The Boy Who Never Grew Up (50 page)

“Why, is that a prerequisite?”

“Your job is to keep each character’s emotional arc straight, vis-à-vis the story. Which ain’t always easy. I mean, I always know where Chubby is. But with the other characters I can use someone at the table with a clear eye to say, “That’s a funny line, Lyle, but Deirdre wouldn’t say that just yet because she’s not ready to forgive Chubby.’ And I’ll go, ‘Okay, you’re right.’ And change it. Or say we get stuck and we can’t figure out what the fuck Deirdre’s supposed to say next. I can turn to you and you’ll say, ‘Okay, what is Deirdre feeling right now?’ And we’ll talk it through.”

“And for that I get paid ten thousand a week?”

“Every week. It’s right up your alley.”

“I try to stay out of alleys. How much writing is involved?”

“None. You’re strictly a consultant. Unless you wanna try your hand at a first draft, in which case you’ll get paid the Writers’ Guild half-hour minimum just like everyone else, fifteen thou and change. Plus all the residuals you can eat.” We walked on in silence. “So whattaya say, pal?”

“Exactly what I said before, Lyle. I’m not a sitcom writer.”

“I don’t get you, man!” he fumed angrily.

“I’m complex,” I acknowledged. “But I’m not deep. Tell me about these new revelations of yours.”

He stopped, shaking his head slowly. “No way, Hoagy. Uh-uh. Not unless you agree to my terms. Take it or leave it.”

“This is a deal-buster?”

“This is a deal-buster,” he promised me, jowly chin stuck out. “I’m drawing a line in the sand.”

He actually did, too, with his sandal. Right there between us. TV people tend to be rather heavy-handed. Or footed, as the case may be.

“Sorry we couldn’t do business, Lyle.” I was about to stick out my hand until I remembered his thing about cooties. I pulled it back and thanked him for the tea. Then I started back up the beach to his awful house without looking back. Lulu followed me. She likes my cooties.

“Would it make any difference if I told you that one of ’em set me up?!” he called after me.

I stopped. “One of who?”

“My family. I was done in by one of my own people. That whole bust was a setup, from start to finish.”

“How do you mean?” I walked back toward him. He was still planted there beside his line in the sand.

“All I know,” he replied, “is what my lawyer told me—the Public Morals Division of the New York City Police Department doesn’t do routine roundups. They got better things to do than sweep porn theaters for beaters. They only follow up specific complaints. Which means somebody tipped ’em off that I was there that day.”

“I see,” I said doubtfully.

“The whole scene was weird,” he said heatedly. “They
knew.
I mean, the van was
waiting
there out front to take me in. And, get this, the press was out there, too. Ready to nail me.”

“You have to admit it was not lacking in news value.”

“No, no, you’re missing my point—they were
already
there. Practically before the cops. How did they know about
me?
Unless they were tipped off, too?”

“By who?”

“Hey, not everybody loves me. This is me admitting it. Some of my people even hate me. One of ’em enough to try and ruin me. I wanna know who, Hoagy. I have to know who.”

“Why didn’t any of this come out before?”

“Because everybody wanted to get it over and done with. The district attorney, my lawyer, God, me … I was a wreck. It was a fucking circus, for Chrissakes. So I pleaded no contest, and the DA agreed not to push it. A fair deal for everybody, and I’m back on the air. But I’m not satisfied. How can I be? One of my own people tried to ruin me. I wanna know who did it to me. I wanna deal with it in this book. I got to. Because …” He broke off, lips quivering with rage. “Because it’s driving me crazy!”

“How do you know it’s one of your own people? Have you got any proof?”

He snorted derisively at me.

“How do you know?”

“I
know,
dammit!” he roared, over the sound of the waves. “Christ, don’t you ever believe what people tell ya?”

“Not lately,” I said quietly.

He glanced at me sharply. “That’s no way to live, man. You gotta have faith. I know where you’re coming from. Trusting no one. Holding everyone at arm’s length. I been there. And it sucks. It’s no way to go through life, believe me.”

I watched a jogger pass by us, wondering why it is that celebrities who are. trying to clean up their act always try to run mine through the rinse cycle as well. Why can’t they just shut up? Why can’t they pick another writer? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you’re serious about this—”

“I’m totally serious,” he fired back.

“Then I suggest you hire yourself a good private detective. Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t want someone who knows what he’s doing. I want you!”

“Careful. I flatter easily.”

“Look, I can’t hire a detective. I need someone who can function as a real member of my family. An insider.
You.
Besides, you’re supposed to have a certain … knack. I mean, my editor said if anyone could get to the bottom of it, you could.”

I had worked for this editor before. His gleeful taste for high-profile tell-alls by convicted serial killers, drug-addicted teen prostitutes, and would-be presidential assassins had earned him the nickname The Merchant of Menace. He bothered a lot of the highbrow brigade. Me he had never bothered. He paid on time and he left me alone, which is all I ever ask.

“I write books, Lyle. I don’t solve crimes.”

“He said it was a perfect fit, you and me,” Lyle argued stubbornly.

“Never be fooled by a perfect fit. There’s at least three-percent shrinkage to take into account—particularly when I’m thrown in hot water.”

Lyle Hudnut clasped his hands before him, as if in prayer. “This isn’t just about a show, Hoagy. Or money. Or endorsements. Uncle Chubby is my
life.
Somebody tried to take him away from me. That’s murder, is what it is. You take a performer’s character away from him and you’re committing murder. Nobody should be allowed to get away with that. Nobody. I have to know who it is. I got a right to know who it is. You’re the one person who can help me. I’m begging you, Hoagy. I’m down on my knees.”

And he was, with a thud. Right where he’d drawn that line between us in the sand.

Only the line in the sand was gone. The waves had erased it. There was only smooth, wet sand there between us now. A corny and obvious symbol, to be sure. But I wasn’t surprised by it. Not in the least. Because it had already happened. I had already entered the world of prime-time television.

I never thought I’d ever stoop so low as to be a sitcom writer. Not me. No way. But my life had been full of surprises lately, few of them pleasant. Still, my story was cherry pie compared to Lyle Hudnut’s. What had happened to Lyle Hudnut shouldn’t happen to anyone.

He was an unlikely candidate for stardom, this round-faced pink elephant from Bay Shore, Long Island. It was while he was part of a scruffy Greenwich Village comedy troupe in the midseventies, the Surburbanites, that Lyle Hudnut first stumbled on Chubby Chance, his nasty, dirty, and thoroughly off-the-wall send-up of Mister Rogers. Dressed in a moth-eaten cardigan and sipping from a hot cup of what he claimed was Ovaltine, Chubby advised kids on how to get the family dog stoned, how to steal money from their dad’s trousers, how to get the most fun out of playing doctor with that cute little redhead next door. Chubby Chance on proper nutrition: “What’s the big difference between boogers and broccoli? Kids won’t eat their broccoli.”

Stardom did, in fact, elude him at first. Lyle Hudnut was still just another fringe performer kicking around the comedy clubs a decade later when he hit upon the idea of Uncle Chubby’s Bedtime Stories, his own hip and caustic version of old childhood favorites. Like “Tom Thumb,” in which poor, tormented little Tom moves to West Hollywood and becomes involved with an older man who is into chains and whips. Like “Henny Penny,” in which Henny Penny, Cocky Locky, Ducky Duddles, Goosey Poosey and Turkey Lurky
do
tell the king that the sky is falling, for which he has them slaughtered, dressed, and eaten. Chubby’s bedtime stories caught on with savvy college audiences. Soon Lyle Hudnut was reciting them on David Letterman and campuses around the country. Cult success led to his own HBO special,
Uncle Chubby’s Story Hour,
and a best-selling book,
Uncle Chubby’s Storybook.
All of which caught the attention of Godfrey Daniels, enterprising new programming chief of America’s third-place network. Daniels saw Uncle Chubby as a way to pull in both the kids who had outgrown Mister Rogers and their baby-boomer parents as well. He convinced Lyle Hudnut to sand down Chubby’s rougher edges and to move him into the tidy, suburban New Rochelle home of his sister, Deirdre, a prim, no-nonsense lawyer—as well as a divorcée with two little kids and a not-so-gentle rottweiler. It was there that Stanley Chance, an irresponsible, beer-swilling slob who listed his last full-time employment as “high school,” found a home. And a career—as Deirdre’s live-in housekeeper, babysitter, and nemesis—the latter a role he had thoroughly enjoyed since age five.

The show’s premiere at eight
P.M,
on Monday, September 24, 1991, was the highest-rated sitcom premiere in the history of network television.
Uncle Chubby
was an instant phenomenon, a No.1 breakout hit that left
Roseanne, The Cosby Show,
and
Cheers
choking on its dust. Over its first season it averaged a 40 share in the Nielsens—as in 40 percent of the televisions in use when it was on.
Roseanne,
the previous champ in the weekly ratings, had pulled in a mere 33.
Uncle Chubby
held the No. 1 spot for a record 127 weeks in a row. So potent was it that it shot the rest of the network’s Monday night lineup through the roof, too, making top-ten hits out of
Master President,
a sitcom about a twelve-year-old boy who we know is going to become president of the United States in 2032,
The Abdul-Salaams,
which one critic described as a “black
Cosby Show,”
and
Hammer & Tongs,
a cop show set in San Francisco’s Chinatown. So potent was it that it turned the third-place network into America’s leader, often by more than three ratings points per week, generating an estimated $500 million in new annual profits. All of which made Godfrey Daniels a genius, and Lyle Hudnut a very, very wealthy man. He was soon being paid an estimated $400,000 per episode to dispense to his on-screen niece and nephew patented Chubbyisms like “Life is short and so are you,” and “I got a real problem with all of this sex and violence on MTV—there ain’t enough of it.” There was another volume of his bedtime stories, this one a No. 1 best-seller for nearly a year, its sales rivaling those of Dr. Seuss at his peak. There were Uncle Chubby dolls and Halloween costumes and comic books and instructional videos. There was Uncle Chubby cereal and vitamins and cough syrup. His ratty old cardigan became better known than Columbo’s trench coat, his easy chair more familiar than Archie Bunker’s. Kids
loved
Uncle Chubby. He was one of them—messy and funny and always in trouble. He was so popular that, inevitably, they began looking to him for genuine advice, the kind that Mister Rogers had given them when they were younger. Their parents did, too. When Magic Johnson turned up HIV-positive, it was Uncle Chubby who parents turned to for help. “Heroes are people, too,” Uncle Chubby told little Erin and Trevor, in the historic AIDS episode—a show which the Laker star personally endorsed. “And all people get sick.”

And so the surreal evolution was complete. Uncle Chubby was no longer a send-up. He was the semireal thing, trusted by kids and parents alike. And Lyle Hudnut was no longer a comic-actor playing a role. He
was
Uncle Chubby.

Until that day he strolled into the Deuce Theater in Times Square to see
Of Human Blondage,
a hard-core porn film starring one Tamarra Wett. That day when it all came tumbling down. They placed him in a holding cell. He was freed within hours on three hundred dollars’ bail but, as his lawyer candidly put it, “The man’s career is over. Uncle Chubby is dead.” Both the
New York Post
and
Daily News
devoted their front pages to his grim-faced mug shots.
“BOOKED
&
COOKED”
screamed the
News’s
banner headline,
“FAT CHANCE,”
cried the
Post.
America’s parents were horrified and furious. Because they had trusted Uncle Chubby, and because they didn’t know how the hell to explain this to their kids. Oprah and Sally Jessy and Phil rode quickly to the rescue with special programs devoted to the subject. But the bad jokes rode up even quicker, and made a far more lasting impression:
Hear about the new Uncle Chubby doll? Wind him up and he plays with himself. Hear what Uncle Chubby is doing next? Coming back in a remake of
Diff’rent Strokes.
Know what Uncle Chubby’s favorite restaurant is? The Palm.
Don Imus, the popular New York radio personality, even campaigned for a concert to benefit the Uncle Chubby defense effort called Fists Around America. Its anthem: “All we are saying is give Chance a piece.”

Toys “R” Us, the nation’s largest toy retailer, announced it was pulling the popular Uncle Chubby doll from its shelves immediately. Mattel, the doll’s maker, discontinued its production, even though it had generated an astounding $52 million in the past two years. Librarians across the country yanked Uncle Chubby’s storybooks from their shelves. Pressure groups advocating so-called family values demanded that the network remove this supposed role model from the air, vowing to boycott the products of any and all companies which continued to sponsor it. The network promptly complied, shelving
The Uncle Chubby Show
until, stated Godfrey Daniels, “this unfortunate episode can be resolved in a court of law, rather than the court of public opinion.” The American Civil Liberties Union, as well as many high-profile show business figures, promptly blasted the network—for finding the man guilty until proven innocent, and for just plain knuckling under to pressure from so-called guardians of public morality. A Performers’ Coalition headed by Kevin Costner, Susan Sarandon, Glenn Close, and Sting organized a protest march on network headquarters on Sixth Avenue in support of Lyle Hudnut. Forty thousand marchers joined them, some clashing with anti-Lyle Hudnut forces. Dozens were arrested.