Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (44 page)

sion that a lousy old trick

was worth watching, J.T. would fix the show in editing.
Then again,
he thought,
if this is like most cases, the producers won’t even view
the director’s cut.

In bed at Oliver’s that night, J.T. stared at the ceiling for hours, knowing his fate was in the hands of incompetents. He really did not know what his next step should be
. Ash was right,
he kept thinking.
Or was he? Shit. How would the show have been shot if I
hadn’t . . . Ash was right. Ash was right. Ash was right. Now what?

J.T. sat up in a panic. Virtue was no longer on his side. He had to play the game. He never played the game. He was a Go-Fish-Boob

about to sit down at a table of Poker Champs.
Shit,
he thought,
what should I do? What’s my first move?

3 1 6

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

He remembered that at the table read, Debbie from the net-

work had given J.T. her card . . . with her home phone number on the back.

“Hello?” J.T. was nervous. For a man who could lead over two

hundred employees, he was exceedingly insecure when it came to

matters that involved his own well-being.

“Who is this?” Debbie asked, clearly irritated.

J.T. hesitated, wondering if he should just hang up. Then he

remembered *69.
Fuck!

“I said, Who
is this
? What’s going on? What do you want?”

J.T. finally spoke. “Debbie . . . I know it’s late, um . . . this is J.T.

Baker.”

“Holy shit. Like, no way. Really?” There was a beat of what

seemed to be orchestrated silence. Then J.T. heard, “Devon, like, get off me!”

“Um, yes. Listen, I’m very sorry to disturb you and call the

personal number that you gave me, but if you don’t mind, I need some off-the-record advice,” J.T. said, sounding more like a high school geek than a director of twenty years.

“You wanna come over, J.T.? Wanna come over and
talk

about . . . things?”

There was a new inflection in Debbie’s voice.
A purr
, J.T.

thought.
Shit
.

“Devon,” J.T. heard Deb whisper, “I said
get off of me
. I’m on the phone!” Then there was another awkward beat. “J.T., wanna

come over?”

“No, Debbie, I really don’t want to come over. I just want to

ask your advice.”

“Really?” Debbie was slightly amused and slightly perturbed

by J.T.’s answer. He really only wanted advice? This from the man who’d just directed the sitcom she attended for her network?

And she’d been all dolled up . . . wasn’t she? Debbie tried to remember . . .
What was I wearing?
“Devon, get off of me! Now!”

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3 1 7

J.T. plunged in. “I know, Debbie, that I am like a staph infec-

tion to the Pooleys, and Dick Beaglebum isn’t fond of my pres-

ence on the planet, either. But I am ready to show up for work on Monday. I know how embarrassing that may be for many in the

crew and even in the cast. Personally, I’ve been known to thrive on embarrassment, but I don’t want to make it awkward for everybody else. That’s why I’m calling you.” As soon as he’d said it, J.T.

thought,
What a stupid fucking thing to say!
“I need your help. I know I’m fired, but am I officially fired? And if I am, is anyone out there ready to honor my pay-or-play deal?”

“Well, J.T.,” Debbie said, trying to sound very official and

network-like, “like, you are putting me in a very awkward posi-

tion. GODDAMMIT, DEVON—LIKE, OFF! DOWN! SIT!”

“Um, Debbie, I beg to differ. You
have
a job
. I’m
the one who is getting fired.
I’m
the one whose life is being altered by the whims of a few power-hungry no-talents. I think it is
I
who am in the awkward position,” J.T. managed to say, still sounding very young and unsure of himself.

“Look—like, get a lawyer, J.T.”

“I’m not getting into a financial war of attrition with the

Pooleys, the studio, or the network. I have a sick son or else I wouldn’t even have entered your sphere of reality. I’m trying to get my guild insurance and get paid what I’m owed.” J.T. thought he just might be able to play the pity card with the knockout babe. It used to work in high school.

“Well—if you won’t get a lawyer, then, like, call your guild. See if the union can help you. And, like, keep your family’s sob story out of my sphere.”

Who am I kidding?
he thought.
This isn’t high school.
“Sphere?

You can’t really mean that. Debbie? Please tell me you’re not really that . . . cold.”

“I have, like, a full slate of shows that I am responsible for

and that the network believes will give us a ratings victory in the 3 1 8

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

November sweeps,” the temptress unloaded. “My responsibilities

do not include, like, babysitting unhappy sitcom directors with insurance problems. If you don’t want a lawyer, then, like I said, call your fucking guild or union or whatever you call it. I’m, like, hanging up now, but if I were you? I’d renegotiate and let Beaglebum get you your salary for the episode you shot and then go home. Get out of our lives. Like, please. Good night.”

The pity card hadn’t worked. Maybe she would go for the loy-

alty card. “Debbie, I don’t feel comfortable calling the union. I’m
not
a snitch.”

Oh, I am
so
not a player,
J.T. thought.

“Debbie, it’s not my intention to hurt anyone or have the pro-

duction company fined.” He had, of course, just threatened the

network executive—so he dug an even deeper hole. “Listen, if I

was that kind of guy, I would’ve called the Screen Actors Guild when Marcus Pooley accused Kirk Kelly of being a drug addict.

That was totally irresponsible and could’ve had an impact on the rest of that young actor’s life, but I didn’t . . . hello? Debbie?”

Debbie had hung up.

J.T. just stared up at the ceiling.
What have I done?

For J.T. the control freak, everything was out of control. He

didn’t even feel satisfaction on the most personal level: Ash. J.T.

jumped out of bed and paced, looking at his guilty face in the mirror every time he passed the bureau where only a few of his clothes had made it into drawers. His own image taunted him, scolded

him. With every peek at his reflection, the mirror spoke to him:
You crossed the line. You made decisions out of spite, not for the good
of the work. You suck as a friend. Maybe the Pooleys have been right
all along; maybe you’re impossible to deal with; maybe you’re a horrible director. Maybe your wife thinks you have a small dick. And you
still suck as a friend!

J.T. stopped pacing and stared at his own haggard face.
I really
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B e n s o n

3 1 9

need some sleep,
he thought. He picked up the phone and dialed quickly.

“Hello, Ash?”

J.T. heard the sound of the receiver hitting the floor, and an-

other voice that was very familiar to him: “You want me to turn on the light?”

“Sure. Thanks, Kevin,” J.T. heard Ash say. “Hello? J.T.?”

“Ash . . . um, I just wanted to say—I know it’s late, I shouldn’t be calling—is that Kevin? ‘Incoming’ Kevin?”

After a beat Ash whispered, “You said a mouthful.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“J.T., are you all right?”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you—
we
—were all right, actually.” There was an awkward beat.

“I love you, J.T. You know that. I only said the things I did because I wanted to protect you. I mean, shit, man—ow, Kevin—um,

where was I—oh! I thought I had to give you a reality check. I

didn’t want to see you get . . . hurt. Maybe I was too—”

“You were right. It’s cool,” J.T. mumbled. “You’re with
Kevin
?”

“Hey, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“No, I mean, I think Kevin’s good for you. He’s . . . really

cool.”

Ash tried to whisper as softly as he could into the phone, “If

this works out, then this week wasn’t a disaster after all.”

“Yeah. Cool. I’m sayin’ ‘cool’ a lot. I must be really tired. Um, well, I just wanted to . . . I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for—”

“Love means never having to say you’re whorey
. You’re my best friend. No harm, no foul. Now, get some sleep.”

“Yeah. Cool. There I go again. Um, you two—I mean, you, too.

’Night.”

J.T. hung up and flopped back into bed.
What if Kevin has a
3 2 0

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

Vietnam flashback while they’re having sex?
J.T. thought.
Maybe it’ll
be fun. Maybe Kevin’ll think Ash’s a Vietcong enemy! Maybe I should
call Ash back and warn him not to hide under the covers! Maybe I
should go to sleep . . .

Staring at the ceiling again, J.T. knew his next move. Even

though he couldn’t trust Dick Beaglebum, he had to go to that

blasted bar mitzvah and deal with this, firsthand, first thing tomorrow.

J.T. turned off the light but never fell asleep. Instead he made an extensive shot list in his head and cut the show from memory.

Then he got up and put all of his ideas down and e-mailed them

to the editor of the show, asking him to send a copy to himself at his home address, and one copy each to Debbie, Lance, and the

network president.

Saturday

the bar mitzvah at the staples center

“Got two! I’ve got two. Who needs tickets?!” a scalper yelled out to the masses who were pouring into the Staples Center.

“You’re scalping tickets to a bar mitzvah?” J.T. asked the

scalper.

“You wanna T-shirt? I got
Take Me to a Bar . . . Mitzvah
, I got
David Gets Regal-Beagled,
I got
Take One in the Kishka, Go to Dave’s
Bar Mitzvah!
I got
Bring on the Shiksas, It’s David’s Bar Mitzvah!
I got
I’m No Bum, I’m a Beaglebum—
”

“I said,” J.T. repeated, “you’re scalping tickets to a bar mitzvah?!”

“Hey, buddy, have you seen the Lakers this year? This bar

mitzvah alone is worth a year’s worth of scalping Lakers tickets.

I’m making a friggin’ fortune here. If you don’t like it, go tell it to the mountain and get off my case. By the way, I’ve got a T-shirt here that says
Go Tell It to the Mountain and Get Off my Case. I’m
at Dave’s Bar Mitzvah, so Get Out o’ My Face.
It’s got Phat Azz’s punim on it. Have you ever seen such a face? Really! Look at that punim! I feel for his mother. So—ya want this schmatta?”

J.T. took the ticket from his pocket and made his way through

the masses to the proper entrance into the Staples Center. He-

brew Nationals were selling like . . . latkes. And latkes were selling 3 2 2

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

like . . . well, potato pancakes. J.T. found his section and finally his seat. All the executives and Beaglebum’s
friends
and
Urban Buddies
were down on the floor. J.T. had nosebleed seats. J.T. looked at the empty seat beside him and wondered if Ash would show up. Then

he remembered that sometime in the chaos of the last couple of

days he’d made Ash swear that he wouldn’t go to Dick’s event.

Now, J.T. was there and all he could think about was what Ash was missing.
Then again
, J.T. thought,
I don’
t
want my best friend to be
anti-Semitic. Maybe it’s good that Ash didn’t come, after all
.

The lights dimmed and a lot of the kids in the upper mez-

zanine were twirling their laser fiber-optic Yads that were meant to simulate the Yad that David would later use to read from the Torah.

“Tefillin! Get your frozen tefillin here!” a Hispanic guy yelled, selling a chocolate and vanilla frozen confection (nondairy) that fit into a little plastic tefillin holder, complete with straps so the kids wouldn’t drop their desserts and make a mess.

“Lllllladies and gentlemen!”
a loud voice boomed over the Staples speaker system, sounded exactly like the boxing guy who says

“
Let’s get ready to rrrrrumble!
”

J.T. listened hard.

“Let’s get ready to be hhhhhumbled!
”

It
was
the guy.

The light show was absolutely startling and impressive . . . for a Celine Dion-in-Vegas-style show.

“Will you please rise as tonight’s special guest performer, Phat Azz, raps ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ with the help of the new sensational recording artists,
Munch My Manhood
!”

Phat Azz and his posse came out, followed by MMM. The group

was greeted by thousands of screaming white Jewish boys and girls who yelled out, “Munch it like it’s rot!” almost in unison—a secret pop-culture code J.T. had been entirely unaware of.

Phat Azz did rap “The Star-Spangled Banner.” J.T. looked

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3 2 3

around to see if he was the only one who felt dirty . . . or like he was in a John Waters movie. But everyone was having a blast and gettin’ jiggy with it.

“For those of you over forty, we have a special treat,” the loud voice boomed out over the PA system. “You can go into the home-team locker room for a mystical
Kabbalah for a Dollah
! You could win a car by interpreting the Zohar!”

Then the arena began to rumble with a thunderous, bottom-

heavy, equalized bass and drums.

“Lllllladies and gentlemen—the Lllllllaker Girls!”

The Laker Girls came dancing out onto the floor of the arena

wearing very risqué blue and white see-through outfits that were designed to look like the flag of Israel. They danced to a deafen-ing klesmoric beat. Then came more Laker Girls dressed as Ha-