Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (38 page)

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

care of each other and watch each other’s back. Especially since you are a hit show.’ And you are the one who not only went against me, your boss, but in doing that, got Kirk Kelly a raise. Of course the others want a raise, too.” He smirked. “You’ve really fucked up.

Mr. J.T. Big-Director-Man.”

“I see. You think that what I said helped fuel this backlash?

This refusal to work? Their demands for a pay raise?” J.T. was now worried he might actually be held responsible for this breakdown in the sitcom week—a frightening and sobering thought, even if it wasn’t true. He could never get into a legal battle with the likes of the network, the studio, or the Pooleys. Not on these trumped-up, bogus, but somehow convincing charges.

J.T. ran his hand over his hair, a sure sign to Ash that he was about to backpedal. “I only meant to strengthen their backbone

and give them confidence,” J.T. said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “I was trying to get them to feel comfortable before the Tuesday run-through and to stop backstabbing one another

during the scenes. They had a tendency not to
play
the scenes but wanted to
win
the scenes. The speech I give is to encourage a working relationship that breeds nurturing and teamwork rather than selfish star mentalities. It’s always worked before in the past on pilots I’ve directed that have gone on to be hit shows.”

“Goody-goody for you. All I know is that I have six regular

characters that
play
our Urban Buddies and they all want a pay raise in year two!” Marcus Pooley shouted.

“Look, I can realize how . . . distressed you may be, but the television flame burns hot and fast. These young people realized that they were on the cover of next week’s
TV Guide
and they’re being called the only sure hit of the season and we’ve created money monsters in this business. There’s no way to get away from the past few years and the kind of money that’s being thrown at actors on hit shows. These kids probably know they’ve hit the lottery. They want to milk it for all it’s worth. I can’t completely blame them R o b b y

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because I know what you and the rest of the
above-the-liners
are making off of a hit show.”

Oops
, thought Ash. J.T. had been doing okay until that point.

“Here’s what
I
have learned, J.T. Baker,” Marcus Pooley said, toxic from mixing stimulants and downers (and who knew what

else), “I expect you to shoot a show tomorrow that is worthy of
I
Love My Urban Buddies
being on the cover of
TV Guide
three times in two years. I expect that. I expect nothing less. I expect it with absolutely no excuses. I have been patient, and up until now—”

Yeah, you’re about as patient as a rattlesnake,
J.T. thought.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said that out loud?” J.T. asked.

“Are you really that stupid?” Marcus looked at J.T. like he was getting the greatest idea of all time. “Yes! A Reality Show. We’ll call it
Are You Really That Stupid?!
You can be the pilot episode. Just you. Steph, hand me my little video camera. We’ll start shooting right now.”

Stephanie actually did grab the small home video camera

(which Marcus had brought in just in case anyone else decided to blow their brains out), and she aimed it at J.T. and began shooting.

The whole scene had shifted from the absurd to the surreal, so that J.T. suddenly imagined himself a character in a Fellini film.

Controlling every action so that he didn’t shift from outraged

to violent, J.T. gently put his hand on the video camera and pushed it down. He did notice, though, that while she was shooting, it was the only time Ms. Pooley ever actually looked directly at him.

“I know you and your wife have a problem with me—”

Stephanie Pooley threw the video camera to the floor, where it

broke in two. “A ‘problem with you’? That’s the understatement of a lifetime. We hate you, you fuck.” Yes. She really said that.

“You broke my camera, Steph,” Marcus hissed angrily under

his bad breath.

“Later,” Stephanie warned her mate.

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

“You know . . .” J.T. said, “if I weren’t a gentleman, I would

clean your clock, lady. I would go after you first because I have come to realize that you are a tougher rival than your husband, who I think would scream like a schoolgirl. I don’t want trouble, but if you ever treat me this poorly again, I will change your life. So I urge you both: Let’s keep this as civil as we can.” J.T. stared both of them down.

Stephanie and Marcus most certainly wanted to get J.T. into a

position where they could let him go because of his temper; that was and had been their plan from the moment they decided they

didn’t like him. But they never figured on being alone with J.T.

when he finally snapped, so they suddenly became very cautious.

So did Ash. He watched J.T.’s feet to see if they were heading toward the Pooleys. That would be his cue to step in and not let J.T.

self-destruct with infantile behavior, no matter how satisfying it would be for him at that moment.

“I need to know: Are you threatening us? Physically?” Marcus

Pooley asked.

“I need to know,” J.T. countered: “Are you firing me,
metaphysically
? Are you threatening to fire me? I’ve heard from Dick Beaglebum that the two of you are going to make sure that I
never
work in this town again
. Is that a threat, a fact, or are you so un-original that you can’t come up with your own invectives? What

kind of game are we playing? How real are the odds? I’ve been doing this all my life—I’m willing to play with you. Are you willing to play with me?”

There was something in J.T.’s tone that was slightly insane, a

menace that made even Ash uncomfortable. He started pulling

J.T., who was so focused on his enemies that even he had forgotten about the sitcom itself, toward the door. “J.T.,” he said, “let’s get back to the set and get ready, the best we can, for tomorrow.”

* * *

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J.T. and Ash left. Marcus Pooley and Stephanie Pooley looked at each other like they’d both just realized that they needed diapers.

J.T. had made quite an impact that only strengthened his
passionate
reputation.

“He’s fucking insane!” Marcus trembled.

“We needed a witness. We had him. We could let him go based

on his temper alone,” Stephanie agreed. Then she brightened. “Do you think we could pay the black guy to be our witness? He probably wants to direct. Maybe we could offer him some deal in year ten.”

“Not a bad idea,” Marcus seethed, “but we wouldn’t have had

to pay anybody if you hadn’t broken my fuckin’ video camera!”

His sentence was a crescendo building into a scream.

“Later,” was all Steph had to say to get Marcus to shut up.

As J.T. and Ash walked back to the set, Asher was assessing the week and wondering how the hell this show would ever get shot by the next night, with a live audience, no less.

“That’s part of this awful game,” J.T. said, as if he could hear Ash’s thoughts. “There is always a way. And the network believes that. No matter how awful the week, these people always get their shows done. Now it is my job to be clever enough to figure out

how to direct a bunch of actors who don’t want to be directed—

how to get them to memorize sixty-five pages even though they

will never be able to memorize sixty-five pages by the shoot— to figure out how to shoot this puppy with camera people who don’t know where the actors are going to move and still be proud of the episode once it is finished.”

“It sounds impossible,” Ash said.

“This is a very easy business if you really break it down,” J.T.

said to Ash, for a moment his professor again. “Believe me—I’ll sit on the set for a half an hour or all night but—I’ll figure it out.

Let’s bet on it. Five bucks. Whattaya say? It’ll give me an incentive.”

J.T. smiled.

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Ash returned the smile. “It may be the easiest five bucks I’ll

ever make.”

“In all of the years that I’ve shot sitcoms, I have never had a Friday night go down in flames. Believe me, the odds are with me, not you, my friend.”

And the two men disappeared inside the cave of Stage Five. J.T.

knew all eyes from every crew member were watching his every

move. They all were interpreting how the next few hours would go, how tomorrow would go, just based on J.T.’s body language.

J.T. sat down on the couch, relaxed, and spread out. He looked

up at the crew and smiled. He was in the mode of
However long it
takes me, I’m going to get it done, so no use in complaining
.

“You may all go home,” J.T. announced. “Tomorrow’s going

to be one helluva day and night. Thor can tell you what time your calls are, but I’m pretty sure we meet at noon.
We’re going to shoot a
show
. The best show we possibly can. I just haven’t figured out exactly how we’re going to accomplish this task, but make no bones about it:
We’re going to get it done and we’re going to feel proud of
our work once we’re finished
. So . . . my advice? Get a really good night’s sleep. You’re going to need it.” J.T. finished by just melting into the couch on the set. He sat there and thought,
How can I pull
this off? How
. . . ?

J.T. watched everyone pack up for the day. He sat on the couch

where all of the Urban Buddies had become famous. As he sat

there, he smelled the microwave popcorn, the sign that the electricians would be there working on lights for a few hours. And he could smell the special cappuccino maker, which also made hot

chocolate, a comfort “food” for him. He loved having hot choco-

late with his son Jeremy. Jeremy.
Yes,
J.T. thought,
I will shoot this
fucking show
.

“So,” Ash said, handing J.T. an unexpected cup of hot choco-

late, “what’s on your mind?”

“I think . . .” J.T. began, but his eyes were caught somewhere

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between the land of the fake park and the dead squirrel. “I’ll make you a deal, Ash. Get me about fifty white sheets of foam core—

you can get them from Mick McCoy—and then I’ll need two rolls

of gaffer’s tape and six magic markers—all different colors, they have those in the prop department—and oh, you’ve gotta catch

them before they leave, and make sure there is a ladder that can stay out for me all night—if

you can do all of that in the

The Hollywood Dictionary

next five minutes, then you

FOAM CORE:
White cardboard

can go home and get a good

used by directors of photogra-

night’s sleep. And owe me

phy to bounce hard light off the

five bucks.”

white surface and fill the actor’s

J.T. was onto something

face with soft, attractive, movie-

and Ash could tell that he

star light.

was beginning to get excited

about his oversized order of

office supplies. As a matter of fact, J.T. was starting to get a little goofy with disobedience by habit
.
Ash knew that some of it was sheer cussedness: J.T. wouldn’t go down without a fight, and was prepared to stay up all night and come up with a magical solution.

Most of it, though, was obviously simple exhaustion.

J.T. wrote camera test on a script and angled it at the cam-

era that was sending the live signal to the Pooleys’ offices. Then, in front of the camera, he cupped his right hand to Ash’s ear and whispered—making sure that the Pooleys (because he knew they’d

be watching) knew he was whispering. Something about being se-

cretive made J.T. feel silly and triumphant. He knew the Pooleys wanted to know everything. Now he was showing them that there

was something on his mind—and they didn’t know what it was. It

was a kindergarten power play, but hey,
know your opponent,
J.T.

thought.

“Ash—” J.T. whispered, “the brats don’t want to be directed

but they’re not good enough yet to direct themselves. They also 2 7 8

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don’t know their lines.
All I have to do is treat the episode like a giant
puzzle.
Okay—if I color-coordinate each character’s dialogue and write it out on cue cards, place the cue cards on each individual set in such a way that the actors
have to get up and walk to a certain spot
to see and read their lines,
then, in fact,
I have actually directed them
.

I’ve made them move
and
know their lines. And I’ll coordinate the shooting scripts for each camera operator so they will know where the actor is going in each and every scene, for each and every line!

It’s going to work, Ash.” J.T. was hopping up and down with excitement, painfully gulping the very hot hot chocolate.

Ash laughed. “That’s . . . fucking
brilliant,
” he said with true admiration.

“Ash—grab Mick before he leaves. Tell him I need to see him

ASAP. And see if Kirk is still on the lot. If he is, tell him to come see me on the stage.”

“Will do,” Ash said, and ran off to catch Mick and Kirk before

they left. J.T. happened to look up and saw that he was on the live feed. He just smiled.

Back in their offices, Marcus and Stephanie had each been staring at their flat-screen LCD monitors.

“He’s smiling. If I fuckin’ had a gun, I’d kill him,” Marcus

spat.

“You do have a gun, you twerp,” Stephanie spat back. She’d