Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (33 page)

“I was actually . . . just coming over to tell you how wonderful Kirk was doing. Both you and Loretta should know that he has a

learning disability,
and now that he has memorized his lines, he is doing marvelous work. He was even willing to stay today to work all by himself. He not only has the part nailed but is helping me with blocking, considering that tomorrow is camera-blocking day and the cast is now at the Bellagio ‘de-stressing’ with your wife.”

“A learning disability,” Loretta said with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you fell for that one!” Loretta tried to sit forward. She turned and 2 3 6

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

looked nervously at Marcus

but then, pro that she was,

The Hollywood Dictionary

made a quick recovery.

SHOW BUSINESS:
(1) One-tenth

“Ms. Nady, I thought

“show,” eight-tenths “business,”

you represented the best in-

and nine-tenths bullshit. (2)
See

terests of your client, who at

Yogi Berra.

this moment is unaware of

his new unemployed status.

.

The young man is working

his heart out to
please
everyone,” J.T. said, staring at Loretta without blinking once.

“Oh, give me a break,” Loretta said, shifting her buttocks, “we all know what this is about. You want to be the hero. You want to show that Kirk can do the work. Well, here’s a Morse code to J.T.

Baker:
The kid is talentless and we’re going to stop the bleeding before
his hemophilia hurts the show
.”

“Loretta, what do you get out of all of this? I mean, you’re going to screw Kirk on his way out and screw one of these young men on the way in—but what do
you
get? A producer’s credit?”

“That is none of your fucking business, J.T.,” Marcus Pooley

said, hoping Loretta would take the hint.

“You think I would settle for
just
a producer’s credit?” Loretta let her ego get the best of her. “A producer’s credit
and
twenty-five grand a week. I might as well be a writer on the show. I’m a part of the
creative process
now, so I’m being compensated for my efforts.”

“Okay. Fine. I just needed to ask a question,” J.T. said, “but all of this changes things. So I’ll just be on my way.” J.T. started for the door.

“J.T.,” Marcus called out, “don’t you dare go back to the set

and tell Kirk what is going on! Do you hear me? You have no right.

And—besides—if I do not find a better actor, I will be forced to stay with Kirk. So if you tell him and then I decide that he stays, R o b b y

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you will have done irrepara-

The Hollywood Dictionary

ble damage to my show. Do

you understand?”

PRODUCER’S CREDIT:
In Hol-

“Yes . . .” J.T. said over

lywood, producer’s credits are

his shoulder, “I understand,

handed out on Halloween in -

completely.”

stead of candy.

“Also,” Marcus con-

.

tinued, “you should keep

blocking with him. That could help you. Use him like a chess piece, and then tomorrow when Kirk’s replacement shows up for work,

you’ll just have to show him the blocking you did today with Kirk.

You know, you won’t be starting from scratch, only the new Kirk will be starting from scratch. Get it?”

“Gotcha.”

J.T. shut the door. He walked down the hallway and looked into

the eyes of every young man who was up for Kirk’s part. This was not the first time, by any means, that J.T. had been
asked
to keep a secret from an actor that would have a dire impact on the actor’s career. This was not the first time J.T. was told to keep working with a fired actor, using the actor as a meaningless piece of flesh while the executives found another piece of flesh to take over. So J.T. did what he had done in the past.

J.T. burst through the door and onto the stage, and strode pur-

posefully over to Kirk.

“What is it?” Kirk asked. “What’s the matter, J.T.?”

“Do you own a cell phone, Kirk?” J.T. asked.

“Uh, no. I have a Sidekick III from T-Mobile with real Web

browsing, a built-in camera, an organizer with PC sync, photo ID, AOL instant messaging, text messaging, and a six-megabyte e-mail account.” Kirk proudly produced the gadget.

“I didn’t ask you to do a commercial—I asked you if—can that

NASA-thingy make a fucking phone call?!”

Ash looked at J.T. and slowly closed his eyes. He knew exactly

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

what was going on. He had been there before when J.T. had asked if an actor owned a cell phone.

“Yes. Here it is,” Kirk said, puzzled, handing it to J.T. “It makes
phone calls
.”

“Don’t give it to me, I don’t know how to make the fucking

thing work. Look, please,” J.T. asked him, “please call your manager. What’s her name? Loretta? Loretta Nady?”

“Yes! That’s my manager. Why?” Kirk asked.

“Just give her a call on that thing, that’s all. See if anything is

. . .
up
.”

Kirk dialed Loretta’s number. He waited
. Answering her phone
must be a major ordeal,
J.T. thought, imagining the large woman trying to do anything remotely physical. There was a short neuron flash of Loretta making love and then J.T. begged his brain to make the visual (the director’s cut with bonus footage) go away!

Finally Loretta answered. “Loretta?” Kirk asked.

“Hello?” Ash and J.T. could hear Loretta’s breathless voice am-

plified through Kirk’s small cell phone.

J.T. mimed a shrug, then a thumbs-up sign. “Um . . . anything

up
?” Kirk asked.

“No! Nothing! Why would you ask that?” Loretta wheezed.

J.T. whispered, “Ask her where she is. Ask-her-where-she-is!”

“Um . . . where are you, Loretta?” Kirk asked. Ash couldn’t help shaking his head. Kirk suddenly looked so very vulnerable.

“I’m out . . . at a meeting!” Loretta big-gulped.

“Gimme that fucking ‘crackberry’ thingamajiggy, Kirk.” J.T.

grabbed it before Kirk could even respond.

“Loretta, you filthy liar. You are in a casting session not fifty yards from here, auditioning your own clients, trying to replace Kirk. So—now everything is on the up-and-up and you can get

your twenty-five grand a week and your producer’s credit and Kirk can fire your fat ass for betraying him, and this young man can no longer be tortured by the Pooleys or by you and he can go home

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and reevaluate his fucking life!” J.T. kept hitting random buttons until the Sidekick III finally shut off.

Kirk had tears in his eyes and was motionless.

“Go home, kid,” J.T. said. “You’ve just had your first real-life showbiz stab-in-the-back. You’re a good, very good actor. You have great heart and great instincts. I hope you stay in the business.

If you do—learn from this. Don’t let it affect your soul—just let what you know now be a part of future equations. You are not the only one to have been fucked today in the sport of show business.

It’s happening all around you. It’ll hurt like hell, but do me a favor and
don’t quit.
You’re too good and you want it for all the right reasons.”

Kirk still said nothing. J.T.’s reaction was to do what he always did: talk through a problem aloud. Kirk’s situation was focusing him, defragging his mind—and making his Robin Hood syndrome kick in. It was a tangible problem J.T. could finally fight on his own terms and on his own pious turf. And whether he won this fight or not, it was the perfect way to cleanse his soul and tell himself he was not one of
them
. He would never see it as a self-serving left hook to Marcus Pooley’s chin triggered by emotion. He would feel redeemed if he could manage to take care of this young actor.

“Listen,” he said, putting a hand on Kirk’s shoulder, “there is a good chance that they won’t find anyone as talented as you—or even a greater chance that the network executive who thinks you’re cute and good for the show will go berserk when she finds out later this evening—I’ll call her. And when—well,
if,
I should say—they want you back on the show, here is the name and number of a lawyer.” J.T. tore a sheet from his notepad and scribbled a number on it. A memorized number, Ash noted.

“I’ll brief the lawyer before you call. I want you to hold out for an enormous amount of cash. I want you to fuck them in the very same showbiz way they are fucking you: doggy style. Only better.

You may win out. So cry—but when you’re done crying, make ev-

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

ery move with great thought. And that thought should be:
They
tried to destroy me. How can I destroy them?
”

J.T. was now steering Kirk in the direction of the stage door.

“Actually—don’t do that. Let this lawyer do it for you. You try and keep your spirit clean. But stay by the phone. I think I can help make this work in your favor. Now, go home! And don’t pick up

your phone, no matter what, unless you hear my voice on the an-

swering machine or it’s this lawyer calling you
. Do not speak with
the Pooleys, Loretta Nady, the studio, or the network.
I think . . . I really think I can help you in a big way on this one, Kirk. Now go. Go home. Screen your calls. Go!”

Kirk went.

J.T. watched him go, feeling the adrenaline rush of solving

Kirk’s problems and rearranging his fate and generally acting as a grand seigneur on a mission to aid the oppressed. There was nothing ambiguous about this fight, and that fact alone was liberating to J.T.

“Amazing . . .” Ash said.

“We’re in with a pretty scummy lot of people this time. Not

as bad as some others, but pretty scummy just the same. Oh, and they’re firing me, too,” J.T. said, softly.

“Duh,” Ash said. “Everyone could figure that one out, big

guy.”

“Well,” J.T. said as he put his arm around Ash, “everyone also

thinks we’re lovers. So, dear Ash, it’s been a great Wednesday! I love you, and let’s see what Thursday brings,” J.T. said. He turned to the empty stage and
did the honors:
“That’s a wrap!”

J.T. pedaled home, managed his anger, and didn’t kill himself bik-ing to Oliver’s house. He just couldn’t focus on the traffic. He was in the world of getting Kirk’s job back. He grabbed the phone the second he entered his buddy’s house. He placed an urgent call to R o b b y

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2 4 1

Debbie, who
didn’t want to be disturbed because she was on a very
important business trip,
but J.T. managed to get past her assistants and finally through to her anyway.

J.T. explained the situation with Kirk in such a way as to make Debbie feel that things were happening behind her back. In Debbie’s fury, she swore that Kirk would not be replaced. J.T. gave Debbie the number of the lawyer who was now representing Kirk,

hung up the phone, and knew precisely what was going to take

place during the rest of the night. He could sleep with a clean conscience.

The lawyer negotiated a new salary for Kirk, doubling his old one.

The lawyer also put a provision into the agreement that because his manager, Loretta Nady, was now employed by the Pooleys and

working on the sitcom in a creative capacity and for personal gain, which was certainly in a conflict with her client’s interests, she was denied, per Screen Actors Guild regulations, any of her managerial ten percent that was to come off the top of Kirk’s salary.

“T . . . Tasha? Um, I’m at Oliver’s and . . .”

“J.T., Ash already called and told me everything.”

“I failed our son.”

“Nonsense. J.T.—get past yourself.”

“Um, would you still love me if I murdered someone because

they weren’t funny?”

“Let’s see,” Natasha played along. “Not funny is a crime. I don’t think it’s punishable by death, but it could involve some serious jail time.”

“I was a real asshole today. I completely lost it.”

“How are you now?”

“I didn’t quit . . .”

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

“Then you didn’t fail anyone.”

“I became the Sergeant at Arms of the Moral Police,” J.T. whis-

pered.

“You gave yourself a promotion!”

“I deserved it.”

“Of course you did, sweetheart.” There was a brief silence. “I

think I saw a home video of a Moral Policeman pummeling an

unfunny man on an episode of
Ethical Cops Gone Wild
. Cable. I couldn’t sleep.”

“’Nuff said. You’re right.” And just like that, Natasha was back on J.T.’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“J.T., you call me if you need me. Any time of the night.”

J.T. could barely whisper, but he tried. “I will. ’Night. Love

you.”

“Love you, too.”

“For all eternity.”

As J.T. hung up the phone, he thought,
How do people with big
fingers use those tiny phones? What am I thinking? What is wrong
with me?

Thursday

The dreaded camera-blocking day had come. The camera and

sound crews were in early, setting up their equipment, ready for a nine o’clock on-camera/everyone-ready call. J.T., still employed, was there. Ash was there. Kirk Kelly was there, looking newly confident. William, the first assistant director who was essential on camera-blocking day, was not there.

“With any luck,” Ash said, “maybe the swim part of the triath-

lon was in shark-infested waters.”

J.T. sighed as a squat, Nordic-looking person with a full head

of golden hair and a body like a discus thrower approached them.

“Who’s he?” J.T. asked Ash.

“He
is a
she,
” Ash corrected him. “Second assistant director.