Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (35 page)

“Why didn’t you go to Vegas with the rest of the lemmings?”

J.T. asked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. I
play
Vegas. Why on earth would I ever go to that hellhole unless I was being paid a fortune to perform there?”

Helena was finally in the world of the sane. She had actually

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calmed down. Until, of course, Marcus Pooley knocked at the door and let himself into the trailer.

“Hello, girls,” Marcus said as he let himself in.

“What do you want?” Helena asked.

“I heard that you were slightly upset at the new draft of the

‘Best Ever Christmas’ episode and I wanted to let you know why

we wrote the things that we wrote. I figure, once you understand what we are trying to do with the episode, the show, and your

character, you’ll be on board completely.”

“How can you make her a hip comedienne in year one and

then turn her into a Borscht Belt has-been in year two?” J.T. asked with great loyalty to his actor.

“That’s the beauty of comedy! That’s the beauty of sitcoms!

And that is the beauty of your character! From week to week, we can do whatever we need to do.” Marcus turned to Helena and

smiled his wittle-boy smile.
“Altoid?”
he said as he took out a tin from his pocket and mischievously handed it to Helena.

“Yeah, I could use an
Altoid
.” Helena took the tin and went to the back of her trailer, behind a small partition.

“If you two will excuse me for a few, I need to freshen up.”

“Helena, snorting coke won’t make the episode better,” J.T.

protested.

“Excuse me, Marcus, but the story is abysmal. All
the funny
comes from recycled jokes,” J.T. ranted in a hushed whisper. “The jokes are funny; they’ve always been funny, ever since I first heard them when I was . . . say,
five years old
.”

“How dare you! I’ll have you know that my writing staff spent

all of last night here on this lot, rewriting this episode and coming up with jokes that would make Helena’s character sympathetic and sad so that when she is taken in by her Urban Buddies, it makes for
the best ever Christmas
!”

Marcus is either in denial,
J.T. thought,
or he’s just really, honest-to-God ignorant as hell
.
Retarded, maybe.

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

“What the fuck did you say?” Marcus seethed.

“Um,” J.T. tried to cover, “Marcus, you and I have had a very bizarre relationship since I arrived here on your show, and I must tell you—I only want what is best for you and for your show. That’s

why you hired me,” J.T. started to say.

“We
hired
you because our other director took a nail gun to the head. Plain and simple. Not because of your talent but because we could get you at cost. And we thought the studio and the network wouldn’t touch you and your holier-than-thou reputation.

We didn’t want to shoot this week! We wanted to shut down! Your agent manipulated everyone by recommending you because he

thought nobody would touch you, either. But it seems that the network and the studio also thought of you because they thought
we
would never touch you, either. So . . . here you are. Sorry to burst your bubble,” Marcus Pooley said in an evil tone.

There was a joke after all,
J.T. thought.
The joke is on me
.

“So? What’s the point you were going to make, J.T. Director-

Man?” Marcus Pooley sniggered.

“These jokes,” J.T. managed to say.

“I told you! My writing staff was up all night putting this new script together!” Marcus exploded.

“Marcus, if staying up and working all night was equivalent to

good writing, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. It only means that your writing staff is probably very sleepy today.”

“How the fuck dare you!”

J.T. started reading randomly from the script.
“My mother

never breast-fed me. She told me she only liked me as a friend
. Rim shot
. I could tell my parents hated me. My bath toys were a radio
and a toaster . . .”

Marcus was laughing. “They’re hysterical!” He grabbed the

script. “Hey—here’s a good one! Okay. How about,
The last time I
was in a woman . . . was at the Statue of Liberty.
How’s that?”

“What do you mean,
How’s that?
” J.T. said with a look of horR o b b y

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ror. “That, Marcus, is
Woody Allen’s joke
. From
Crimes and Misde-meanors
. That . . . that’s plagiarism. And not all that logical for a lesbian to say, either.”

“Boys . . . boys . . .” Helena returned, looking . . . rejuvenated.

“I’ll say the jokes. I
get it
now.” She rubbed her nose.

“Do you hear that, Marcus? You’re a good drug dealer. A lousy

writer and a horrible showrunner. But you can always make it on the street. Your actor will now say whatever is on the page because she’s coked up, when what the two of you should be doing is conversing like adults about what each of you are trying to accom-

plish. Now—it’s just one-sided. Exactly the way you want it to be.

And this, from a talent who earned a quarter of a million dollars an episode on her last sitcom!”

“No, J.T. It’s okay. I’m fine. All is well.” Helena was trying to end the conversation as quickly as she could.

“A quarter of a mil an episode?” Marcus howled. “I wish she

were making that little here. She’s robbing the till. You’d faint if I told you what she was taking home per episode, you fool.”

J.T., indignant, slowly turned and looked at Helena; so many

unasked questions in his eyes.

“Look—it doesn’t matter what I make. I love the script. Every-

thing is good with the world.”

“Hear that, Mr. Troublemaker? Satisfied?” Marcus, beaming,

gave his coked-up lesbian star a quick peck on the cheek. He made a silly hand-wiping gesture. “Thank you! I’m on my way to put out other fires. Adieu!”

J.T. was still staring at Helena, who refused to look at him. “My girlfriend broke up with me this morning. She was moving out

when I left for the studio,” she said flatly, as if this fact would make everything okay.

“Sorry about your love life,” J.T. said, slamming the trailer door behind him.

Outside, he leaned against the trailer, marveling that he’d fallen 2 5 4

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

for Helena’s act twice. He had no idea why he was passionate about anything having to do with his job. He felt foolish. He was fighting for the right to say he made the cesspool less smelly.

Thor came up to him and immediately passed gas.

“Sorry. Hurts like hell and smells like the dickens,” she said. “I have an update, sir,” she went on, as if reporting in to her general.

“What is it, Private Thor?” J.T. said reflexively.

“That’s not funny. Are you making fun of me?” Thor narrowed

her eyes at him.

J.T. looked at Thor in turn and realized she could probably

kick his ass. “I’m sorry, Thor,” he immediately said. “I’m . . . just not used to someone who is on the ball as much as you are, that’s

. . . all.” It was time to inform the Center for the Prevention of the Spread of Cruel Humor. J.T. realized he was now officially
cruel-infected
.

“Oh. Okay. Anyway . . . here is the update: the airplane from

Las Vegas will touch down at the Burbank Airport, runway one-

niner-zero, at eleven thirty-three. I would say by the time the cast arrives here and has eaten lunch it will be one o’clock, sir.” Thor let a fat one go that sounded like a lowrider’s muffler and smelled like New Jersey. “Yowee. That one hurt.”

“Where’s Kirk?” J.T. asked.

“He’s working on his new lines.”

J.T. went back into the cave and gathered the crew members, who kept shifting en masse as Thor tried to join them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very peculiar situation; I’d

like to break you now and ask that you return, having eaten lunch, by one o’clock. You can run errands, take a long lunch, and if any of you can, please take a script from the boxes that are over on the foldout table and read this week’s brand-spankin’-new episode.

It’s a page-one rewrite. I figure the more we all understand this R o b b y

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week’s script, the faster we can reach the goal of getting this puppy camera-blocked and shot by tomorrow night. I won’t be able to do this without your help. So it’s only a request, but if you feel up to it, please grab a script and give it a read. Thank you. I’ll see you all back here at one o’clock.”

J.T. grabbed another script. So did Ash. The two men went to

the fake park outdoor set where many films had been shot that

needed a park, sat on the fake park bench which, if you sit on it, suddenly doesn’t make it fake anymore, and began to study the

new rewrite.

“Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“You got the cell phone? I need to call Beaglebum.”

Ash pressed the button that speed-dialed through to Dick’s

office.

A sweet female voice began, “Beaglebu—”

“This is J.T. Baker. Please connect me with Dick. You don’t

have to see if he is in. Whether he is shaking his head no or nodding yes. Just put him on! Now!” J.T. said, completely sick and tired of the Hollywood bullshit. J.T. waited. Looked at the fake park and wondered if the live squirrel knew it was in a fake park. Or cared.

“J.T., my man! How are you?!” Dick said, very enthusiastically.

“You tell me. You know I’m being fired, don’t you?” J.T. stated more than asked.

“J.T.—really. I can’t get into that.”

“Dick, you certainly can get into that. You’re my agent!”

“Yes, but I’m the Pooleys’ agent, too. I’m caught in a very difficult position.”

“Correct.
You’re
caught!
Your
position is difficult?!
I’m
the one who is being blindsided. I’m the one who is being fired. I’m the one who needs representation,” J.T. said as he tried to keep his anger in check by concentrating on the squirrel in the fake park, scampering up a fake tree.

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

“Look, J.T., you’re my friend and that makes matters even

worse. The Pooleys are my friends. They hate you. They both said that you would never direct next week’s show or any other show

unless it was over their dead bodies.”

“Is that an option?”

“J.T.—you need a lawyer, pal,” Dick said.

“I can’t afford a lawyer! I came to town to do three shows. I

need the money from these three shows! I need the insurance,

Dick!”

“What can I say? You must’ve really pissed the two of them off, because they’ll let you finish this week but they said there is no way you are starting work on their show next Monday.” Dick somehow

made it sound harmless.

“Dick, I don’t know how

to say this—but I must have

The Hollywood Dictionary

these three paychecks from

PAY-OR-PLAY:
A director is paid

them and the insurance

in full for all contracted episodes

from my union. I’m not go-

either for completing the work

ing to give you a sob story—

or if officially fired. Directors like

but this is it! I’m pay-or-

pay-or-play not just because it al-

play, correct?”

literates, but because getting of-

“Yes, you are. But . . .

ficially fired from a lengthy con-

Marcus is willing to negoti-

tract gets them a paid vacation.

ate,
” Dick quickly said.

“Negotiate? How much?

And if you’re willing to tell me this information, then you
are
representing
someone
. I mean, just telling me he’s willing to negotiate means you’re willing to represent him!” J.T. said, thinking aloud.

“Are you somehow representing me, too?”

“Look, I’m just trying to help both parties. Now—Marcus said

he is willing to give you this week’s salary and one more half salary, but nothing more and definitely not all three. It’s a take-it-or-leave-it deal. Whattaya say?”

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“Well, Dick, it doesn’t seem fair. Does that mean I’m officially fired? Or am I being baited to quit, which would annul the pay-or-play aspect of my deal?”

“No,” Beaglebum said, “he won’t say you’re fired—
officially
.”

“That’s . . . weird. Um, listen. I’m not good at this sort of thing

. . . See if he’ll give me two salaries; considering that I’m promised all three, see if that’ll work, the motherfucker,” J.T. said, confused.

“I never figured you’d negotiate. I’ll look into it immediately.

See ya!” Beaglebum had hung up, and somewhere in deep space,

the connection was terminated.

“Whassup?” Ash asked.

“They won’t fire me officially and they’re willing to negotiate—

but my contract is pay-or-play.”

“Are you gonna negotiate?”

“I don’t know—I do know I’ll need the dough and benefits

from all three shows to be eligible for guild insurance. Shit.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate a ‘pay-or-play’ contract?” Ash

wisely asked.

“I dunno,” J.T. ignorantly responded. “But at this point, any-

thing is better than nothing.”

The two men stared at the fake park. The squirrel ate a fake

acorn, choked, fell out of a fake tree, onto the fake sidewalk, hob-bled, then really died on the fake grass. The two men were sure that the squirrel wasn’t faking. Nope.

“Sir, the cast is here in the greenroom eating lunch and they’ve asked to see you immediately on your return,” Thor said in a plod-ding monotone.

“They’re here?” J.T. asked, surprised.