Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (9 page)

with the hundreds of colored pieces of tape that are laid out on the set that represent each and every move an actor makes within each and every scene. It’s the attention to detail on camera-blocking day that saves a show on the following shoot night. “It allows for the freedom to get back to the funny,” J.T. would always say.

William raised his arm to play-punch J.T. in the shoulder,

thought better of it, and scratched his head. “Hey, buddy—I knew you wouldn’t mind if I was a little late on Thursday. Maybe a lot late! It means so much to me. To
my family
. Quitting smoking and all. Then becoming a triathloner. I mean, it’s major! Life-changing!

And I also cleared it with the Pooleys,” he added, sincerely. “During sex!” William thought his bit was hysterical. Then, when J.T.

once again failed to move a single facial muscle, William went back to his sincere expression.

He was so sincere J.T. just wanted to slap him, but felt Natasha on his shoulder, whispering,
Jeremy
.

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

“Yeah. What director needs his A.D. on camera-blocking day?

And very wise of you to clear it with the showrunners before clearing it with your director.”

“Now, don’t make me feel guilty,” William said, sincerely. He

glanced nervously at Ash, who had slipped away to the drinks table and was now quietly moving closer to J.T. “I cleared it with Jasper, only he’s dead now. And listen, you’ll have
my
assistant. My second A.D. And she’s better than I am! No shit. She really is better than me!”

“Well then, maybe she should have
your
job.”

“Hey—J.T., it’s me. Baby, it’s me!
William
. I’m there for you, man. I’ve always been there for you, man. You know I’d never let you hang out to dry. After sex. Remember. It’s me,” William insisted . . . sincerely.

J.T. started to tremble, this time from anger.
We haven’t even
started and we’re already behind schedule (after sex), you fucking ass,
he thought. Sabotaged by his right-hand man, his A.D.—the very

first person from the show he’d made contact with.
One for one
.

J.T.’s jaw muscles were steroidal in size from grinding his teeth.

Ash placed his large hand on J.T.’s shoulder. “How about a nice glass of pure, one hundred percent California orange juice, J.T.?

It’s
pulp-free
.”

“Pulp-free—that kinda sums it up,” J.T. said, taking the juice

from Ash. “Yeah, thanks. Just what the psychiatrist ordered.” He drank it slowly, willing himself to calm down with every sip.

William was waiting like an eager puppy for a response. “So

whattaya say, J.T.? Can I go? You’re not mad, right?”

“Mad? Nah. Sure. Go. Hope you win, William,” J.T. said, know-

ing full well that William was a long shot to even finish, let alone win. But he gave William a gentle pat on the back. He hoped it’d leave a bruise.

Ash shot J.T. a look. He was impressed. Ash had been poised

for the first of the many lectures (explosions, really) to be expect-R o b b y

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6 3

ed from J.T. on the subject of professionalism. But no. J.T. had pledged to Natasha and Jeremy that he would stay in control. And he managed it this time. Ash grinned.

J.T., on the other hand, felt his stomach begin to make excess

acid. It was no longer Natasha on his shoulder; now J.T.’s inner voice had developed Tourette’s syndrome:
Jeremy. Insurance. Jeremy. Insurance. Jeremy. Insurance
.

People started to file into the room. J.T. looked down at his

watch. One minute to ten. Not one of the skilled department

heads went anywhere near the food. Their collective feeling of resentment was palpable as they assembled for the meeting.
A hit
show—the number one show—and not a one of them wants to be

here,
J.T. thought
. Not good
.
Again
.

They were all pros; they had done their homework. This epi-

sode had a script that they knew would probably be a page-one

rewrite by the next morning. But their job descriptions told each and every one of them that they had to follow this script as if it were an authentic map rather than a harbinger of endless rewrites.

(Reams upon reams of paper fed this mill, in a process that was largely responsible for the destruction of the Amazon forests.) Everyone from Props to Set Dressing to Wardrobe to Lighting knew

they’d have to go through the motions of work for work’s sake, following today’s script, which wouldn’t remotely resemble tomor-

row’s script.

Despite all this, when the department heads saw J.T. there were small smiles and nods. J.T. smiled knowingly back at them, giving the camera coordinator, Doc Ray Piscatori, an especially broad grin as he filed past. Most of them had worked with him before.

They’d witnessed J.T.’s legendary brawls with above-the-line executives and producers, coming to the defense of his crew. They felt the respect he had for them. They knew he was one of the

few directors who understood that he could never do their jobs

as well as they could, who knew that it was their experience, their 6 4

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

professionalism, their
schmuckiness
that could haul a show out of the crapper and make it worthy of broadcasting to an audience of millions.

What they didn’t know was how ashamed J.T. felt about the

disparity between his salary and theirs, and how determined

that made him to make sure that, at least on his watch, none of the fucking millionaires who made their money off the underpaid schmucks would ever treat the schmucks like schmucks. It

was J.T.’s mantra. If he’d written it down, he’d have used a fancier phrase, like “utmost respect.”

They all took their seats and opened their scripts, which had

marks and highlights scribbled all over the pages. They sat in a rectangular configuration, the standard arrangement for production meetings and the table reads that followed them. J.T. sat at the head of the table. William, who’d stopped to grab more food, was disconcerted to find that Ash had already sat down on J.T.’s right, the notebook he always carried at the ready. William hovered momentarily before letting out a loud, indignant breath and lowering himself into the chair to J.T.’s left as regally as could be accomplished with a plateful of bagels in one hand.

J.T. looked at his wristwatch: thirty seconds to an on-time production meeting. Not one member of the writing staff or a single producer was in the room. The showrunners, the Pooleys, were

nowhere to be seen
. Not good,
J.T. mused.

William stood up and spoke, very sincerely. “Uh rugruh—” He

swallowed. “’Scuse me. I regret to tell you that our last director, Jasper Jones, died tragically this weekend. It’s really brutal. Awful story. Terrible. I won’t take up your time now, but if anyone wants to know the details, come to me after the meeting ’cause it’s really gruesome.” He looked around expectantly. No one looked like they wanted to take him up on the offer. A little deflated, he continued,

“Um, so, that means Jasper Jones
will not
be directing this episode.

But we have in our presence the one and only J.T. Baker. He’ll be R o b b y

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6 5

with us for the next three episodes that Jasper can no longer do.

Because he’s dead. Now, if you all will join me in a moment of silence for Jasper.”

William closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then he startled

everyone by beginning to intone, sincerely, “God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for . . . uh, this production meeting . . . and the food . . .”

What a buffoon,
Doc Ray thought. He rolled his eyes at Ash, who was trying to control his smirk.

J.T. took the opportunity to look around the table at the crew.

His colleagues.

“ . . . and for this show . . . and the food . . . and for, you know, everything. And the food. Amen.” William looked up. “Thank you for sharing that moment. That was very kind of you,” he said, sincerely.

“Now, how about a round of applause for J.T.! During sex!”

The room was suddenly hostile. The entire crew had already

come to despise William and that stupid fucking joke. Then a few looked at J.T. and smiled.

J.T. smiled back. “Well, all I can say is, William . . . that was a very moving tribute to Jasper Jones,” he said.

“Are you fucking with me?” William narrowed his eyes.

“No! I must say that I am saddened to be here—”

J.T. was cut off by laughter. Everyone knew J.T. had escaped

from L.A. and wouldn’t be back if he didn’t need the work—or

the insurance.

“—um, under these unfortunate circumstances.”

“Okay,” William said, sincerely, “now that the tragedy is behind us, life goes on. And so does
I Love My Urban Buddies
. So allow me to begin this production meeting. Since we are waiting for the Pooleys, let’s take this opportunity to go around the table and introduce ourselves to our new director, J.T. Baker! Oh! And no one has signed up for the show’s softball team yet. Come on! Let’s show some team spirit! During sex!”

6 6

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

Silence. Then, “While you sleep, William. I’ll kill you while you sleep,” J.T. whispered. Everyone heard him.

“Okay! Anyway, I give you—J.T. Baker!”

“Um . . .” J.T. said, standing up, “William. Allow me to do the honors. You might remember that most of these folks are
my
buddies. Let’s see if I can go around the table and say hi to them. I need to gut-check my Alzheimer’s. Now might be a good time to start.”

“You have Alzheimer’s?” William asked, sincerely incredulous.

“No, William. But if I get it this week, I’ll forget that you won’t be there on camera-blocking day. And if I have it now but have forgotten that I have it and don’t make it through the week, don’t go out and get another director.
Everyone moves up one
.”

The production meeting was off to a good start for J.T. The

ones who mattered felt safe. William did not. Even
during sex
. J.T.

had his A.D. firmly on the defensive, and it was only 10:04.

J.T. always took the time to walk around the table on his first day, greeting each department head. J.T. was effusive with all of his emotions, including respect for people who knew their craft, and this bubbled over as he spoke. People sat back more easily in their chairs, and even laughed, as he moved from one to the next. Then he introduced Ash.

“Everyone—or almost everyone—here will remember my as-

sistant and fellow professor of film, Asher Black.” J.T. made Ash stand up.

“Buck wild on the rilla, boss baller,” William barked out, in

support of his
ghetto buddy.

“Whatever
he
says,” Ash half smiled as he stood.

J.T. felt a surge of pride as the room gave Ash an earnest round of applause.

Actually, what was surging was panic. J.T. was starting to hy-

perventilate; his adrenaline was uncontrollable. He’d made sure that everyone in the room was back in their comfort zone, but in doing so, he’d reminded himself of how Hollywood had screwed his

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6 7

friends, and he was about to have a panic attack. Then, on cue, Natasha seemed to float onto J.T.’s shoulder, softly whispering,
Jeremy
.

With perfect timing, the door flew open and a showrunner

walked in without saying hello to anyone. Anyone. J.T. had seen it all before. This was nothing new. All eyes were on Stephanie Pooley. She marched over to the craft service table, looked at the food, mumbled something under her breath, then poured herself a cup

of coffee. She brought the coffee cup to her mouth; it was her own personal mug, with her name etched into the glass. It was like a . . .

license plate
cup. She took a sip, managed to swallow, then an extraordinary thing happened.

Stephanie actually changed—morphed—her body language to

such a degree that it was cartoon-like. Seconds before, she’d been a late, angry bitch; now, backlit by the near-constant Los Angeles sun that scorched and bleached the carpet through the oversized windows, she was transformed into a Gorgon right out of Greek

mythology, her hair snaking menacingly at the assembled crew.

She became—Medusa! Would all who looked upon her at the pro-

duction meeting be turned to stone? Or just get fired?

“The fucking coffee is cold!” were the first words from Steph-

anie Pooley. “Un-fucking-believable! Who is fucking responsible for this?! Who?! My drive in from Malibu was torture!”

“Torture is a sense of

anguish, an infliction of in-

The Hollywood Dictionary

tense pain on the body or

mind. What kind of car do

MALIBU:
Sun, sand, sea—sharks.

you drive?” J.T. quipped. He

thought it was funny. So did

almost everyone else at the table.

Stephanie didn’t.

Uh-oh,
thought Ash.
He’s pissed her off already
.

“Who are you?!” Stephanie demanded, trying to glower at both

Ash and J.T. at the same time.

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

“I am J.T. Baker. I am your new director.”

“You’re
J.T. Baker?” she asked, looking in the general direction of J.T. but not seeing him at all. “You’re not that old.”

Weird,
J.T. thought.

Weird,
Stephanie thought.

“Yes . . . J.T. Baker. Your new
live
director.” J.T. said, trying to keep the funny from slinking sadly out of the room.

“Not for long if you keep that shit up,” Ms. Pooley groused.

Is she kidding
? J.T. wondered.
What shit?

This fucker has to be kidding
, Ms. Pooley thought. She said,