Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (45 page)

sids, complete with black satin coats, long hats, beards, and curls (peyos) that hung down to their breasts. They launched into a very sexual dance with the see-through Israeli flag girls. It was erotic and hugely sensuous in all the most inappropriate ways.

J.T. was fascinated. He couldn’t take his eyes off of this delicious car wreck of tasteless, offensive intemperance. Everyone in the audience was loopy with delight.

Phat Azz rapped to the dance, but the speaker system was so

loud and muddy it was impossible to perceive specific sounds in what came across as nothing more than a sonic assault. But everyone was up on their feet, rockin’ out. J.T. strained to hear what Phat Azz was rapping.

“Kadma munach zarka munach segol munach legarmeh mun-

ach revii maapach pashta munach zakef katon munach zakefgadol
mercha tipcha munach etnachta mercha tipcha silluq pazer telisha
ketana
. . .”

How fitting
is
this
, J.T. thought, giddy with embarrassment.

But giddy nonetheless. He desperately wanted to film this. He

closed one eye and panned the arena.
What a great documen-

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

tary this would be
. Shoot the bar mitzvah, then go to war-torn Israel and film the reactions of the battle-weary Jews watching this fiasco. Then maybe even find a Hezbollah spokesman and

get his opinion.
What a documentary this would make
, J.T. kept thinking.

Phat Azz was actually rapping a prayer from the Haphtarah!

It was so wonderfully tactless, so utterly insulting to the prayer’s original intentions, that J.T. was in heaven. Now, this—
this
was
funny
!
Funny
!
Finally
, J.T. thought.
Somebody found the funny!

“Okay, all you out there in my posse,” Phat Azz said in rhythm.

“Now, say ‘Oy!’ Say ‘Oy!’”

The audience was really with him. The kids screamed, “Oy!

Oy!”

“Now,” Phat Azz instructed, “left to right, say ‘Yo!’ Say ‘Yo!’”

And the entire Staples Center audience yelled, “Yo! Yo!”

“Oy! Oy! Yo! Yo!”

“Oy! Oy! Yo! Yo!”

J.T. got up to get a Hebrew National hot dog. Then, as things

happen sometimes in unlikely places such as a concession stand

at an overproduced bar mitzvah, J.T. ran into, of all people, Ron Copper. Ron was the man he’d told Debbie he would never snitch

to. Ron was a union representative for the Directors Guild of

America.

“J.T.! J.T., is that you?” Ron asked. They went back . . .
a long
time
.

“Ron? Ron Copper, how the hell are you?!” J.T. said.

“Well, aside from my little nephews making me purchase

two Phat Azz CDs,
Haphtarah and the Ashkenazim Bitch
and
Torah, Torah, Torah, Rap Me in My Sephardic Ass,
I think I’ll plotz, then come out of shock . . . sometime next month. How

about you?”

“This is funny,” J.T. said. “Look, you can get your nephews
Peyos Pogo Sticks
!”

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3 2 5

“I hear all the merchan-

dising and ticket sales from

The Hollywood Dictionary

the loge up are going to that

PLOTZ:
Shit.

noodnik Beaglebum. Bril-

PEYOS:
Side curls worn by Ha -

liant. Throws the biggest bar

sidic Jews.

mitzvah this year and is

NOODNIK:

making his money back.

A pain in the butt (the

person, not the pain).

Who could do such a thing,

except Beaglebum?”

YIDDISH:
Doesn’t hurt to know

“Yeah.”

some.

“Speaking of which, I was

walking your lot this week

and noticed that you were

slated to come back for two more episodes but you’ve been what—replaced?”

“I’ve been fired, Ron. But not officially. They won’t say the

actual words ‘You’re fired.’ Really bad experience.” J.T. just looked down.

“Well, you’re pay-or-play, right?” Ron Copper said, suddenly

changing his body language from a guy with his nephews to Union Representative.

“Yeah, I’m pay-or-play, but Beaglebum is negotiating with the

Pooleys for partial payment. The Pooleys truly want me dead. Bad situation, Ron.”

“My friend,
they cannot do that
. That’s mishuggah and Beaglebum knows it. He can’t do that,” Ron repeated.

“Do what?” J.T. asked.

“J.T., you’re being fucked—excuse my language:
shtooped
. It is against Directors Guild
precedent
for them to negotiate
anything
and they all know it! Just think what that would do to other directors. Suddenly pay-or-play would be meaningless, and the Guild

fought long and hard for that. Beaglebum knows that better than anyone.”

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

“You mean . . .” J.T. was astounded. He wasn’t amazed by the

fact that he was legally supposed to be paid, but he was sickened by the fact that his own agent was knowingly breaking DGA protocol, representing the Pooleys and not J.T. The Pooleys were millionaires. Beaglebum was a multimillionaire.

This even included Lance at the studio. Deb at the network.

They all knew the DGA rules. Why didn’t J.T. know the rules? After all these years? Because no matter how horrible a working relationship was, J.T. always
trusted . . .

“I’m a fucking fool,” J.T. said. “You can’t believe . . . I need the money, Ron. My son . . . Look, I need to make the minimum so I

can claim my insurance for the year. The insurance. My son . . . No sob stories. But . . .”

“Hey, genug es genug, my friend. Enough is enough! Have you

got a BlackBerry on you?” Ron asked.

“I, um, got a cell phone—”

“Oy. Gimme the number.” And J.T. did.

“Well, J.T., it’s a small world and you didn’t hear this from me, but I’m sitting with Beaglebum, the Pooleys, Phat Azz, and a min-yan of famous clients and friends. Very soon I’m going to be called up to the Torah.”

“Really? You’re that close of a friend? I didn’t know—”

“Beaglebum married my wife’s sister. We’re kind of related,

I’m sorry to say. Brothers-in-law.”

“Oh,” was all J.T. could manage
. Did I just walk into another
sucker-punch? How could this be? My Directors Guild representative is related to my thieving agent? How big of a schmuck am I?
J.T.

thought.

“You’re not a schmuck, J.T. I’m going down to the courtside

seats now. I’ll inform Lance, Beaglebum, Debbie, and those talentless Pooleys that they must tell you if you are officially fired. Then I’ll inform all of them that not only have they broken several guild rules, but the guild is taking them down.”

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3 2 7

“What?” J.T. was sud-

The Hollywood Dictionary

denly sick. He didn’t want

any retribution—he only

SCHMUCK:
Schmuck.

wanted what was owed to

SHUT THEM DOWN:
Retribution.

him.

“Who,” Ron asked, “is

going to direct the two epi-

sodes that you were supposed to direct?”

“I don’t know. I think, Stephanie Pooley,” J.T. said.

“Well, that’s a violation as well. Enough of one that the Directors Guild can shut them down!” Ron was starting to feel his oats.

“That’s wrong. I have to ask you, please don’t do that,” J.T.

pleaded.

“Why?”

“Because, Ron, almost every single member of that crew, es-

pecially the camera crew, is my friend. This may be an ego move that I would secretly love—I mean, the Pooleys took years off of my life this past week—but the crew . . . please, don’t shut them down,” J.T. begged.

“They wouldn’t be out of work. Exactly the opposite. A pro-

ducer of a show cannot direct an episode if the producers have

fired a DGA director. They have to hire new blood. They have to hire another DGA director.
They all know this
, J.T. You’re the only one left out of the loop. All I have to do is go down there to my seat, have a quick powwow with the Powers That Be, and give you a call on your cell phone, and then you, my friend, can go back to your wife and son,
paid in full
.”

“You must really dislike Beaglebum,” J.T. found himself say-

ing.

“Dislike? Yeah. He’s a putz! And to think he thought he could

pull the wool over your eyes on my watch? Pfft!” It was the strongest reaction J.T. had seen all week, and that was really saying something.

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

“Thank you so damn much, Ron. Thank you.”

“You just hang right up here by the silent auction. Can you

believe Beaglebum is auctioning off a chance to help Kobe Bryant take the Torah to the Arc?” Ron said in disbelief.

“You mean, take the Torah
from
the Ark, right?” J.T. asked.

“No, my naïve friend. Ten-thousand-dollar opening bid to ac-

company Kobe Bryant and the Torah as he walks
to
the
arc
, just above the foul line. The arc. The three-point arc.”

“Ten thousand bucks?” J.T. managed to say.

“J.T., that’s Beaglebum. And that’s why I’m goin’ down there

right now to get you your money. Wait here. You’ll get a phone call in about two minutes.” Ron turned, then came back to J.T.

“Hey, you bring your swim trunks?” Ron asked J.T.

“My swim trunks?” J.T. asked, not sure if he’d heard Ron correctly.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “you could go out to the parking lot. There’s a Mikvah Pool. They got a water slide set up and everything.”

“Oh . . . no. I didn’t bring my swim trunks.”

“By the way, J.T. Whattaya think about the bar mitzvah?”

“Well, Ron . . . seeing that you are related—”

“It’s a crime, isn’t it? To allow a few wackos to give an entire religion, a heritage, such a bad name. You wanna know why people

hate us? Because of the man my wife’s sister married, the fuck! I’ll go get your money!”

Ron gave J.T. a giant bear hug and then disappeared into the

insanity inside the arena. J.T. took out his cell phone and just stared at it. As he paced back and forth, he began to fight back tears. He felt ten years old, very much alone—yet finally saved.

Just then, the famous public-address announcer rattled the

entire arena.

“Llllladies and gentlemen
, the
Rabbi to the Stars
and also one of the top literary agents at William Morris,
Ggggooooordy Guffel-man
!”

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3 2 9

J.T. checked out the sweet-’n’-sour dreidel candy wondering if

his son would like a souvenir. Then he did a quick systems check on his own common sense and realized only a complete idiot

would buy a dreidel full of sweet-’n’-sour candied powder.

“Can I have a sweet-’n’-sour dreidel, please,” a grown man be-

side J.T. said. “Oh, and two yarmulke Frisbees.”

J.T.’s cell phone rang. Surprised that it was so fast, J.T. thought,
Maybe things actually do work out. Maybe it’s not such a horrific
business after all.
He opened his cell phone and looked silly trying to remember how to answer the darn thing; what tiny buttons you had to press!

One time
, J.T. thought, as if his life were moving in slow motion (about 120 frames per second),
one time, let it be good
.

J.T. remembered the cell phone call when he was first told that something was very wrong with Jeremy. It was ten minutes before a show on a Friday shoot night. J.T. hung up the phone and ran toward his car, never looking back except to tell the assistant director that she was in charge. He fought Friday night Los Angeles traffic and drove like Steve McQueen, arriving at the airport just in time to catch the last plane home. He was at the hospital before Jeremy was put under anesthesia. He was able to kiss him, hold him, re-assure him, love him. And then once they rolled his son into the operating room, J.T. began to tremble and broke down and sobbed in Tasha’s arms.

“Hello?” J.T. said.

“J.T. Ron Copper here. I’ve just had a little chat with the

momzer—yeah, you, Beaglebum, you putz you! Anyway, this ne-

gotiating bullshit is over, I spoke with the network, the studio, and the Pooleys. Congratulations.
You are officially fired
. You are
pay-or-play,
so get your butt to the airport, stop living in limbo, and know that when you get home to your family, you will be paid

for three episodes and, more importantly, you will have made the 3 3 0

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

DGA minimum, which makes you eligible for an entire year of in-

surance, buddy. Mazel tov!”

“Ron . . . I don’t know what to say,” J.T. said as he watched a kid purchase a Peyos Pogo Stick and go bouncing down the cement

corridor of the Staples Center.

“There’s no need to say anything. Hey—they’re calling me up

to the Talmud. I’ve gotta go. Be safe my friend, and feel good.”

“Thank you . . .” But Ron had already hung up.

Pickin’ blueberries . . .

J.t. looked around at the cultural mess and could not get out

of there fast enough. First he called Natasha and Jeremy to tell them the good news: Daddy was on his way home. Then he called

Ash.

After he flipped his cell phone shut, J.T. took great pleasure

in dropping the electronic device on the cement in front of the Staples Center and stomping it to death. With every stomp, J.T.

was reminded of all the bad movies he’d seen where the protago-

nist finally shoots the antagonist and kills the evildoer with the first shot, but keeps shooting for melodramatic and stale entertainment value—continuing to pull the trigger even after all the bullets are used up.
I’m so pathetic,
he thought, stomping on the cell phone even after it was mostly shards of metal and plastic.
A
one-man Cell Phone Riot.
The phone bleeped a last, pathetic ring-tone, then was silent. He finally stopped stomping.