Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (20 page)

the Nielsens but number two in the crapper.

“Not working out? This guy walks around in a beret hold-

ing a fucking riding crop! When I was down on the set, every-

one was lollygagging and he was . . .
playing actor games.
My God!

We have a run-through at noon. You’d think this joker would get his act together and put the fucking show up on its feet,” Marcus said, squinting for any sign of life near the surfboard. “I’ll see ya in about an hour or two.” He pressed the off button on the cordless phone. “Where’s my M&M pancakes?”

Lance looked at the still-swelling face of William, who was

standing near him on the empty stage, pretending not to eaves-

drop.
Just another chess move
, Lance thought.
Ah, why dignify it?

Just another checkers move.
Thank God he’d hired the fall-guy schmuck director.

“Where is J.T.?” Lance asked William.

“He’s in with Helena. She’s very upset with the script and she

has personal problems. She didn’t seem to be in the mood to . . .

um, work,” William explained, sincerely.

Lance looked at the stage. There were no sets on his show. There were no painters or construction workers going home; there were no actors showing up except for Helena, who was upset and unwilling to work.
How do I get around this?
he wondered. Then it hit him.

He opened his cell phone and speed-dialed Dick Beaglebum.

“Mr. Beaglebum’s office,” a young female voice said.

“This is Lance Griffin with the studio. I’d like to speak with

Dick. Dick Beaglebum,” Lance said impatiently.

“Let me see if he is here,” the young voice answered back.

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“Don’t fuck with me! I know where you sit and I know where

he sits and I know where you two fuck. It’s a small office and—”

“Lance. Lance-a-roonie! How goes it?” Dick said enthusiasti-

cally, fumbling with the phone.

“We’ve got a huge problem, Beaglebum,” Lance said. “This J.T.

so-and-so that you brought in here from Lord knows where is de-

stroying the show!” Lance alleged.

“Whattaya mean?” Dick asked. “It’s Tuesday morning! How

could he fuck up already?”

“Well, he has. The show has never been in such disarray! And I

can’t get two words out of the Pooleys, they’re so angry.”

“They’re always angry . . .”

“That’s not the point. The point is, everything has come to a

fucking standstill because of this quack. Where the hell did you get the impression he could direct a half-hour network show?”

“The guy used to be—”

“Used to be. Has been. Is no longer! Not a single thing is hap-

pening. He’s . . . taking over! He doesn’t approve anything and so no work has been done and we have an explosion to shoot tomorrow!” Lance dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid you’ve really fucked up on this one, big guy.”

“Why are you whispering?” Dick asked.

“I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings, okay?! My job is hard

enough. Now, I’m afraid you’re going to have to share some of this burden. I’ll have Legal call you and we can renegotiate some of your syndication fees.”

Lance flipped the phone shut before Dick could get a word

out. With any luck, he could not only salvage this mess but actually rearrange the profit-sharing. Lance looked at William.

“You never heard a word of this. It never happened. Under-

stand?” Lance told William.

“Understand. I mean, understood!” William said, sincerely. He

was excited. William loved the intrigue!

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“Good. Play your cards right and everyone moves up one.

That means, guess who will be calling ‘Action!’ around here? Understand?”

“Oh my God! Yes,
sir
. I understand. Thank you!” William’s smile was so large that his just-forming scabs started bleeding again. But he didn’t care. His boss, the Big Boss, Lance Griffin from the Studio, had just told him that if he played his cards right, he’d be directing.

No more A.D. shit for him! After sex, during sex, before sex!
This is
too good to be true,
William thought as he watched Lance stroll off the stage and head back toward his office in the administration building.

Ash heard everything. He had stealthily positioned himself

under the risers, still in good form as J.T.’s eyes and ears. But unfortunately for J.T., not even Ash could follow William into his office, to see and hear what he did in there.

Like most A.D.s, William had his own small, windowless of-

fice where he could hang out during breaks and do his paperwork.

Like most such offices, William’s was on the stage against a wall, strategically placed next to an exit so he could go get his stars from their trailers and bring them back to the set.

William closed his door. He giddily dialed a studio phone

number on the standard-issue ivory push-button phone.

“Hello? Marcus?” William’s smile drooped. “I’m sorry. I meant,

Mr. Pooley?” His smile returned. “I have some info you should

have. Our new director just went into Helena’s trailer to discuss
artistic content
!”

“Get me that fucking asshole director. Call him on his cell phone.

Do it—
now
!” Dick shouted as he was humping his secretary. “Now

. . . now . . . oh yes . . . now . . .”

J.T.’s cell phone began to ring as he sat with Helena in her Winnebago. He’d forgotten to leave it with Ash.

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“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Helena asked J.T.

“Nah. I know it isn’t my family, and I’m here to work, so who-

ever it is doesn’t really matter at this moment. Anyway, go on. Tell me. What bothers you about the script?” J.T. spoke in a clear, gentle, but firm voice.

“Well, okay. Everyone knows I’m a lesbian. In real life.
Everyone
knows. Why all the Chanukah
bush
references from
my
character?

And ‘Brokeback Christmas’?”

“I understand . . . It’s a new ‘B’ story that should be okayed by you—at least it should be finessed by you. How can I help?”

Helena took a beat. She got up and began pacing as much as

her Winnebago would allow. She looked at J.T., trying to decide whether to trust him. After all, he was the director. Basically he just wanted her on the set.
Aw, fuck it,
she thought, and began to speak.

“I’m being . . . pressured by the lesbian community to be their
spokesbian
.”

J.T. gave her a nod of understanding.

“The newspapers have been writing snide, biting articles about

me,” she went on. “Last week, I fought back. I wrote a letter to the editor of the
Los Angeles Times,
basically telling them to leave me the fuck alone. It felt so good to get it out of my system. When I saw it in print, it felt even better. But since then, every day, there’s been another follow-up article or editorial. All I want it to do is stop!”

“Helena, I’m not the wisest person, but I can tell you this:
Never, ever get into a war of words with an enemy who purchases ink by
the ton
,” J.T. said—from experience.

“But there’s more, J.T. My partner . . . everyone . . . they’re giving me deadlines. They’re telling me if I don’t openly
come out,
they’ll do it for me. They’re treating me like I’m the one and only person who can make the lesbian issue palatable to the average

American. Hell, they want me to speak for
all
homosexuals!”

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“How do you feel about that?”

“Look at this script! What am I supposed to do? I’m truly at

odds. I know it may be good for ‘the movement,’ but I don’t know if it will backfire and really screw up my career. I’m a comedienne.

I’m not the poster-child type. Now, I don’t have a choice,” Helena said, waving the rewrites.

There was a moment when neither Helena nor J.T. knew what

to do or say next.

“Well,” J.T. finally said, “this has to be a very personal decision, and unfortunately, only you can make it. I don’t envy you, but
we must work now
. Like you said, you’re a
comedienne
. No matter what, all of us are here for one purpose, and one purpose only, and that’s to get this show shot. So I beg of you—don’t sit in your trailer and smolder over this. Come out and work on the show. Do what you do best. Make people laugh. You have a gift. You will figure everything else out in time. But now, to be quite honest, Helena, we have no time. So whattaya say?”

“J.T.—you’re not gay, are you?” Helena asked.

“No, but some of my best friends . . .” and they shared a false and predictable laugh.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes. Let me just gather my thoughts

and stop crying. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I understand. Take your time. But not too much,” J.T. said,

smiling.

Who would ever believe that I am somehow influencing gay history?
J.T. thought.

Who’s he kidding?
Helena thought.
Of course he’s gay.

Back on the set, Ash immediately filled J.T. in on the conversation he’d overheard, and the two swore that one day they would write a book about the insanity of it all. All of the actors had arrived but 1 4 6

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were eating or reading the paper or the trades. Highly unprofessional.
What else is new?
J.T. thought.

J.T. gathered his actors and was very precise about how the

next two hours would proceed. Since he barely knew anything

about the sets, he would

make assumptions; those as-

sumptions would be based

The Hollywood Dictionary

on making the words or

THE TRADES:
Insider tabloids

the actors funnier. “Or,” J.T.

fronting as credible sources of

said, “if you or your words

showbiz information.
See
Spin.

are in danger of falling flat,

the blocking is going to tap-

dance. That means it’s gonna take the viewer’s attention to something other than the actor with egg on their face or the writing that isn’t working.”

And then J.T. gave a quick speech, one that he had given be-

fore. It was based on protection. He told the actors—the regu-

lars—that the staff and crew would come and go, but if the show were to stay such a superhit, they would have to learn how to stick together as a group and always take care of one another. J.T. gave this particular speech because he had been given a similar speech when he was a young actor by a director he still had the utmost respect for.

“This director, whatever his name is,” Devon whispered to Betty,

“sucks the big one.”

“Whattaya doin’ tonight?” Betty whispered back.

“My girlfriend’s pregnant and she’s pretty upset. Says it makes her look fat. She doesn’t feel sexy.”

Betty smiled and nudged him playfully. “Wanna do somethin’

with me?”

“Lemme think about it.”

Rocky Brook took the bottle out of his pocket, which turned

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out to contain liquid Vicodin, and downed a quaalude with a quick swig. Kirk watched.

“What?” Rocky asked defensively. Like, about to go to war de-

fensively. “What?”

Kirk wasn’t sure how to respond. “Can you act taking all that

stuff?”

“I act better.” Then Rocky’s tone jerked into an about-face,

and he got all chummy with Kirk. “I won a People’s Choice Award when I was mixing Vicodin and Oxycontin but I felt sluggish—in

a bad way. Now,
this
combo relaxes me—in a good way. You can try it if ya want.” Rocky’s speech was beginning to slur.

Again, Kirk wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yeah. Maybe some-

time I’ll give it a try. Not now, though.”

“Nah’ now though,” Rocky mocked. “Wha’? What? What?! You

don’ fuckin’ think it’ll help?!” He was ready to go to war again.

“Hello?” J.T. raised his voice. “Anyone actually listening to my great speech?”

The cast just mumbled.

“Great!”

After which J.T. took a deep breath and began to work. He did

his thing
. For two hours he barely took a breather, moving portable chairs, assuming that
this
would be
there
, asking for things that would make the actors more comfortable and getting the full seventy-eight pages out of their mouths, with movement that made

sense to the scenes as well as their characters.

All was going well, except for the fact that the show’s not-so-

ditzy-in-real-life vixen, Janice, had taken a liking to J.T. (She took a liking to most directors. She had a father-figure complex.) Every chance she had, she would make sexual jokes or ask for a banana in the scene as a prop and swallow it whole. Every chance J.T. had, he let it be known that he was all business and was very happily married, and made comments: “Janice, you really don’t want to

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see that in reruns twenty years from now, do you?” And it seemed to work.

J.T. had been the object of advances from actresses on many

shows. It never had to do with J.T.’s personality or even a remote physical attraction: sex was an easy route to the intimacy and trust that all actors needed to feel between themselves and the director.

Fortunately for J.T., he knew the routine, and one way to break the tension was just to break for lunch.

The entire cast was meant to be having a rolling lunch, which

meant that a table filled with four hundred dollars’ worth of Japanese food was set up in the corner of the cave so they could eat as they supposedly worked, because their day would be a long, grueling, two and a half hours. J.T. actually let them take ten minutes on their own.