Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (48 page)

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

thing. Can you imagine sabotaging your own show just for spite?

But, zug gornisht, the network’s going with your cut. You did a helluva job for us,” Ron said.

“Us?
You saw my cut? I did a helluva job for . . .
us
? Does that mean . . .
you,
Ron?”

“Look, J.T., I got this offer to quit my honorable but pays-like-shit job at the DGA and I was offered an executive producer credit and some major action on
I Love My Urban Buddies
. Come on.

What happened to you was a shondah. But J.T., how ’bout a little rachmonis for your ol’ pal. Really. How could I turn that down?”

Ron Copper protested, a little too much. “Listen, my friend, you may have made a decision not to work out here, but don’t gimme

tsooris. I actually like the process and think I can do some good work.”

“Oh,” was all J.T. could say.

“Hang on, J.T.,” Ron said. J.T. could hear him close his door.

“Did you get your check?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes. Yes, I did, Ron. I was calling the guild to thank you.”

“Hey, man, you don’t need to thank me. You earned it. I’ve

heard everything that hap-

pened here; the entire spiel,

The Hollywood Dictionary

and man, I’m amazed you

didn’t go postal and run

I DON’T SPEAK YIDDISH:
I’m a

around like wild animals

bad Jew.

“OH . . .”:

at feeding time. I’m gon-

“Are you friends with

Mel Gibson?”

na make sure that doesn’t

happen here ever again.”

Ron sounded like an excited teen on his first job. “
Biz hundert un
Bvantsik
!”

“Um, Ron? I don’t speak Yiddish.”

“Oh . . .”

“Listen, you’ve gotta cash that check. I mean pronto, man,”

Ron said in a hush.

R o b b y

B e n s o n

3 4 7

“I did.”

“That’s my J.T.! See? You kick ass, my friend. And I wasn’t kidding. Your director’s cut looks far better than anyone could’ve dreamed for that god-awful week. Good going.”

“Thanks.”

“I gotta run. I hear screaming down the hall. Talk at ya soon,

my friend.”

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. Thank you so damn much.”

“Hey, man, it was my pleasure. As we say in Yiddish, ‘You give

me such nachas, knowing you and what you accomplished, I can

only kvell like a peacock.’ Even if you don’t understand it, you get my drift. Now—go give your boy a hug for me.”

And with that, Ron went toward the lunacy and J.T. went to-

ward the sanity.

“Hey, Jeremy. Come here. Daddy needs to hug you.”

Jeremy came over to J.T. and sat in his lap. J.T. hugged his

son and the two stared out into the blizzard. J.T. tried to savor it, knowing Jeremy would soon become too self-conscious to cuddle

with his dad. He tried even harder not to think,
If he lives that long.

Which made him try not to think about the fact that he didn’t

know where next year’s insurance would come from after this

hard-won year’s worth ran out.

Natasha came over to be with her men. “J.T., are you okay?”

“You know what, honey? I don’t think I have ever been better.”

He and Natasha kissed deeply, passionately—

“Um, Mom? Dad? Child present. Kid here.” The little family

looked out the window at the astounding power of the storm.

The phone rang. They let it ring. The answering machine fi-

nally picked up. “You’ve reached us. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks for calling.
Beep
.”

“Um . . . J.T.? J.T., pick up if you’re there. It’s me. Dick. Dick 3 4 8

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

Beaglebum. Dicky-baby. Your agent. J.T., listen, I was out of line before. I was . . . stoned. On this new painkiller patch that I smoked instead of sticking it to my arm. It made me do and say some stupid things. I called you, didn’t I? About five minutes ago? I can’t remember. See? I was fucked up. Whatever I said, it was the drug talking. It wasn’t me. Hey, come on. Pick up. I’m really sorry. Really. Sorry. And to show you how sorry I am, I’m going to make it up to you
big-time
! I’d talk to Oprah if she’d listen. I’d go to Betty Ford if they’d take me. Don’t make me beg, big guy. You know I

love you!”

Beep.

Ring.

J.T. lifted his left leg and jabbed his right fist into the air with a hockey-like victory dance.

“Dad . . . ? Should I get it?”

Natasha stared at the phone and then shifted her look toward

J.T. He responded with a gentle kiss.

“Who feels like some popcorn?” Natasha asked.

“I wonder what it’s like to really feel like some popcorn,” Jeremy commented.

“One day I’ll tell you,” J.T. said.

“J.T.- goin’-to-Carolina-in-my-mind,
the president of the network saw your cut and was so impressed with your work that he

wants you back for six more episodes! He’s actually demanding

that you come back. Can you believe it? Not only that but the show tested through the roof! Highest numbers since the pilot! You!

J.-Tee-Time-Eight-A.-M.! You did that, my main man, J.-T.-for-

Two! And here’s the kicker! I can get you ten grand more! Okay, twenty. See? No hard feelings on this end. I’ll let you have fun at my expense? Have fun, call me names every three weeks. You can

put it on your calendar: Make Fun of Beaglebum Day. It can be a showbiz holiday. So whattya say? J.T.? Pick up. Come on. Please.

I know you’re there. What am I gonna tell these guys? This is the R o b b y

B e n s o n

3 4 9

president of the fucking network for crap’s sakes. He likes your episode better than the pilot episode! Remember the dead guy? You did better than him, too. The pilot director, the dead guy, wow, J.T.—you’re
the man
! Come on, J.T., pick up the phone! What do I have to do, beg? I won’t beg. All right, I’ll beg. I’m begging you!

Okay, twenty-five grand more. J.T., the Pooleys are sending you an
apology basket
of lemon muffins from Mrs. Field’s Bakery—shit, I mean Mrs. Beasley’s! Beasley’s Bakery. And they know you love chocolate. They’re sending Godiva! J.T., do you realize what shit we’re all in if—J.T., the Pooleys are very sorry. Everyone’s going to conference-call you in a minute to say—”

J.T. stared at the phone the way a recovering addict eyes her-

oin.

“Should I get it, Dad?” Jeremy asked again.

“Dad . . . ?”

Acknowledgments

The phrase “I would like to acknowledge” trivializes the love, life-dedication, and guidance of those who allowed me to learn from

their expertise and tireless compassion, and took me safely under their wings. I’d like to start at the beginning: Jerry Segal, Ann Benson Segal, my father and mother, continue to love, teach, and find creative ways to always be there for me and for my family. My father also taught me
The Funny
at a very early age, and it seemed my job in life to try to make my sister, Shelli Segal, laugh. A laugh from Shelli, and I had purpose in life. Dad, Mom, Shelli, I love you so dearly.

I’d also “like to acknowledge” Wendalyn Nichols who has the

gift of being able to jump cranial hemispheres better than anyone I’ve ever met; her vast knowledge of language, style, and expression inspired, guided, and challenged me throughout the writing process. Thank you so very much, Wendi.

I’d also like to thank Manie Barron, my literary agent and my

friend. (Agent and friend: that’s a combination that I’ve found rare in my decades of work in the arts.)

I must thank Maureen O’Brien from HarperCollins who be-

came an instant friend and whose years in all territories of the arts give her a kind and caring savvy that nurtured the book—but more importantly, me and Karla. The publishing world is new

3 5 1 A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

terrain for me, and Maureen has gently, lovingly walked me past the land mines to a place where I feel safe and creative—and just maybe, someone will actually read my work. I also know that

this book would be just another unrealized text on my shelf if it weren’t for Carrie Kania’s gamble on a new novelist. I must also thank Stephanie Fraser at HarperCollins who has become an in-defatigable supporter and a good friend, and Jill Schwartzman, to whom I owe much gratitude for helping me rein in my desire to

cram everything I wanted to say into my first novel.

My heartfelt appreciation goes out to my students and the fac-

ulty and staff at the Maurice Kanbar Institute for Film and Television at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, especially the Chair of Film and Television, Lamar Sanders, and Dean Mary

Schmidt Campbell. The patience and encouragement of my col-

leagues has been invaluable.

This book could not have been written without the inspira-

tion, year after year, film after film, show after show, of the dedicated men and women on my film crews. They are my true heroes.

Their artistic accomplishments are rarely noted; usually they are just referred to as a grip, a prop person, a script supervisor, a camera operator, etc. These are the people behind the scenes

who never give up on
The Funny.
Most notable among them are Ray DeVally, my teacher, my friend and a helluva cowboy;

Tom Doak and Pat Fisher, who are both brilliant at their jobs and true friends, but are completely underappreciated by the people who make the “big bucks”; and very specially, a director of photography Nick McLean, Sr., who has seen success and suffered tremendous tragedy, yet always made sure he was
there
for his crews, his friends.

A special thank-you goes to Burt Reynolds. Burt and I go back

decades as actors together; and it was Burt who allowed me to

direct him in a small film I wrote called
Modern Love
and then had the faith and the guts to hire me to direct episodes of
Evening
A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

3 5 2

Shade
, which had an all-star cast. If it weren’t for Burt Reynolds, I believe I would not have become a prominent director in television. Burt sticks by his friends. One can look to so many careers and find that they began with the generosity of Mr. Reynolds,

whom I’m lucky to have as my friend.

Steven Arcieri, my friend and voiceover agent (another friend

and agent—the math is deceiving!) for allowing me to have an

income while writing this text. Jeffrey Katzenberg, Rick Nicita, Mark Sendroff, Matt Williams and Angelina Fiordellisi, accomplished artists in their own professional cosmos who obliterate all stereotypes by doing the unthinkable: they always make time to take my calls and read my work. They have given me the unquantifiable: hope; as have Cliff Bemis, Stan Brown, Sam Ellis, Valerie Silver-Ellis, Sandy Benson, Aunt Mar, Winston and Carleen Simone, the

Steinbaums, the Elimelichs, the Eppleys, the Millers, the Borkow-skis, the Stories, Billie, and Chet, all friends for life.

Finally, my wife and children . . . Lyric and Zephyr, for con-

stantly astonishing me with their goodness and many times re-

minding me to take the true path to right and beware the alleyway to wrong, no matter how tempting. My children teach me. And

from a minor standpoint, also for understanding that when Dad is staring out the window, he’s not daydreaming: he’s working. And Karla, my best friend, partner and goddess: she has devoted 25

years to our family. She is, quite simply,
pure.
She is not my muse, she is my everything. I’d rather not wax pathetic; I don’t have the language skills to explain such love, such selfless spirit. Maybe one day . . . She merits the acrobatic word-play of a truly gifted writer.

I’ll just keep it honest: I love you, Karla.

About the Author

ROBBY BENSON, actor, writer, composer, and award-winning

star of stage, screen, and television has also spent years behind the camera as the director of more than one hundred episodes of such hit sitcoms as
Friends
and
Ellen
, in addition to being a highly esteemed professor of film studies at New York University. He

lives in both the Blue Ridge Mountains and New York City with

his wife, singer Karla DeVito, and their two children.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your

favorite HarperCollins author

Credits

Designed by Nicola Ferguson

Cover design by Robin Bilardello

Cover photograph by Getty/Plastock

Copyright

WHO STOLE THE FUNNY? Copyright © 2007 by Robby Benson. All

rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been

granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse

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Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader July 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-147957-1

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