Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (47 page)

Here they were in their own paradise, yet that phone call lin-

gered. Beaglebum’s words—
I win. You lose
—kept J.T. from taking a step back and realizing he wasn’t on a snow set in Burbank with a fake family. He was still toxic. He knew he’d be that way until the money came. If the money came.

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3 3 9

While J.T. was in L.A., Jeremy had bonded with the new calf.

He’d named her Fugeddaboudit
.
(When it came to farming, Jeremy had inherited his father’s city genes.) Fugeddaboudit

wouldn’t take milk from her mother, so Tasha had to go out in every kind of weather to milk

Lola so her udders wouldn’t

The Hollywood Dictionary

get infected. Natasha would

refrigerate the excess milk

GRANT ME ONE WISH:
An old

and Jeremy would take a

Hollywood joke with many varia-

giant baby bottle and feed

tions. The variation J.T. would

tell goes something like this:

little Fug. They became fast

A genie comes out of a bottle.

friends. So much so that lit-

A TV director looks at the genie

tle Fug would go on walks

and asks, “Can you grant me a

with Jeremy, as if she were

wish?”

a pet dog.

The genie says, “Only one,

Every single day, three

because I’m a real genie and you

times a day, J.T. turned up

Hollywood types have ruined

his collar and headed out to

everything telling the world that

the mailbox, hoping, praying

I can grant three wishes. Only

one!”

that the check Ron Copper

“Okay, my one wish is that

had promised him (all three

there be peace in the Middle

episodes of his pay-or-play

East. Here’s a map.”

deal) would be in there. The

“Forget it,” the genie, says.

irony of being so far away

“I’ve been trying to grant that

physically yet so close to the

wish for over five thousand

business wasn’t lost on J.T.

years. Gimme something I can

as his boots crunched and

handle.”

compressed the wet snow.

“Well,” asked the TV director,

“how about a funny sitcom?”

One time,
he thought on ev-

The genie looked at the direc-

ery trip,
one time, couldn’t

tor and then said, “Gimme back

the showbiz gods look down

the map.”

upon me and grant me this

one wish?

3 4 0

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

Jeremy’s doctors were becoming more and more certain about

how soon Jeremy would need a kidney transplant.
Please,
he begged—to whom, he didn’t know or care—
please let there be a
check in there for all three episodes.

On the second of what would turn out to be four snow days

in a row, J.T. trudged out to the mailbox once again, past the barn where Jeremy was feeding Fugeddaboudit. This time there was a

stiff white postcard with maroon lettering sitting on top of the junk mail. It was addressed to T.J. Berker. J.T. turned it over. His cold lips didn’t work that well when he was reading the postcard out loud to himself: “‘It is our pleasure to inform you that your household has been chosen to be a Nielsen Family for a one-week survey!’ You’ve got to be shittin’ me
.
”

“What?” Tasha yelled back. She was in the barn with Jeremy,

holding Fug’s head while he fed the calf.

“We’re a Nielsen Family,” J.T. called out, looking at his
new
name
on the postcard.

“What?” Jeremy hollered. “We can’t hear you, Dad!”

“J.T.? Are you okay?” Tasha tried to ask.

“We’re a Nielsen—oh, never mind.”

Underneath the junk mail and a small stack of bills was an

envelope—an envelope from the
I Love My Urban Buddies
production office.

J.T. began to sweat, even in the twenty-degree cold, with “winds whipping out of the west with velocities of up to sixty miles an hour,” according to the weather report that morning. J.T. took the check in his bare, chapped hands. Before he opened it, he looked toward the warm barn where Jeremy and Natasha were caring for

the beasts. He turned his back to them and sheltered himself from the wind and from the world. He opened the envelope.

It was . . . there. It was
all
there! All three weeks’ worth. A miracle. “Thank you!” he yelled. Ron Copper had come through. J.T.

had never, ever, been on the good side of an ugly equation.
What
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luck. What a gift.
Tears froze on his cheeks. He knew what he had to do next. Immediately. Without waiting a beat.

“Who wants to go to Pappy’s?!!” J.T. yelled, trying to raise his voice above the decibels of the wind laughing through the trees.

A blizzard was threatening, but they drove to Pappy’s, Jeremy’s favorite barbecue joint. He couldn’t eat much on the menu, but he loved it there.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Hey, Jeremy?”

“Are we going to Pappy’s ’cause it’s next to the Bank of Ameri -

ca?”

“Will you be my business partner, Jeremy? Because the answer

is, yup!”

“That’s really cool,” Jeremy said.

The Bakers made a quick stop at the Bank of America, where

J.T. had friends in high places who cleared the check on the spot.

Then they went to Pappy’s and celebrated. All was good in the

world. No matter what the cost of hell was at the time, J.T. knew it was a pittance compared to the reward.

Full and content, the Bakers made it back from Pappy’s just be-

fore the storm worsened. J.T. had just started a fire when the phone rang. Against all of his natural instincts, he actually answered it.

“Y’hello?” J.T. said.

“J.T. Baker?” a nasty, familiar, dispassionate voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Hold for Dick Beaglebum.”

Dick Beaglebum calling,
J.T. thought, and pulled the bank de -

posit from his pocket and stared at it.
This isn’t a prop, is it?

“You fucking bastard!” Dick said, still managing enthusiasm.

J.T. mentally counted the weeks since he’d left L.A. Three. The fucker hadn’t been joking.

3 4 2

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

“Hey, you fuck snitch bastard,” Beaglebum laughed. “I just saw

the weather report and it looks like you’re freezin’ your titties off in Deliveranceland. Got enough money to pay the oil bill?”

“We use propane, Dick,” J.T. heard himself say.
Why is this
guy calling me? He must have better things to do. There’s always an
agenda with Beaglebum
.

“Just saw the blizzard conditions on CNN as I was enjoying

the sun here, and speaking of sons—how’s yours?”

“Why are you doing this, Dick?”

“Fun. Just for fun,” Beaglebum said. “I wasn’t having enough

of it today, so I thought I’d call J.T. Snitcharooni-to-the DGA-palooza and have some good ol’-fashioned funny-fun-fun. I have

it on my fucking calendar to call you every three weeks and see how many times you’ve gone to your country fart-house mailbox and found no checkaroonies from the Buddy-palookas!” he

snorted. “Guess they lost your check again! Could it be?! Ha! I’m lovin’ this! You’ll never get your money. Never. Do you hear me?

You will never get your fucking money!”

J.T. suddenly was awash with calm. He couldn’t believe it. He

had beaten Dick Beaglebum to the punch. How great was it that

the Hollyweirdos were posturing, yet the little guys were doing their work and cutting J.T.’s check on time!

“Wow, Dick, you’re killing me.” J.T. tried not to betray his grin with his voice. “I mean, ouch.” Then, staring at the deposit slip, he faltered, starting to doubt the system.
Could a deposit slip not really
be a deposit slip? Is there a dual universe where at this precise moment in time I’m not actually getting paid?
he thought.

“Nope. Only one universe, and you ain’t EVER getting paid if

I have anything to do with it, you fuck!” And with that, Beaglebum ended the conversation. No matter how far technology has come,

the insult of a sudden dial tone has yet to be improved upon.

There was a bucolic, ever-changing masterpiece right outside

his living room window; his loving wife was typing a letter to the R o b b y

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3 4 3

editor of the local paper (something about the pesticides used on all of the Christmas tree farms in the area and the runoff into the streams that fed the well waters); and his sick little boy was feeling well for the moment and working the fire in the fireplace. But J.T.’s head was right back in the cave.
Fuck,
he thought.

For about a minute, J.T. was too stunned to do anything. Should he make sure the check cleared again? Nah, he had his money. The check
had
cleared. Was it a dream? Was it a dream sequence? How could the check clear and Beaglebum not even know he’d been

paid in full? How could J.T. suddenly feel so filthy again? Finally, common sense told him to go to his address book and look up the number for the Directors Guild of America and call Ron Copper,

the man who despised and vowed to go after Dick Beaglebum and

his illicit ways. After hearing Dick’s joyful, four-lettered rant, J.T.

felt a moral obligation to call and thank Ron Copper for coming through for his
family
.

When he went to dial the number, J.T. suddenly felt numb.

Flashbacks. All the old symptoms were returning in full force
.

Why?
he thought. The more he thought, the more he began to tremble. He forced himself to dial.

“Directors Guild of America. How can I
direct
your call?” The young receptionist chortled at his own play on words.

“Yes . . . Please . . . I’m trying to reach Ron Copper. Ron C-

O-P-P-E-R,” J.T. spelled it out, thinking nothing should be left to chance any longer.

J.T. was put on hold only for a moment before the obnoxious

voice returned. “I’m sorry. Ron C-O-P-P-E-R does not work here

anymore. ”

Only in Los Angeles would someone make fun of someone else so
quickly and brazenly,
J.T. thought. “Yeah?” he said, trying to control his temper. “He doesn’t work there?”

“Oh, I see we have a clear connection!” the young man

sneered.

3 4 4

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

Am I talking to Lily Tomlin?
“Can you tell me if he left a forwarding number? A referral number? A way to get in touch with

him?”

Tasha looked up from her typing. Her intention had been to

let this moment of fear and paranoia pass because she knew the

check had cleared. But from the tone of J.T.’s voice, she could tell the check no longer mattered. She got up and went to stand by

his side.

“Yes, a referral number, please,” J.T. asked again.

“A referral number
is
a way to get in touch with him. You are being redundant.”

“Why do I have the feeling that if I were standing directly in

front of you, you wouldn’t be such an asshole?” J.T. had to say. He
had
to.
What is
wrong
with these people?

“Why don’t you try it?” Mr. Obnoxious responded.

“I’m calling from a cell phone and I am just outside the build-

ing. Unless you give me Ron Copper’s new number, I will come

into the building, find you, and make it impossible for you to ever physically answer a phone again.”

“Jeez,” the voice changed, “no need to get all huffy. Ron Cop-

per’s new number is 818–555–0148. Happy?”

“No,” J.T. said, “I’m coming in after you anyway, you little shit,”

and hung up the phone.
Maybe, just maybe, that little arrogant ass
will be nice to the next caller
.

“Good one, Dad,” Jeremy said.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that . . .” J.T. mumbled.

“I’m
in the room,
Dad.”

Natasha patted J.T.’s arm. “I’m here, sweetheart. Do your thing.

But I’m here.”

“No. No, I’m okay. We’re okay, I mean. Let me just find out

some information . . . I can do this. Don’t worry, Tasha.”

“Worry? Me worry?”

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J.T. stared at the number as he was dialing it. He wondered why it looked so damn familiar to him. “Hello?” he said as soon as he heard someone pick up at the other end.

“I Love My Urban Buddies
production office,” a female Thing answered.

J.T. found himself sitting down. On the floor. He knew he had

been standing but didn’t know how he actually ended up on the

floor.

“Hello? Hello?” Thing Umpteen was about to hang up.

“ . . . Yes . . . I’d like to speak with Ron Copper, please,” J.T. almost whispered.

“Ron Copper. Who should I say is calling?” Thing Umpteen

asked.

“Um, tell him it’s . . . Tell him it’s
Dick Beaglebum
. Dick Beaglebum is calling.”

The next thing J.T. heard was the theme song to
I Love My Urban Buddies
playing as hold music.

“Yeah, hello—?! Hello? Whattya want now, Dick, you chazzer?”

“Ron? Ron Copper, formerly a member in good standing with

the Directors Guild of America?”

“Who the fuck is this? This isn’t—? Beaglebum, this isn’t you,

is it?”

“Ron . . . This is J.T. Baker.”

Silence. Actually, J.T. could hear Marcus Pooley screaming at

some poor Schmuck-Thing in the background. Finally J.T. heard

Ron clear his throat.

“J.T., bubbalah. I saw your director’s cut. Everyone who’s seen it has loved it. The next two episodes were all crap; a pure schlock-fest. The Pooleys are pissed. They’re so angry that your episode looks great that they’re actually trying to recut it to make it look like shit! But Lance, Deb, and the president of the network have already seen your cut. And they love it. They know you’re the real 3 4 6