looks silly,
J.T
.

thought
. Aw, what the hell
.

He walked into the cave, and even though a man of his experi-

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ence shouldn’t have been shocked by anything, especially after the morning he’d had, J.T. was shocked.

The stage was completely empty.

No sets. No construction. No painters. Just food.

J.T. stood there shocked for a little longer, just for good measure. Then he noticed William, who was trying to run the audi-

ence stairs—presumably for cardio strength. William was sweat-

ing and breathing heavily, and was having trouble getting up the one tier.

“Hey, boss!” William yelled out, sincerely gasping for air.

“Glad to see you made it in okay. Were you serious about the circus thing?”

J.T. stared hard at his A.D. “No. I was serious about the racist thing.” J.T. took a moment to look at the cave. “William, why isn’t there . . . Why is the stage empty?”

William came sprinting over to J.T. but tripped on an electrical cable and hit the ground hard, face-first.

“I think I broke my fucking nose,” William said, sincerely in

pain.

William looked up at J.T. His nose was bleeding but it didn’t

look broken. A huge egg was beginning to swell on his forehead.

“How’s it look?” William asked, sincerely.

“Well, you look . . . Hispanic. Actually, with the swelling around your eyes, a little Chinese. After sex.”

“I broke my fucking nose, didn’t I?” William said, starting to

panic.

“I don’t think your nose is broken, but I do think you should

get some ice on that forehead. You’ve got an egg the size of . . . an egg. Chicken egg. No—wait—now it’s more like a baby dinosaur

egg. You could possibly give birth to another forehead in a matter of minutes if you don’t get some ice on that . . . embryo.”

“Thanks, boss. I’ll just go get some ice. We’ve gotta talk. I’ve 1 3 6

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

got some bad news and some even badder news,” William said,

sincerely nasal in tone.

“Look, it’s Tuesday. I refuse to panic any more today.”

“Oh yeah? Just wait till you get a load of this news,” William

said, sincerely, walking away with his head bent low.

Great. More bad news, and my A.D. is walking like Quasimodo
.

J.T. heard footsteps echoing in the large, empty set. It was

Ash.

Asher, usually an even-tempered man, looked very upset. He

looked—furious. J.T. had never seen him look furious.

“They wouldn’t let me on the lot. Said I looked like al Qaeda.

And I called in our passes
twice
yesterday,” Ash fumed.

“I hope you didn’t say you were working with me.”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did.”

“They thought I was al Qaeda, too,” J.T. said, trying not to

laugh. “By the way, you just missed our
best ever
stunt
.
William took a header while he was running to tell me more bad news. It really wasn’t funny—but—actually it was hilarious. Look at me:

I’ve turned into
them
!”

“Is he okay?” Ash asked. He was always concerned. About ev-

eryone. Honestly concerned. “Should I call First Aid?”

“Naw, he’s all right. A bloody nose and a big bump on his fore-

head. What time have you got?” J.T. asked.

“Ten of ten,” Ash said, looking at his watch.

J.T. knew when he was in time trouble
.
And when all others thought they were in time trouble, J.T. knew when they were out of harm’s way. It was a skill that had taken years to hone, just as a jockey knows twelve-second furlongs on every mount.

“We’re fucked,” J.T. said.

William came loping back to J.T. in an odd serpentine pattern,

holding an ice pack to his head and with white tissue paper stuffed in both nostrils. The new weight on his forehead had apparently affected his equilibrium.

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“Boss, I’m fine!”

“Okay. So what’s the rest of the bad news?”

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s because you hit your head.”

“Oh.” William was sincerely confused. “Um, so you want the

bad news, or the badder news, or the really bad—”

“Just tell me what’s going on!”

“Okay, one: every actor has called and said that they would be

a little late this morning. After s—”

“Stop! How can I get a producers’ run-through ready in two

hours if I don’t have my actors? Or even two honest-to-God hours to get the work done?!”

“I know, boss. That’s bad. Now, the badder news is the studio

still hasn’t approved a budget for the show so the designers can’t even submit blueprints so they can’t start to build a set.”

“Today is Tuesday. How are we going to preshoot the best ever

explosion that can’t have any form of explosives
tomorrow
if we don’t have a set today?” J.T. asked. He was smiling by now. He

knew this was going to be one of those weeks. So why fight it?
Just
think on your feet,
he kept thinking
.

“But the really bad news is Helena, you know, the dy—the
gay
one who plays the next-door neighbor? She’s in her trailer refusing to
come out.
Hey—I made a joke!” William laughed sincerely.

J.T. fixed a stern stare on William. “Why won’t she
come out
?”

he asked.

“She’s having girlfriend—I mean,
partner
—problems. And she thinks the script isn’t gay-friendly. She said she’s tired of being
the
butt
of all the jokes. Hey, that was kinda funny, too!” William’s bloody tissues popped out of his nostrils when he laughed.

“Okay, Mr. Funny Man, is there any more
badder
news?” J.T.

asked.

“Isn’t that enough?” William said, sincerely. And this time, his sincerity matched the words that came from his bloody lips.

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

“Where’s her trailer? I’ll go talk to Helena.”

“It’s out that back door, near the
men’s room
!” William almost fell on the floor with laughter. J.T. gave Ash a nod and started walking toward the back door.

Back in the writers’ room, there was a phone call for Marcus or Stephanie Pooley. Neither was there. Neither had awakened in

their oceanfront home in Malibu. Thing One, who hadn’t lost his job yet because the Pooleys hadn’t yet arrived, was told to call them on their cell phones and find them. The person making this demand was the studio representative, Lance.

“Whattaya want?” a groggy female voice answered.

“Ms. Pooley, I have Lance Griffin on the line for you,” Thing

One said.

“Fuck . . . Stephanie groaned. She rolled over and saw that

Marcus was out on the balcony flying his remote-control minia-

ture airplane.

“Marcus! Goddammit! Marcus! The network is on the

phone.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?! I’m really bugging that surfer dude

out there. Ya gotta come see this.”

Stephanie got out of bed and marched over to Marcus. He was

flashing ass to a surfer who was waiting for a wave about two hundred yards out in the tide of the Pacific. He held the controller to a remote airplane that was buzzing the surfer.

“Gimme that,” Stephanie said, grabbing the controller. “Don’t

show him your bum or buzz him—dive-bomb the loser.” And

Stephanie hit the surfer dude in the back with kamikaze accuracy, knocking him off the board. “Did you see that? The dumb fuck’s

underwater.”

“Good one,” Marcus snickered. “Hey—I don’t see him . . . do

you?”

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Only the surfboard popped back up out of the ocean. It wasn’t

attached to any dude of any dude-kind. The Pooleys looked at the open dude-less ocean, then at each other.

“Want M&M pancakes for breakfast?”

“Okay,” Marcus said.

“Ramona!” Stephanie shouted. “Pan
cakies con
M&Ms
pronto
.”

“Who’s on the fucking phone?” Marcus asked, hearing a voice

coming from the receiver.

“It’s me, Marcus.
Lance
. Good morning.”

“Yeah. Well, it may be a good morning for you, but I’m dyin’

here,
” Marcus said.

“Here?
Here
is . . .
where
?” Lance asked.

Without missing a beat, Marcus yelled, “I haven’t left the lot!

I’m trying to give you a show that is the
best ever
and I’ve got nothin’ but naysayers tellin’ me what I can and can’t do. So I had to . . .

get out. I’m clearing my head. Taking a walk around the studio lot usually does that for me.” Marcus looked around for his pajama

bottoms.

“M&M pancakes for you, Mr. Marcus?” Ramona asked, pop-

ping her head into the bedroom.

“Who’s that?” Lance asked.

“Illegal aliens selling M&Ms for a Girl Scout trip to . . . Cam-bodia.”

“It sounds like the illegal alien is near the ocean.”

“She’s just . . . waving the M&M bags and it sounds like the ocean.”

“Right,” Lance sighed. “Look, we
must
meet on the budget.

We’re supposed to be shooting the explosion tomorrow and I need to know how many carolers you want to blow up. This stunt is

costing us on both ends, the effects
and
the stunts, let alone the special set that hasn’t been built yet.”

“Of course it’s been built!” Marcus shouted.

“Now, Marcus, don’t try and bully me, please. Let’s be civil. No 1 4 0

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

set has been built. I am standing right now in the middle of a stage that has not been built. The stage is
empty,
Marcus.” Lance moved his $300 sunglasses to the top of his head just to satisfy himself that he was right. “Empty.”

“The set was built and it looked . . .
ordinary
. So I told them to tear it down and build me the best ever set . . .
ever
! I mean, that’s bullshit, what you’re saying or what they’ve told you—
it wasn’t
built?
Really? I want that lying son of a bitch fired!”

Lance put his sunglasses back on. “‘Everyone thinks of chang-

ing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.’ Leo Tol-

stoy.”

“Whatever,” Marcus said. “Hey! I’ll take the gummy bears. I

hope you take dollars ’cause gringo ain’t got no pesos,” he added for that touch of reality.

Lance caught himself beginning to believe that Marcus actu-

ally was on the lot, not in Malibu. That the set really had been built and that Marcus hadn’t liked it and had had the set torn down.

Simple as sunshine. Pure as day.
Man
, Lance thought,
this guy is
good. A real snake. Ya gotta admire that.

“Marcus, how quickly can you
return from your walk
and get to my office?”

“I can be there in . . . about an hour,” Marcus said.

“An hour! Goodness. I never realized what a large lot we were

on,” Lance said.

“I’m clearing my fucking head! Okay?! You don’t want to meet

until . . .” Marcus looked out at the ocean. The surfboard was floating toward shore, and there was still no sign of a surfer. “He’s disappeared. He could be drowned for all I know.”

“Who would that be, Marcus?”

Marcus recovered quickly. “J.T. Baker. That piece of work who

calls himself a director is drowning under the pressure.”

“So J.T.’s not been working out for you, Marcus?” Lance said

slowly, trying to mask his glee. This was Lance’s opportunity to get R o b b y

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the showrunners to take a stand to fire the director, which meant a shutdown to fix all the problems that were blossoming by the

hour, which meant that Lance and the studio would not be re-

sponsible for the downtime moneys: the showrunners would have

to cover that expense. It seemed like a great opportunity for Lance to maintain some control of the sitcom that was number one in