Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (16 page)

And they danced like two of the Four Tops, trying to forget

what they were up against, as they entered the bizarre world of casting.

Casting

As Ash and J.T. danced down the hallway toward Casting, J.T.’s cell phone rang. J.T. was certain that it was Natasha calling from the farm back East,
reaching out
to him. And he would be proud to say,

“I haven’t knocked anyone out yet, doll-face. Came close, though.

Jeremy
.”

Asher answered the phone, and after a few words handed the

phone to J.T.
Beaglebum. For you
, he mouthed.

J.T. accepted the phone with resignation. “Hello?”

“Hey, J.T.-
orama
. The J-T-ball man! How goes it?!” Dick asked, enthusiastically.

“I already have a nickname, Dick. It’s
J.T
. Just J.T.” Getting a phone call from his agent moments after leaving the writers’ room was not good. Predictable, but not good.

“J.T., don’t be so serious! Have fun! Here’s a good joke: What-

taya call someone who is just a little bit dyslexic?”

“I dunno, Dick. Syd Lexic?”

“Funny—you’re funny. Kirk! That’s who.”

“Really. And how would you know this information, Dick?”

“Hey—I got eyes an’ ears everywhere, and J.T.? There’s no

room for all of your self-righteousness in the eye-ear-nose-and-throat of E.N.T.V.,” Dick said . . . compassionately. “Haven’t you learned that yet?”

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

“Yeah. It’s a pandemic and I just haven’t been infected yet.”

“There ain’t no antibody for what’s comin’ atchya, J.T.”

“Oh, I’ve seen lots of anti-bodies,” J.T. managed to say. “Let’s skip the checkup and go straight to my diagnosis: you’re my agent.

You are the Pooleys’ agent. So lemme guess what this phone call is about,” J.T. said.

“Look, word’s out that you already
care too much
. You’re
shot-happy
. You’re going overboard on the technical stuff, but what everyone wants is your expertise with actors,” Dick explained, enthusiastically.

“Is that it?”

“Uh, no. They also are complaining that you are trying to
elevate the quality of their show
.”

“Did I hear you correctly, Dr. Beaglebum? Say that last part

again, because maybe it’s not an E.N.T. I need, it’s more like a—”

J.T.’s bewilderment was cut off.

“I said, people are complaining that you are trying to
elevate
the quality of their show,
” Dick repeated.

“And?” J.T. waited. “And that’s a
bad thing
?”

“J.T., you’re really causing problems. I can’t fix
these
kinds of problems for you,” Dick explained.

“I didn’t rehearse today, Dick. The actors were let go before I could even say hello to them on the stage. As for
shot-happy
and
caring too much about the technical stuff,
I don’t even have access to camera and won’t until Wednesday or Thursday, depending on

what the Pooleys—your
clients
—will allow me to block or what they will allow me to preshoot. And as far as my expertise with actors, I nursed a twenty-one-year-old actor out of a sobbing seizure because your other clients had abused him. And as far as being accused of elevating the quality of the show, all I can say is . . .
Thank
you,
” J.T. finished, a little too quietly.

“Now, now, now, I’m sure everyone’s overreacting. Even the

kid. He’s an actor, for chrissake. He’s paid to overreact. But lis-R o b b y

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ten, J.T.—this is very important. Very. I can’t get in the middle of things because I represent both you and the Pooleys. But I have to tell you something off the

record—?”

“Hit me,” J.T. said.

The Hollywood Dictionary

“If you don’t start behav-

OFF THE RECORD:
Recorded by

ing on this show, the Pooleys

every possible means.

are prepared to make sure

you never work again—and

we both know what that

means. Especially with your son on chemo and you needing the

insurance and all,” Dick pointed out.

“My son is on dialysis. And are you threatening me on their be-

half? I just need to know where you stand, considering that you’re my
friend
and you can’t get
involved,
” J.T. said.

“Well, theoretically, since it’s a conflict of interests, I gotta watch
their
backs, too. I mean, you’re just directing three episodes but they’re the showrunners on a sitcom that could run for years and years. You catch my drift?”

“I’m catchin’ somethin’. Your drift’s startin’ to smell like

bullshit.”

“Hold on now, J.T., I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to help me by explaining that elevating the quality of a show is the wrong thing to do? You’re speaking a language I don’t understand, Dick.”

“Well, tell me if you understand this:
They hate you
. I don’t want to see your career ruined just one day back on the job.”

J.T. couldn’t think, let alone think of something else to say. He just slumped down the wall and sat in the middle of the corridor on the way to Casting. Asher eased down and sat next to J.T. They looked at each other.

“Oh, and one last minor thing,” Dick continued.

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Um, they’ve hired someone to

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

whack me and you get ten percent of the hit man’s money, too,”

J.T. said.

“Funny. Very funny. No. That’s not it,” Dick said, as if it could possibly be
it.
“Here’s the deal, J.T. The show is not titled
I Love J.T.

Baker;
it’s called
I Love My Urban Buddies.
If you defend yourself against the Pooleys by going to your union, you will be in a war of attrition with lawyer’s fees that’ll eat up your kid’s hospital fund.

You hear me, J.T.? No union. Do not involve the Directors Guild, Screen Actors Guild, or any guild that you think you can go to. If you do, you’re toast.”

“Toast. My boy. Union. Defend myself, all
baaaaad
. Gotcha.

Thanks. Since you’re my
dear friend,
I’ll make sure never to forget this confidential little chat—by the way, you don’t mind the fact that I’ve been tape-recording this conversation, do you, dear friend?”

“What!?”

J.T. flipped the cell phone shut and handed it back to Ash.

“Anything I should know, J.T.?” Ash asked.

“Use your imagination.”

They got up and walked down the hall to Casting.

As they entered the casting area, which consisted of a series

of seats where actors sit and wait nervously to be called into
the
room,
J.T. and Ash saw that all the seats were occupied by gorgeous model-type dyed blondes with major cleavage.
Interesting,
they both thought.

A Pooley.

The two men made their way to the casting office, knocked

once just to be polite, then opened the door. There, in the middle of the room, stood a beautiful young actor taking off her bra in front of Marcus Pooley and a mortified casting assistant named

Teri.

“What the fuck are you two doing in here? This is Casting!”

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Marcus Pooley yelled like a kid caught in the woodshed making

naughty with his cousin’s fipple flute. Oh, and his cousin, too.

“Let me see. Casting. Well, I had to educate your wife, so I may as well educate you. According to the Directors Guild of America bylaws, the director is supposed to be a part of the casting sessions,” J.T. said.

“DGA bylaws? What? Are you going official on me? This is a

casting session for
my
show! Not
your
show!”

“Look, Marcus, Mr. Pooley, I’m not here to be your adversary.

I’m not here to take your show away from you. I’m not here to do anything but
help,
” J.T. tried to explain.

“You director types. What makes you think I need your help?”

Need his help,
Marcus thought.
He could help by going back to Fuck-me-in-the-bum or wherever it was Dick said he was from. Yeah. That
would help. Maybe I’ll tell him that. No. Maybe I should have Stephanie tell him that.

“Marcus—I don’t want to get into a war of words with you. It’s

only Monday, and for some reason we’ve gotten off to a bad start.

Let’s try and begin anew. What do you say?”
My God. It’s still only
Monday?

“I’ll think about it,” Marcus said.

“So while you’re thinking about it, may I ask why this young actor is taking off her bra?” J.T. inquired, handing the young bombshell (also definition 1) her blouse as he waited for an answer.

Marcus rolled his eyes, exasperated. “If we’re going to have the best ever
Christmas,
I’m going to need the best ever
Santa’s helpers,
you retard. Jesus Christ. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, to me, keeping in mind that I’m a
retard,
it seems like you’re looking for the best ever Christmas
present—
not to be confused with past or future. Now, where in the script, at any point or on any page, is there an indication that we need a sex-crazed Santa? And if there is, where are the big fat Santa
men
waiting to audition?” J.T. asked.

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

“I’m the writer, and if I suddenly say I need a Santa’s helper, I’ve got to go through
the process
of finding a Santa’s helper! Oh—I forgot,” Marcus sneered, “Chanukah doesn’t
have
a fucking Santa!”

“I was under the impression that this was not a cable produc-

tion.
I Love My Urban Buddies
is an eight o’clock show on a major network,” J.T. said, trying not to rise to the bait.

“Wowy! You’re so informed.”

“So, considering that fact, and respecting your job as the writer and showrunner, why would you have a young lady take off her

bra? I can’t shoot her naked. And you can’t broadcast a show with her naked.”

“Well,” Marcus Pooley said with a superior air, “here’s where

you don’t know shit about running a show. I dress Santa’s help-

er in something skintight. Then, on shoot night, I turn the air-conditioning up as high as we can and she gets cold and her nipples stick out and bingo—November sweeps! We get big ratings! Numbers! It’s a numbers game, man!” Marcus sat back, triumphant.

“But even if that were the case, it’s very warm in this of-

fice. Were you planning on blowing cold air on this young lady’s breasts? Maybe massaging her nipples with an ice cube?”

“You are clueless, aren’t you? I need to know that she isn’t
deformed,
” Marcus Pooley said, defending his reasoning with a continuous shaking of his head.

“Deformed?” J.T. asked.

“Yeah! Like . . . three nipples or cancer or something,” Marcus explained.

J.T. looked at Teri, the casting assistant. Her eyes went straight to the floor. J.T. turned around and locked eyes with Ash. They exchanged a look that said,
Do you believe this?

J.T. turned to the very embarrassed topless woman. “Excuse

me, miss,” he asked, looking only in her eyes, never below her chin,

“are you deformed? Do you have three nipples? Forgive me for

asking you this.”

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“No, I have two nipples, see?” the actress said proudly.

“There you go, Mr. Pooley, sir. The actor isn’t deformed and

has two bona fide nipples,” J.T. stated with his hands on his hips.

“Anything else you want to ask this young lady that could possibly indict you in a sexual harassment suit?”

“Don’t go all lawyer on me, mister. And don’t tell me you

believe
her?! She’s a fuckin’ actress, for shit’s sake!” Marcus Pooley said. “She could’ve had surgery, and just for your information, I’ve seen women with three nipples! I’ve seen women

who were men! How do I know that she is not a man? Huh? Tell

me that!”

“Are you a man, miss?” J.T. asked the actor.

“Oh no! I’m a woman. I can prove it,” she said as she began to

pull up her skirt.

“Yes!” “No!” Marcus and J.T. said simultaneously.

“She’s . . . an . . . actress!”
Marcus Pooley spit out. “She’ll say anything to get the job! I need proof!”

“Please get dressed, ma’am,” J.T. said to the woman, handing

her the rest of her garments.

“Look,” Pooley said, his Irish temper starting to bring out his freckles, “I’m an artist. This is show business. Seeing her tits is my artistic job. If I lived back in the . . .
whatever
days, I’d paint her naked and my masterpiece would hang in a museum. And if I were

a doctor, you wouldn’t even take a second to question my fucking motives.”

“Yes, you have a point,” J.T. said calmly, not giving ground,

“but
you are not a doctor
! I won’t characterize my perception of you as an artist but I’ll hang you in a museum of your choice!

Back to the point: it is my job to be involved in casting, even if it’s not the norm in the sitcom world anymore. I do know that

having young women strip for your nipple approval has nothing

to do with network television. Shall I continue, go back, or would you like to take a walk out to the parking lot with me?”

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

Ash took his hands out of his pocket and stood in his
ready
position.
Oh man
.
Here we go
.

“It’s a fucking good thing your black bodyguard is here for

you. I’d like nothing more than to wipe your ass all over this lot,”

Pooley spat, then grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the casting room.

J.T. and Ash released their muscles from a fight-or-flight clench to a thank-God-it’s-over couch-potato-laxation.