The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  “You told me yesterday that he’s not a happy man. Why isn’t he?”

  “Can we get real here?”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Lyle wants to be a megamovie star like Belushi was. He wants to be idolized, and he’s not. That hasn’t happened for him. He’s Uncle Chubby, a TV sitcom star, period. To him, that’s not true stardom. True stardom is box office—people shelling out money to see you. True stardom is what John had. This …” She glanced around at her small dressing room, gurgling. “This is a semicute eight o’clock network show. That’s all it is—Lyle’s chest-thumping to the contrary. And that’s just not enough for him. He’s not satisfied. In fact, he hates it. Yet it’s all he has. He has no other life. No other career. No family, real or otherwise. Just Chubby. That’s why he tried to kill himself when they pulled us off the air … Lyle is a very proud, very insecure man. His ego is huge and fragile. He genuinely believes he should be John, and he can’t accept that he’s not. He gets frustrated. It boils up inside of him. I think that’s what he was doing at the Deuce Theater. Venting his frustration.”

  “He feels he was set up that day by one of the family.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “I know he does,” she acknowledged reluctantly. “He told me so at the time.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you now? After what’s happened this morning, I mean.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sure they’ll find out it was just one of the protestors. No one is out to get Lyle, Hoagy. Him saying so is just Lyle being Lyle. He always has to overdramatize. Like him saying he’s better than Woody Allen.”

  “Or him saying his parents forced him to have shock therapy?”

  She smiled at me. “Now you’re catching on.”

  I tugged at my ear. “I’m not so sure I want to.”

  “That’s beside the point. You’re along for the ride now, Hoagy. He’s got you hooked.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re human, aren’t you?”

  “There are different schools of thought on that question.”

  “Lyle is an irresistible force,” Fiona Shrike asserted. “Everyone who comes up against him has to know. They can’t help themselves.”

  “Has to know what?”

  “What makes Lyle run,” she replied simply.

  “You lived with him for fifteen years. …”

  “Off and on,” she acknowledged.

  “What’s the answer?” I found myself leaning toward her. “What does?”

  “Don’t ask me.” She shuddered. “I hardly know the man at all.”

  My own tough luck—I ran smack dab into the Chadster on my way back to my office. He was coming out of the bathroom. Lyle’s personal bathroom. A major no-no in Lyleland. And, me, I’d caught him at it.

  Chad’s initial reaction was total panic. The man looked exactly like a little kid who’d just been nailed shoplifting. Then he turned on the charm, which meant some heavy working of the dimp, followed by a manful, conspiratorial wink. “Our little secret, okay?”

  I glanced about. The alcove outside of Lyle’s suite was deserted. In fact, everyone in the place seemed to have vanished, except for Naomi, who was busy working the copy machine on the other side of the main office. She may or may not have seen him.

  “It’s like I’ve always said,” I replied. “Where a man takes care of his business is his own business—provided he closes the door.”

  Chad grinned at me gratefully. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And I did close the—”

  “I said, don’t mention it.”

  Chad lingered, moving in closer to me. “Is this place a dump or what? The Jane Seymour miniseries I did last spring for NBC, they gave me my own air-conditioned trailer. I had a shower, a microwave, a fridge stocked with any kind of bottled water I wanted—Evian, Pellegrino, Apollinaris, Perrier, Henniez, Ty Nant—”

  “How nice,” I broke in, before the big clod could name every brand known to waterdom. I backed away.

  He kept coming. “Seriously, have you seen the men’s room out there?”

  “I took a brief tour.”

  “Totally unacceptable. I had a long, long talk about it with my agent last night, and he backed me one hundred percent. He told me, Chad, you’re a star. Stars piss wherever they want, whenever they want, and no director can say otherwise. I mean, how petty can you get? He told me to just go ahead and use Lyle’s.” Chad glanced at me nervously. “But just in case Lyle is that petty, thanks for keeping quiet.”

  “I trust you’ll do the same for me.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “I’m breaking the law as well—I’m not supposed to be speaking to you.”

  Chad leaned a broad shoulder against the wall, carefully smoothing his thinning blond hair. “Some directors are like that. They try to be in charge of everything. Can’t be done. You have to delegate, or you end up shortchanging some aspect of the production.”

  “Such as the cast?”

  “Exactly. I had to force the man to give me some direction. I shouldn’t have to. Christ, that’s his job.”

  “Where were you when the bombs went off this morning?”

  Chad hesitated, thumbing his granite jaw. “I was in my dressing room,” he replied, working the dimp.

  “Alone?”

  He cleared his throat uneasily. “No, I was running lines with … with Amber. She has some fantastically interesting ideas for Rob. Such as making him a guy whose fiancée left him at the altar. So now he’s, y’know, seriously gun-shy about women. Gives him a real attitude.” He glanced at me hopefully. “Don’t you think?”

  I left that one alone. Because I know actors. The political ones—and Chad Roe was a political one—often lobby their cause this way. If I said I liked it, he’d run and tell the next person that it was my fantastically interesting idea. By the time anyone bothered to figure out who the original source was—Chad Roe himself—it would be in the script. “Where is everyone?” I asked, looking around at the empty office.

  “The food’s here,” he replied. “We’re all eating together today. Katrina’s doing. You coming?”

  Before I could answer him Leo came marching across the office toward us clutching a tray of food. She sat with it at her desk outside of Lyle’s office and began to eat.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I told Chad.

  Mercifully, he headed off to lunch.

  Leo leafed through some papers while she ate her chili and cole slaw. Me she ignored.

  “Doesn’t look terrible,” I observed.

  She grunted noncommittally.

  “Why aren’t you eating with the others?”

  “I happen to be kind of fussy about the company I keep,” she replied impatiently, looking down her nose at me. “Did you want something, Stewart Hoag?”

  “To warn you, Leo. You ought to be more careful.”

  “About what?”

  I removed the Sherman butt from my pocket. “Where you smoke these,” I said, laying it on the desk before her.

  She peered down at it, then up at me. “So I sneak a smoke now and then. So what?”

  “So someone might get the wrong idea—the police, for instance.”

  Not to mention Lulu, who was eyeing her balefully.

  Leo muttered a curse under her breath. “I was right here when those bombs went off,” she informed me angrily. “Ask any of my girls. Go on, ask them!”

  “Now, now, Leo,” I admonished her. “You and I both know you could have slipped away for a few seconds without them noticing.” I poked at the butt on her desk. “Hell, you do it all the time, don’t you?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she snarled.

  “If you insist. But, frankly, I’m starting to get tired of it.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, Stewart Hoag!” she cried. “A fucking son of a bitch!”


  She wasn’t wrong, I reflected, as I walked away. Neither was Very. This was what I did—pissing people off, making a nuisance of myself. And why not? Everyone ought to be good at something.

  Naomi was still at the copy machine running off copies of the script. She gave me a dirty little grin as I approached her. I know it made me feel dirty to be on the receiving end of it.

  “You said if there was anything you could do for me …”

  “Absolutely, Hoagy,” she assured me, hungry to please. She was all tight curves, dark, moist crevasses, and treachery. “Just name it.”

  “It’s about you and Lyle.”

  She froze. “Excuse me?”’

  “If you two are going to keep getting it on behind Katrina’s back, you’ll have to do it without my blessing. I will not cover for him. I will not be used that way. That’s one of the places where I draw the line. Will you tell Lyle that? Can you do that for me?”

  I left her standing there with her mouth open and her eyes boring holes in the back of my head.

  The rehearsal room had been transformed into a commissary, with the accent on festive. Elmore James was making with the slide guitar magic on a boom box. There were red-checkered tablecloths on the tables. Waitresses from Big Mama Thornton’s were on hand to dish up the grub and work the beer keg. Of course, Lyle, being Lyle, was personally ladling out the chili for cast and crew alike. He was all decked out in a puffy white chef’s hat and apron, his manner jovial as can be. Katrina was helping him, though she wore no puffy hat or apron. Practically the whole gang was already in there eating and strictly observing the production hierarchy code, which is: thou shall not mix. Television production is about the last structured society I know of, aside from the military and the insect community. The crew ate together at their own table, the P.A.’s and runners at theirs, the day players at theirs. Casey and Caitlin were at the kiddie table with their tutor. Chad and Fiona were making polite conversation at their star’s table, Fiona picking at cole slaw and corn bread, and looking profoundly bored. A line snaked out into the corridor. I took my place at the end of it behind Amber, who was chatting gaily with Gwen, the costumer. They abruptly stopped talking when I did. I was beginning to take that personally. Gwen moved along.

  Amber gave me a rather haughty, disapproving onceover. She had traded in her jodhpurs for a khaki safari jacket and trousers, Willis and Geiger by the look of it. “Niles says hello,” she said to me. “My ex-husband, I mentioned I was working with you.”

  “I hope he had nice things to say about me.”

  “He said you were the Racquet Club loon, actually,” she replied tartly, a smile creasing her leathery face.

  “Someone had to be. I understand you were running lines with Chad when the bombs went off.”

  Amber flared her nostrils at me. “Whoever told you that?”

  “He did. He said you were full of good ideas.”

  “The poor dear’s confused,” she assured me coolly. “I was alone in the kids’ dressing room, reading, when it happened. They were having class in the rehearsal room.”

  “And Chad?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Well, well. One of them was clearly lying. Was it Amber, because she didn’t want Lyle to hear she’d been coaching Chad behind his back? Or was it Chad, because he hadn’t been in his dressing room when the bombs went off? Hmm.

  The line moved forward. We moved with it. Got our trays and plates and forks, all of plastic. I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten a good meal with a plastic fork, and I don’t believe I ever will. Lulu inspected the contents of the serving table and padded back to me, grousing. No catfish.

  “It must be frustrating for you,” I suggested to Amber.

  “What must be?” she asked.

  “Wanting to be creatively involved here, and not being allowed to—yet, that is.”

  She shot a look over at Lyle, who was merrily serving Gwen. “You’ve heard something?” she murmured hopefully.

  “I hear lots of things. The trick is making sense of them.”

  “If you need any help I can be an interpreter,” she offered. “Anytime. I mean it.”

  “I just may take you up on that, Amber,” I said warmly. Or what passes for warmly from me.

  “Do.”

  Lyle and Katrina were all smiles and jokes while they served her. As I waited my turn I discovered Bobby Ackerman standing in line behind me, looking even more angry and intense than usual. Possibly his session hadn’t been a roaring success. He was unshaven and disheveled, his hair matted and uncombed. He was gazing at Katrina. The kid had it bad.

  “How was Boston, Bobby?” I asked.

  “F-Fine,” he replied, blinking, blinking. “Troubling, b-but fine.”

  “Step right up, Hoagster!” Lyle called out heartily.

  Katrina was still pissed at me. Wouldn’t even make eye contact when she dropped a hunk of corn bread on my plate with a pair of tongs.

  Lyle’s blue eyes were twinkling. “Hope ya like it hot, pal,” he exclaimed, ladling a big scoop of chili into my plastic bowl. “We got the three-alarm special.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “And wait’ll you taste it—yum!”

  Katrina heard him, of course. “Pinky, did you eat some of this?” she demanded, in her Kewpie-doll voice.

  “Absolutely not,” he lied, with total conviction. “I meant, I hear it’s great.”

  She shook her tousled blond locks at him. “You must stay on your diet. What am I going to do with you?”

  “You could take me into my dressing room and spank me,” Lyle cackled, pinching her bottom.

  “Pinky!” she gasped, swatting his hand away. “You’re being baad!”

  Bobby stood there staring at him with undisguised hate. He looked like he wanted to stab the man in the neck with his fork. Maybe that was why they opted for plastic cutlery.

  Katrina glanced nervously around the room. “People seem real happy, don’t they?” she squeaked.

  “You bet, cookie,” Lyle said reassuringly. “Great idea. A real lift after this morning. Right, Hoagy?”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed heartily. Or what passes for heartily from me.

  Katrina just glowered at me as I moved on down the line.

  Chad spotted me right away. “Join us, man,” he called to me from the stars’ table—a grand gesture this. “I saved you a seat.”

  “Writers’ conference,” I apologized, as I sat with The Boys at their table.

  “Sure,” growled Tommy. “Go ahead and use us as an excuse for—”

  “Ducking that bozo,” interjected Marty.

  “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Bobby joined Annabelle at the junior writers’ table. Lulu curled up under me with a low, unhappy moan. She can be a real pain when she doesn’t get what she wants. Something she picked up from me. “Stay away from what, Tommy?”

  He stared at me blankly. “Huh?”

  “Last night on the phone you warned me to—.”

  “Don’t pay attention to anything I said last night,” he muttered, shooting an uneasy look at his partner. “That was just me having a party.”

  “All right.” I spread my napkin in my lap. “How’s the chili?”

  “Good,” replied Marty, spooning some into his mouth. “Most unusual taste.”

  “I think it’s kerosene,” said Tommy, smacking his chalky lips.

  I sampled it. It was indeed hot, but well above average. Made with slow-cooked cubed beef instead of hamburger meat. Pinto beans. Tomatoes, but not too many. Onions, garlic, cumin. And something else I couldn’t quite place. Ground coriander, possibly. The cornbread was dry and flavorless. Good cornbread is a rarity. Merilee always made hers in a smoking-hot cast iron skillet with buttermilk and hunks of bacon in it. I missed it. It’s often the little things one misses most when someone leaves your life.

  “I was talking to Fiona about the Suburbanites.”

  “Ah, the bad old days,” cracked Marty, sipping from his plasti
c cup of beer.

  “She said I should ask you how the character of Uncle Chubby came about.”

  “That was tactful of her,” Tommy said bitterly.

  “One might also say diplomatic,” agreed Marty.

  “So how did it?” I asked.

  They both glanced across the room to make sure Lyle was out of earshot.

  “He stole him from us,” Tommy said flatly.

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  They exchanged a look.

  “We’ll give you the facts,” Marty said carefully. “Lyle will no doubt give you a different version of them. . , .”

  “If he hasn’t already,” broke in Tommy.

  “But ours is the real story.”

  I nodded. In my business I am often treated to six or eight entirely different versions of the real story, each one of them entirely believable. As for the truth, well, the truth is that there is no real story. There’s only one individual’s self-interest bumping up against another’s. That’s why you shouldn’t ever believe anything you read in the newspaper, with the possible exception of Calvin and Hobbes.

  “I met Fiona in drama school,” Marty recalled. “I was still kind of torn at that point in my life. Part of me wanted to perform. Part of me wanted to write. Tommy and me, we started writing together when we were still in high school. Comedy routines, sketches, one-act plays. We’ve been writing together for, Christ, it must be—”

  “Twenty-five years,” said Tommy. “Which makes us—”

  “Old fuckers,” concluded Marty, shaking his head. .

  I ate my chili, wondering what it must be like to write with someone else for so long. Their brains must have become a single mutant organism by now, neither one complete without the other: Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the incredible Siamese twins of shtickdom.

  “For a while,” Marty continued, “the two of us had been tummeling this idea for a stage play. Kind of a Man Who Came to Dinner vehicle, only the uninvited guest isn’t this world-famous author, he’s—”

  “My Uncle Maxie,” said Tommy, picking up the ball and running with it. “My mom’s kid brother, who used to periodically descend on our household when I was a little boy. Maxie was this totally exotic, Runyonesque character. He hung out at the racetrack, he drank cheap whiskey, he fucked hookers—my kind of guy, in other words. My father hated him, because he never had a real job and because he was a major leech. Ate up all our food, ran up huge phone bills. He’d stay for weeks at a time, driving my father crazy. Only he couldn’t throw Maxie out—my mom adored him. One year they got in this huge fight over him, with the result being that Maxie had to pull his weight if he was going to stay. That meant baby-sitting for me and my little sister. And, believe me, Maxie was the baby-sitter from hell. He’d have his floozy girlfriends over. He’d entertain us with these incredibly filthy jokes he picked up in the navy. The man was totally cool. He made me who I am today.”