The Man Who Cancelled Himself (9 page)

“Aren’t we all?”

“Steer clear of her, Stewart Hoag,” Leo Crimp warned. “I mean it.”

I thanked her for this bit of advice as well. I was getting real curious about what had gone on between the tough producer and her former runner. She stood there twirling her Sherman around in her fingers.

“Ever smoke that thing?” I asked her.

She stuck it back behind her ear. “Only in the ladies’ room.”

“Sounds a little like high school here.”

She considered this. “No, it’s more like a four-car pileup. Horrifying, yet at the same time so fascinating you can’t tear your eyes away from it. Welcome to my place, Stewart Hoag,” she said. And then she went barging out.

My phone rang. It was Annabelle.

“All clear, Hoagy,” she reported. “Their door’s open and I’m, like, Lyle’s safely back in his own cage.”

“Did they quit?”

She let out a shriek. “No way! The three of them go through
this
every season. He chisels them out of what he promised them, they threaten to walk, then they back down and take whatever he gives them. It’s an opening day ritual of theirs.”

“Like throwing out the first ball at Yankee Stadium?”

“I’m, like, they’re total wusses, in case you haven’t figured it out. Wait, hang on—” She covered the phone a second before she said, “C’mon, they’re calling for you.”

Lulu stayed behind this time. The better to focus on her morning nap.

Tommy and Marty were calmly reading over the script. Annabelle was seated on the sofa.

“Ah, there you are, Hoagy,” said Marty, smiling pleasantly. “Where were we?”

“As I recall, you two were in the middle of changing careers.”

Marty shrugged his shoulders. “That’s just Lyle being Lyle,” he said with mild resignation.

Tommy slumped in his chair, fuming. “I hate that man,” he said savagely. “I really do. I fantasize about him dying in painful, horrible ways. It’s how I get to sleep at night, instead of taking Sominex.”

Marty said, “We’ve got an assignment for you, Hoagy.”

“Feelings,” I said. “Nothing more than feelings.”

“We’re not happy with how Deirdre’s new beau turned out in this draft. He’s a total yutz.”

Tommy: “Straight out of a Grecian Formula commercial.”

Marty: “We ought to know—we made him up.”

“To Lyle’s exact specifications,” pointed out Annabelle, in their defense.

“Yutzy’s how Lyle wants him,” Marty acknowledged. “Even the guy’s name—Rob Roy Fruitwell. Is that a yutzy name or what? See, Lyle’s being …
Lyle
about this. He hates the whole idea. Because it wasn’t his. Because it’s being forced on him by God. And because—”

“He’s scared shitless,” Tommy said bluntly. “He figures God’s master plan is to phase him out. Deirdre gets involved with Rob. Deirdre marries Rob. Zap, you’ve got yourself a solid franchise than can function fine without the Chubster. End result: God gets what he really wants, which is
The Uncle Chubby Show
back on the air, and Lyle Hudnut
off
the air. And out.”

“Him and Katrina both,” added Marty. “Which would also make the studio very happy. They’d save close to half a million an episode on their combined salaries.”

“Is this just Lyle’s paranoia?” I asked. “Or is it actually the network’s plan?”

“We don’t know,” Tommy replied quickly.

Marty weighed his response more carefully. “It could be,” he allowed. “Lyle’s a loose cannon. And he’s controversial. God hates controversy. Pickets make him crazy.”

“And who would run the show?” I asked.

The Boys made eye contact with each other.

“That’s strictly idle speculation at this point,” Marty replied evasively.

“Bullshit,” Tommy snapped. “We would. Muck and Meyer. Sure we would. Which would make us very happy, too. We’d be able to digest our food again.”

“I can’t remember what that’s like,” confessed Marty.

“I’m, like, it could be a totally excellent show,” gushed Annabelle, egging them on.

“It could be cute,” Marty admitted guardedly.

“And good for The Munchkins, too,” she added. “We can let them have their own stories for a change. They can grow up as characters.”

And she, I mused, could grow up as a writer—into a baby producer. “And who would direct?”

“Amber,” Annabelle suggested. “She’s ready.”

“But it’s strictly idle speculation at this point,” Marty insisted. “Like I said.”

Or was it? The pieces were all in place. Something for everyone. Except for Lyle, of course. Was this real? Had they been approached by the network? Or were they simply dreaming of what it would be like to get out from under the man’s thumb?

“What we need from you, Hoagy,” said Marty, “is a way to make Rob more likeable that won’t freak Lyle out. We can’t get a thing by him.”

“If you can do that,” said Tommy, “I’ll kiss you on the mouth.”

“That’s not a good line,” Marty told him.

“You’re right—it needs work,” he admitted, turning to me. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Do you know Chad?” Marty asked me.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Well, watch out for him. The man’s a major suck-up.”

“He may even lick your face,” added Tommy, with great distaste.

“All the actors lobby us for good material,” Annabelle explained. “It’s kind of an occupational drag thing.”

There was a faint tapping at the door. A scrawny nebish in his late twenties stuck his head in. “Morning,” he said, bashfully.

“Come in, darling!” Annabelle sang out warmly. “I’m like, did Naomi … ?”

“Just needed a k-kicking,” he stammered, blinking furiously. “Feeder was jammed. I-I miss anything?”

“Strictly a minor eruption,” reported Marty. “A three point two on the Lyle wig-o-meter.”

“Bring us any brisket sandwiches, Bobby?” needled Tommy, brightening. Although I’m sure an electrocardiogram would still have classified him as comatose.

“Be nice, Tommy!” Annabelle ordered, with motherly protectiveness. “Now, Bobby, dear, come meet Hoagy.”

Bobby Ackerman came over to me with his hand stuck out. He had a head of soft, curly blond hair and an innocent, almost angelic face. He looked like a lamb—a really intense lamb. The kid was tightly wrapped. Typical writer in that regard—timid on the outside, simmering on the inside. Most of us are shy egomaniacs, myself excluded. I have never been shy. Bobby wasn’t overly tidy. His blue oxford button-down was frayed at the neck, his gray twill trousers stained and wrinkled, his Rockports scuffed. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut. He needed to stop blinking.

“It’s an honor to m-meet you,” he said to me. Actually, he didn’t so much stammer as he did speak in choked, overheated bursts. “I really admire y-you.”

“You won’t once you get to know me better.” I casually laid my hand on the sofa to air dry. His had been wet as a fresh caught flounder.

“But you do novels,” he said, blinking at me incessantly. “That takes such g-guts. You’re on your own. N-No other writers. No director. No actors. You do it all. J-Just you.”

“There is a down side,” I cautioned.

“W-Which is what?”

“There’s no one else to blame. Just you.”

“Now that must be weird,” said Marty. “Life without Lyle to blame for everything.”

“Now that must be nice,” quipped Tommy.

“Have a seat, Bobster,” said Marty. “We were just about to give Hoagy The Three Rules.”

“Which Three Rules are those?” I asked.

“D-Don’t listen to this shit, Hoagy,” Bobby warned, with great urgency. “This isn’t your kind of d-deal at all. I mean it. You’re m-much too fine a—”

“Feel free
not
to have a seat, Bobby,” Tommy snarled.

“F-Fine,” Bobby retorted angrily. “I’ll be in my office.” And he split.

Annabelle watched him go, sadly.

“Don’t mind Bobby,” Marty said to me. “He’s still living under the illusion that he’s going to be the next Arthur Miller.”

“Or the next Bea Arthur,” added Tommy. “Now then, Hoagy, you’ll want to write these down. Got a pen, pencil, quill?”

“I’ll remember them.”

“Rule Number One,” Marty intoned grandly. “There are no new gags—only new setups.”

“Don’t ever be afraid of a joke just because you’ve heard it before,” explained Tommy. “If it works once, it’ll work again.”

Marty said, “Here’s a joke I heard the other day: Guy gives a Jewish blind man a piece of matzo, and the blind man runs his fingers over it and he says, ‘Who wrote this shit?’ Cute joke, right? I heard the exact same joke fifteen years ago—exact same joke—only it was Stevie Wonder and a cheese grater.”

“And what was the punch line?” asked Annabelle.

“ ‘This is the most violent book I’ve read in years.’ ” Marty grinned at me. “See? Same joke. Different setup. And it’s still funny. Got it?”

“What’s Rule Number Two?” I wasn’t that anxious to hear it. But my head was starting to throb.

“Rule Number Two,” declared Marty. “Attributed to the late Carl Reiner—”

“Wait, Carl Reiner’s still alive,” objected Annabelle.

“I know—but he’s always late,” Marty shot back. “Rule Number Two: Write ’em Yiddish, but make ’em British.”

“All comedy’s Jewish,” Tommy said flatly. “If a character has personality and foibles and quirks—in other words, if he’s funny—he’s Jewish. For television, you gentile him out. You make him black. You make him brown. You make him whatever.” He broke off, narrowing his eyes at me. “This is valuable stuff, Hoagy. Took us years and years to learn. Sure you don’t want to write it down?”

“I’ll remember every word.”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Okay. Rule Number Three. The oldest rule of them all, and the most important one to shtickle by … Relax, this isn’t brain surgery.”

Marty turned to him. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this—I met my wife’s cousin, Phil, at a family barbecue on Saturday. He’s actually a brain surgeon—”

“Oh, yeah?” Tommy said. “Maybe he should have a look at Lyle.”

“And I was telling him all about Rule Number Three,” Marty continued. “I said to him: Phil, what do
you
guys say when you screw up and can’t figure out which nerve attaches to which? Or whatever the hell it is those guys do …”

“And what did he say?” asked Annabelle, raptly attentive.

Marty replied, “He told me they say, ‘Relax—this isn’t sitcom writing.’ ”

Little Annabelle let out a huge donkey bray of laughter.

There was a brisk tapping at the door. Naomi Leight stuck her head in. “Five minutes to reading, everyone!” the P.A. announced excitedly.

We all got to our feet, Tommy moving like he was three hundred years old. Bobby appeared in the doorway, blinking, blinking, script under his arm.

“One other thing, Hoagy,” said Marty, with evident concern. “Can you fake an orgasm?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you laugh even when something isn’t funny?”

“No.”

“Learn how,” Tommy advised gravely. “Fast.”

The rehearsal room was at the end of the hall where the actors’ dressing rooms were found. Their doors were open. Not that there was a whole lot to see. Each was small and plain, though this was Sutton Place compared to my own digs. Fiona had a quilt hanging on one wall of hers to give it that homey, Amish feeling. Chad had a Joe Weider pressing bench and a full-size three-way mirror to give his that he-guy, look-at-me feeling. The Munchkins’ own artwork adorned their walls. One watercolor portrait of Lyle made him look like something you’d find half submerged in a pond at the Bronx Zoo. Splendid likeness, actually. Wardrobe and makeup were next to the dressing rooms. Those doors were not open.

The rehearsal room was large and brightly lit and very cold. Conference tables had been set end to end to form a large rectangle with chairs for thirty people or so around it. Naomi was busy laying out scripts and pencils before each of them. Everyone else, some three dozen cast, crew, and production people, was drinking coffee and chatting gaily. The mood was very up. People were genuinely happy to be back working. Bagels and doughnuts and coffee were to be found at one end of the room, as well as a gigantic fruit basket. Lyle and Katrina were not to be found. Nor was Fiona Shrike. Chad Roe was. The actor was speaking urgently to Leo Crimp, who was trying just as urgently to get away from him. Common response.

The writers arrived together. I was to discover that they often moved about the studio as a group. They seemed to feel safer in numbers.

Lulu headed directly for the coffee table. Where there are bagels there are often lox.

Tommy Meyer, not one of your smiling, happy people, stopped cold in the doorway and sniffed the air disagreeably. “Ugh. Actors.”

Marty Muck waded right in, patting backs, cracking jokes, one of the gang. He was the social one. Tommy exchanged only curt greetings as he oozed through to the coffee pot, shoulders hunched. Bobby Ackerman wouldn’t even do that much. He went right for his place at the big table and sat and began studying the script, head down, defiantly standoffish. Annabelle Gamba, meanwhile, was a born schmoozer. She hugged, she kissed, she called everybody honey and darling and I’m, like, sweetheart. Annabelle was the one who introduced me around, clutching me tightly by the arm with her tiny fist. I met Phil, the thirtyish stage manager, who shaved his head. I met Sam, the grizzled old control room rat who was Lyle’s current assistant director. I met Randy, the tubby little art director, who crinkled his nose, and Gwen, a too-fat older woman in a too-tight sailor suit who was, believe it or not, the costumer. It was Gwen whom I was most interested in.

It seemed she was having a real bad morning.

It seemed someone had just stolen Chubby’s famed cardigan out of Wardrobe.

“Any idea who?” I asked her.

“One of the crew, naturally,” she huffed. “If it’s not nailed down they take it.” Gwen had very bad false teeth. They angled outward, like a half-open garage door, and were the color of old piano keys. “Makes my life pure hell, too. I keep a spare, naturally. I have to. But now I have to break in a new spare. Distress it, stain it, unravel it, sew on the patches. And it all has to be just so, or people will notice it’s wrong. , After all, Chubby’s sweater
is
Chubby.”