Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (42 page)

store where all I wanted to do was buy you all great gifts . . . in a dream!” she read.

“There were . . . bombs and explosions?” Kirk said his line perfectly.

“I told you—
in a dream
.” Janice made her famous Janice-face and the audience responded with a reflexive laugh. They loved

their Buddies, no matter what they were saying.

J.T. smiled to himself: he’d gambled that the actors would realize that if they didn’t
act
as well as read, they’d be the ones looking like they weren’t worth their Porsches. So far, it looked like he’d bet on the right horse.

“It was great. A car blew up right by the store . . . and I still went shopping—in a dream!”

Behind the lights, behind the cameras, Marcus grabbed Steph-

anie. “What the fuck?
In a dream
?” he whispered to his baffled wife.

“Those aren’t my lines. I didn’t write any of that. Did you write that?”

“Cue and roll playback—
now
!” J.T. yelled. The scene they had shot that “wasn’t on TV,” the previous day’s footage that Mick had had the lab process, was rolled into the feed to the audience.

“What the fuck is going on? What does he mean by ‘roll play-

back’?” Stephanie growled.

And sure enough, the scene that wasn’t on TV began to play on

TV on all the monitors that the audience could see.

Lance and Debbie were watching the monitor next to the

Pooleys. As the footage rolled, Lance kept glancing back to the audience, judging their reactions. Deb stood spellbound in front of 3 0 2

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

the monitor. “Like, wow! It’s like, so amazing! It looks so real, yet
just like a dream
. How’d you guys, like, do that?” she asked the Pooleys.

“Well . . . I didn’t—” Marcus was about to add his own explo-

sion to the pyrotechnics when Stephanie took control of the conversation and whispered, “We thought we needed to punch up the

scene with visuals. See what we can do on a shoestring budget? It looks okay. I’m glad you like what we’ve done.”

The audience loved it.
Luck
, J.T. thought.
Got lucky
.

When the playback ended, the actors had to wait to say their

lines because the studio audience was honestly applauding with-

out being prompted by an applaud now sign.

“But,” Janice said over the applause, “just like a dream, shop-

ping means so much to me and, well, just like a dream, you guys mean a lot to me too, so—MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Janice gave the bag of presents to the other characters.

“Man,” Kirk said—

J.T. bit his lip hard, waiting, hoping—

“This is . . . like a dream. The
best ever
Christmas,” Kirk said triumphantly, as the character and as a very proud actor looking at a Santa Face on a cue card.

“And . . . CUT!” J.T. yelled, pleased with himself.
It actually
worked,
he thought.
Thank you, Paddy. Thank you
.

Marcus came running up to J.T. He pretended to smile because

all the executives and the audience were loving the show, but his anger made his eyes even beadier. “What the fuck do you think

you’re doing?!”

“Marcus,” J.T. said calmly, “I’m doing exactly what you asked

me to do: I’m giving you a show that is worthy of being on the

cover of
TV Guide
three times in two years. Oh,” J.T. continued, “and about the scene that wasn’t on TV? It worked . . .
like a dream,
huh?”

For a brief moment, J.T. thought Marcus was going to take a

swing at him. J.T. didn’t really know if he had made the decision R o b b y

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to put the footage that “wasn’t on TV” into the show because it was what was best for the show, or because, like a dream, it was so satisfyingly spiteful. At that point, it didn’t matter to him. At all.

“You don’t have to pay me the hundred grand or whatever we bet,”

he said to Marcus. “The shot that wasn’t on TV, I mean. It was a sucker’s bet.” He walked away from Marcus, who stood stunned in the middle of the
Buddies
home set.

Skip, Kevin, and Mick were howling.

“Great stuff, J.T.,” Skip laughed.

“I guess it was
on TV,
huh, J.T.?” Kevin said, staring at Stephanie.

“I’m a ‘real fuck,’ huh, Skip?” J.T. stage-whispered loudly to

Skip for the benefit of his entire camera crew. He just couldn’t help his glee.
I must be a really bad winner
, he thought. Yet he couldn’t stop smiling like the village idiot, the release of it all was so freeing, the rush of endorphins to his brain so orgasmic. J.T. was higher than the cast on liquid V.

“Thank you, Mick,” J.T. said, shaking his hand. It was time to

get ready for the next scene. “Shall we?” he smiled. And smiled.

Lance was scouring his script. “Why isn’t all of this in my goldenrod script?” he asked Stephanie.

“Oh, I apologize. We were working so late . . . we . . . didn’t have time to get you the revisions. I think you’ll like what we did with the rest of the show. But I won’t
give it away
. I’ll keep it a surprise.”

“This is, like, actually good stuff,” Deb agreed with Lance.

Devon turned to Rocky and placed his back to the audience.

“You see that? They love us. We can do no wrong. We’re just reading our lines. No rehearsal. Nuthin’. I say we hold out next week again.”

“You may be onto somethin’, buddy,” Rocky nodded.

Kirk found J.T. going over the next scene’s shots with Skip by

the wing camera.

“Um, Mr. Baker?”

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

J.T. felt a small tap on his

arm. When he turned and

The Hollywood Dictionary

looked at Kirk, he could see

WING CAMERA:
Of the four cam-

Kirk’s eyes were teary.

eras, the wing cameras are the

J.T. was still grinning

ones on the far left or the far

like a fool. “Kirk, you did

right. On this show, ironically,

well. You better get ready for

the far-right camera was being

the next attack.”

operated by Skip, a man proudly

“Um, thank you—thank

on the far left.

you.” Kirk turned his head

to the left twice, then backed

up and came back. He backed up and came back again.

“Hey, Kirk,” J.T. said, literally putting his arms around the

young man, “it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“You did it.”

“We
did it. Except there’s a lot more to do—so get in there and all of your hard work’ll pay off. No surprises for you, my friend.”

“What can I do to thank—”

“Knock the next scene out of the park, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kirk managed to control his compulsions and went back un-

der the lights.

“What was that all about, Kirk?” Janice asked, as if talking to the director were a sin. “What are you two scheming about?”

“Scheming?”

“We all know you’re his favorite, you little Goody Two-shoes.

What’s up?”

Before Kirk could answer, William yelled, “Let’s lock it up! Put us on a bell!” And the bell rang.

“Roll cameras. Waiting for speed . . .”

A voice yelled out from the sound booth, “Speed!”

“And it’s all yours, J.T.”

“Action!”

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* * *

The rest of the evening

ON A BELL:
Hollywood’s version

went so smoothly that it

of Pavlov. When the bell rings,

played like a show that had

everyone quiets. (And wants

been rehearsed out of town

pizza.)

before Broadway.

As the night progressed,

the Pooleys constantly walked past the director, going onto the set and giving camera notes and acting notes, perpetuating the illusion of their comedy brilliance.

There was only one anxious moment, and that was when

Kevin, the vet with PTSD, had a delayed reaction to the explo-

sions and had a Vietnam flashback in the middle of the “J” scene.

Kevin tackled J.T., yelling “Incoming!” J.T. was very flattered that the one person Kevin went to save from the phantom incoming

bomb was him. After a dose of smelling salts (kept on sets to in-duce tears for crying scenes), Kevin was fine and the audience

laughed, thinking it was a rehearsed “bit” for their benefit.

“Cut!”

And it was over.

Spontaneously, the studio audience jumped to its feet and gave

the show a standing ovation. J.T. looked at the actors soaking it all up, each taking a curtain call and trying to trump the others with designer humility and premeditated embarrassment. Then, as if

scripted by Paddy Chayefsky, Stephanie and Marcus Pooley found

their light, hugged each cast member, then turned in tandem to-

ward the audience and took a long, macrodramatic bow.

Perfect,
J.T. thought.

The actors called Lance and Deb onto the set to share the spot-

light with the Pooleys, who shifted begrudgingly to make room.

Marcus put his arm around Lance and air-kissed Debbie. Stepha-

nie orchestrated one ensemble bow that included the cast, the stu-3 0 6

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

dio executive, and the network executive. And, of course, the final thank-you bow was reserved for the Pooleys.

End of show, and end of show.

“That’s a wrap!” William bellowed, and patted Ash on the ass.

“Ash my bro, was that like the best Kwanza ever? Yo, K-gizzle,

yawanna toss my salad, homey?”

“William,” Ash blushed, “do you know what you just asked me

to do to you?”

“Oh. Well, don’t be up’n’up on the bye-bye wit’ yer baad, maad

self, dotie?” William blurted, sincerely. “Gotta love dem bee-yotches, eey’ight?”

“Um . . . ditto, bro,” Ash said, trying to let William off the hook and hoping this would cut off the Beverly Hills Ebonics for Eediots.

William let out a huge sigh, grabbed Ash’s hand, and went through a bizarre handshake that looked like palsied sign language.

Stephanie Pooley made a “B” line to the “A” camera where J.T.

was standing as soon as the show was over. She pulled him behind the
Buddies
living room set, the only set standing for the half-hour show.

“You think you’re clever? Witty? Cute? Smart?”

“Well—”

“Let me tell you what you really are, J.T. Baker,” Stephanie

snarled. “You are a nothing. A nobody.”

“I appreciate the compliment and will remember it always,”

J.T. said, trying to back away from this crazed, power-mad showrunner who had bad breath from a night of dry mouth.

“I’m not finished with you,” she growled, cornering J.T. “You’re the big loser here and let me spell it out for you.”

“If that’s what you’re getting at, I don’t think you have to spell it out for me. Plus, you don’t have spell check, so I wouldn’t want you to feel inadequate.”

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“If you
ever
”—she opened her purse—“let anyone, and I mean
anyone,
know what you did to my script, my show”—she moved her compact and revealed only to J.T. that her gun was sitting nice and comfy at the bottom of her bag—“I will destroy you. Physically. And legally, in every union and guild. And
then
I’ll sue your ass and nail it to the La Brea tar pits, where you will disappear with the rest of the dinosaurs.”

“You’re getting really messy with your metaphors, Ms. Writer-

slash-Showrunner-slash-Serial Killer.”

Stephanie snarled, “You feel good about getting all those laughs from the studio audience? From the executives? Well, they are now
my
laughs. Because nobody knows! Only we know. And you can never tell.”

“Ms. Pooley, I’m not proud of tonight’s show. I am proud that

I gave you a show with a beginning, a middle, and, thank God, an end—no matter how hard you tried to get in the way.”

Stephanie’s spittle sprayed J.T.’s face. “You feel good about

making it
a better episode
? I’m no fool, it
was
a better episode—

my
better episode. That’s what
everyone
thinks. The audience when I was introduced as the writer; the executives who believe I worked a miracle with this episode—everyone! Soon, America,

when they read the written-by credit. So my advice to you, J.T.

‘Squeal-Like-a-Pig’ Baker, is you’d better go crawling back to that hole in the South you call home and fill your mouth with grits

and collards and
barbeeeeeeque
, because it is now my goal in life to make sure you never, ever work in this town again as long as you live in this life, and be damn sure I’ll find you in the after-life. And if by good fortune you fucking die and come back as

a cockroach, it’ll be me who flattens you on the bottom of my

shoe, leaving behind nothing more than your smashed brown

bug body covered with your fucking bug innards of white goo.”

She finally took a gulp of air.

J.T. waited the appropriate comic beats and then, as if he were 3 0 8

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the maestro at a symphony, dismissed the brass section with,

“You’re welcome.” Baton down. Concert over.

As the table of expensive desserts was brought out and placed

in front of the couch on the set (for the cast and executives only), Deb held court. “So,” she began, “like, what a week. Another one down. Funny! Funny! Funny show!”

“Food!” Dick Beaglebum appeared. “
Very
funny stuff!” he added, enthusiastically. “Those Pooleys! How ’bout ’em!”

“One word:
Funny!
” Lance said.
“Funny, funny, funny!”

“That’s, like, three words,” Debbie said, and everyone enjoyed