The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  “I don’t think anyone can do that. But it’s sweet of you to say so.”

  She gasped with delight. “Sweet. Nobody’s ever called me that before.”

  “Nobody’s ever known you before,” I said, cringing inwardly. Because this made it official—bad, insincere dialogue had now crept into my life. I used to be able to contain it to my art. “But I have to know something first, Katrina. Something you alone can tell me.”

  “Anything, darling,” she vowed. “Anything.”

  “Will you be totally candid with me?”

  “Of course I will.” She frowned at me. “Why, what’s this all about?”

  “It’s about the two blockbusters and the three-alarm chili. It’s about Chad and Fiona.”

  She gave me my hands back and tugged her bustier back down with huffy propriety. “I had nothing to do with any of that.”

  “I’d like to believe you, Katrina. I really would. Trust is so important.”

  She softened. “Trust is everything between two people,” she agreed. “Without trust you’re nowhere. Only, I didn’t do anything, Hoagy. I swear.”

  “But you do know something.”

  She gazed at me, bewildered. “I do?”

  “I think so.”

  “What is it, Hoagy? Ask me anything. Go ahead and ask me.”

  I went ahead and asked her. I had to kiss her once or twice to get it out of her, and say a few more things to her I won’t bother to repeat here, or you’ll think even less of me. But I got what I needed. I felt shitty about it, but I got it. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

  Well, isn’t it?

  Then she had to get back before Lyle missed her and started freaking out. And I had to make two phone calls, one of them to Very. I told him to get over there right away. And then, my pry bar in hand, I joined Lyle and the Uncle Chubby gang out on the floor of the studio.

  Twelve

  THE CONTROL BOOTH WAS hopping. Lyle’s grizzled old assistant director, Sam, was parked at the console frantically barking orders into his headset. Same with the technical coordinator, sound man, and lighting man, who were seated alongside him, performing last-minute checks and repositioning their troops and hardware out on the floor. Leo sat behind them in the second row with a stopwatch, a fistful of pencils, and a logbook, ready to mark down shots. Naomi sat on one side of her, ready to assist as needed. Katrina sat on the other side, ready to be an executive as needed. Katrina glowed at me as I came in. Leo glowered. In the back row, Marjorie, who was strictly there to observe, glanced at me, then glanced away, her expression stony.

  Lyle wasn’t in there, but he was still a dominant presence. His round, pink face filled all four monitor screens on the wall before us. Four different cameras capturing him from four different angles as he sat on the living room set in Chubby’s familiar easy chair, chatting with his stage manager, Phil, while he waited for the word that everyone was ready. He was all made up and in costume. Wore the Uncle Chubby sweater over a soiled-looking sweatshirt and baggy khakis.

  The writers and everyone else were out in the bleachers, watching. Lyle’s plainclothesman was out there, too.

  I sat in the back next to Marjorie. “Have you spoken to Godfrey?”

  She looked at me a long time, searchingly, before she nodded, making a steeple of her long, slender fingers. “He was deeply upset. He has a big affiliates’ meeting in San Diego this evening, but he intends to fly back here directly afterward, on the red-eye.”

  “Any idea what he intends to do?”

  She smiled faintly. “I’m out of the loop, remember?”

  “There are worse places to be.”

  “Are there?”

  “Trust me—there are.” I turned and watched Lyle up on the monitors, aware that she was staring at me, her green eyes shimmering in the booth lights. When I looked back at her, she hurriedly looked away.

  Sam flicked the P.A. switch. “Okay, Lyle. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Lyle cleared his throat and settled himself in the chair. His jaw became slacker, his expression a bit more dim-witted and sheepish. Shoulders softened. Chin melted down into his neck. He was becoming Uncle Chubby. A different person. The transformation was startling. It always is with actors.

  Phil, wearing a headset, crouched in front of him holding a clapper that had “FIONA TRIBUTE” written on it in marking pen. “Quiet, please! Settle everyone!” he called out. “Are we ready now? … Five, four, three, two and … action!” He scuttled away, like a crab.

  Lyle faced Camera Two, a subdued expression on his face. “Hiya, everybody. This is a special Uncle Chubby Show tonight. Heck, I guess you could almost call it the last Uncle Chubby Show. Life will never be quite the same for us around here. See, we’ve lost someone we all loved. A very special member of our own family, Fiona Shrike.” He paused, turning slowly to face Camera Three.

  Sam switched to Three with a snap of his fingers. “Move in, Three,” he murmured into his headset, talking to the cameraman. “Snug it up, Junior. Snug it up.” Lyle was now in extreme close-up—a talking head. “Perfect.”

  “When someone close to you dies,” Lyle continued, “ya like to gather your family and friends together and say a special good-bye to ’em. That’s what tonight is all about for us. This is us saying, ‘Good-bye, Fiona.’ This—” He broke off, his voice choking with feeling. “This is our eulogy. Fiona was a performer, a brilliant one, and the best way you can pay tribute to any great performer is to let their performances speak for themselves. Those of us who worked with Fiona, and loved her, feel a tremendous sense of loss. But at the same time, we feel tremendously fortunate. Because she’s really not gone at all. Her performances are a legacy that will live on for all time …”

  And with that he introduced the first clip, from the Uncle Chubby pilot, when Chubby first shows up on his sister’s doorstep and she flatly refuses to let him sleep under her roof. Lyle introduced two other bits as well, working off the top of his head—no cue cards, or notes—and nailing it all in one take. He seemed amazingly calm. This, too, was acting. Then he gave Sam the cut signal and reached for a bottle of mineral water and gulped some down. The bleachers erupted with applause. A heartfelt ovation from the troops. Lyle acknowledged it with only a brief, grim nod.

  “Want to do another one from there, Lyle?” Sam asked him over the P.A.

  Lyle looked around the set. “Nah, let’s move to the kitchen.”

  “Okay, moving to the kitchen, everybody!” Phil called out.

  That meant a break. I took to my feet and I stepped out of the booth just as Amber and The Munchkins came rushing in the stage door, all three of them drenched from the rain, Amber still clutching her car keys. “I understand there’s to be a tribute of some kind?” she said to me, clearly pissed by this sudden change of plans.

  “You understand right. It’s already happening.”

  Phil spotted The Munchkins and whisked them right off to makeup, leaving Amber with me.

  She heaved a sigh of annoyance. “We were planning a special family thing tonight. Now I’ve had to cancel. It’s so impossible to have a normal life around this place, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure Fiona would certainly echo that,” I acknowledged. “If she could.”

  Amber’s eyes flashed at me hotly. “I suppose you think I’m being selfish or insensitive or something.”

  “Or something.”

  Now I got the flaring nostrils bit. “I believe I could detest you without too much effort, Hoagy.”

  I tugged at my ear. “Me, I find it takes no effort whatsoever to detest people.”

  She made eye contact with Gwen, who started over to us.

  “Excuse me, please,” Amber said curdy. Then the two of them went off to see about The Munchkins’ costumes.

  The monitors suspended in the air over the bleachers were on now. So was the applause sign. The Boys were huddled together in the front row making notes about Lyle’s performance, in case he wanted any. The Kids
sat directly behind them. Lyle’s plainclothesman sat off to one side, watching Lyle get ready on the kitchen set.

  “Enjoying Lyle’s tribute?” Tommy asked me.

  “Are you?” I asked Marty.

  “I am, actually,” Marty replied somberly. “Very much.”

  “Chuckles watching in the booth?” asked Tommy.

  “She is.”

  “She crack one smile?”

  “Not so I noticed. But it’s not one of your funnier tapings.”

  “True,” Tommy admitted.

  “I’m, like, did you talk to Very?” Annabelle asked me.

  “I did.”

  “He have any n-news about who killed Fiona?” asked Bobby.

  “He didn’t.”

  Two more plainclothesmen were parked just inside the big steel stage door now. Very had arrived. I felt my stomach muscles tighten. My heart was beating faster.

  “You okay, Hoagy?” asked Tommy, peering at me. “You look funny.”

  “I just have a lot on my mind,” I replied. “None of it good.”

  I crossed the stage floor to the kitchen set, stepping between two cameras and then over the coils of cables into the bright, hot overhead lights. A stagehand was brewing coffee in the electric coffee maker to lend a homey look. A mug sat before Lyle on the table, where he was parked. The stylist was touching up his hair. His makeup, which gave him a normal, healthy appearance on the monitors, glowed dull to the naked eye. His round cheeks resembled waxed fruit. He looked like he’d been embalmed.

  “Heya, Hoagster,” he exclaimed, beaming at me. “Book going good?”

  “It’s starting to heat right up.” I sat with him at the table. The stylist scurried off.

  “Been thinking over our conversation this morning,” he said. “About my missing six weeks and the shock therapy and all. And I think you’re a hunnert percent on target. I wanna get to the bottom of it. Let’s go for it. Make some calls, maybe drive out there tomorrow and talk to the medical people. We can put the whole scene in the book, okay?” He looked at me eagerly. He was so anxious for my approval.

  “That sounds real good, Lyle. Maybe …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe we can stop off and see your folks while we’re out there.”

  He stuck out his fat, red lower lip. “It’ll be a plus?”

  “A major plus.”

  He smacked the table with his palm. “Then let’s do it,” he declared decisively.

  “Good man,” I said, patting his hand. He didn’t pull away. “What changed your mind, Lyle?”

  “This whole thing with Fiona, I reckon,” he replied. “I mean you can just lose somebody, pow, and whatever history you had together, whatever life you had together, it’s gone. Forever. The folks won’t be around much longer. I—I guess I’d hate to lose ’em without making some kind of peace with ’em first. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t. The way I’m regretting things about Fiona. Shit I did to her. Shit I said to her. Shit I didn’t say to her. Is any of this making any kind of sense?”

  “It’s making a lot of sense, Lyle. I’ll call them this afternoon.”

  “Ready when you are, Lyle,” Phil broke in.

  I got up to leave.

  “Hey, Hoagster?” Lyle called after me.

  “Yes, Lyle?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. I mean that.”

  “You’re welcome, Lyle.”

  I started back to the booth. Amber was seated in the bleachers now next to Annabelle. Very was standing just inside the door of the booth with his arms crossed and his right knee quaking.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant. Glad you could make it.”

  “Ready when you are, dude,” he said, jaw working his gum.

  Everyone in there was watching us. Leo, Katrina, Naomi, Marjorie, Sam, and the others. It was extremely silent and still in that booth.

  “They’ve been briefed?” I asked Very.

  He nodded.

  I turned to Sam, who was standing behind his chair. “Tape’s rolling?”

  “Tape’s rolling,” he replied, pulling the chair out for me.

  I sat down in it. Then I flicked on the P.A. microphone.

  Thirteen

  “LYLE?”

  He grinned directly at me in the monitor. “What, you taking over, Hoagster?”

  “That’s correct. There is nothing wrong with your television set. I am now in control.”

  “Typical writer,” he cackled, playing to the gang in the bleachers. They broke up.

  “There’s something I have to go over with you, Lyle.”

  He frowned. “What, right now?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lyle glanced at Phil, then back at me. “Can’t this wait? We’re in the middle of—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, pal. What is it?”

  “Why did you do it, Lyle?”

  Lyle swallowed. “Do what?”

  “You engineered your own arrest at the Deuce Theater, Lyle. You brought about your own downfall. You did it all. You stole your own sweater, bombed your own set, spiked the chili, murdered Chad, murdered Fiona, tried to murder me. I know you did it, Lyle. And I know how you did it. But I don’t understand why. I mean, is there some kind of plan here, or are you just totally out of control? I need to know, Lyle. We all need to know.”

  Lyle gave me The Scowl. “What is this, some kind of prank? I don’t think this is very funny. This is Fiona’s tribute, know what I’m saying? Who else is in on this? Sam? Leo? What’s going on in there? Did you people get wasted or what? What’s going on?”

  Very little, actually. They were just standing there behind me in a row, staring at the monitor. Katrina was biting on her lip and trying not to cry.

  “Let’s just cut this shit out, okay?” Lyle growled, his eyes darting nervously about the set. “I ain’t in the mood for this.”

  “What are you in the mood for, Lyle?” I asked. “Would an Uncle Chubby story do? Okay, I’ll tell you one. You just relax and enjoy, because it’s a real whopper.”

  He glared at me, sweat forming on his upper lip.

  “Once upon a time,” I began, “there was a big, big television star. In fact, he was the Number One star in the whole country. But he was a sad, sad star. He felt trapped—he gets that way sometimes. He wanted to be free. So one day he decided to cancel himself … Pretty ingenious of you, too, the way you set yourself up. First you phoned in the complaint to the police, posing as Lillian Young, the assistant manager of the theater. It was a snap—all you had to do was go into a vacant office and plug in your voice-disguiser telephone, the one you use to duck God when he calls you. You implicated Tommy Meyer to throw people off. In fact, Tommy had zero to do with it. His skeegee life-style simply gave you the idea, that’s all. Then you tipped off the press in advance to maximize the exposure. You went to the Deuce planning to be arrested. And it worked like a charm. You were scandalized. You were destroyed. True, it was pretty humiliating. But it was worth it to you. Besides, a fallen star can always win back public sympathy with a couple of suicide tries. Fakes, both of them. You had no intention of killing yourself either time. You knew someone would find you. The day you hired me, Lyle, you said somebody tried to take Chubby from you, murder him. That person was you, Lyle. Why did you do it? Tell us why. Your family wants to know. Your family has a right to know.”

  Lyle was perspiring freely now, his makeup streaming down his face in rivulets. He looked like he was melting.

  “Speak up, Lyle. Don’t be bashful. That’s not like you.”

  His chest began to heave. “You can’t imagine what it’s like,” he said quietly, between gritted teeth. “Being chained to the same stupid character for your whole fucking life. Not allowed to be anyone else. Not allowed to do anything else. The same stupid little show, week after week after week. Stupid stories, stupid fucking little kids …” His eye
s took in the set. “Trapped here, inside these three crummy walls. No way out. None …”

  “Fiona was right about you, Lyle. She told me that deep down inside you hated Chubby. Because deep down inside you believed you were much, much bigger than this. You wanted to be Belushi. A movie star. An idol. Only, the public would never let you be someone else, anyone else. To them, you were good ol’ Uncle Chubby, period. So you went on playing good ol’ Uncle Chubby and watching the Billy Crystals and Dana Carveys achieve the big-time stardom you craved. And felt you deserved. And it ate you up inside. So much so that you decided to take matters into your own hands. You set yourself up—turned Uncle Chubby, his show, and all of his merchandise into poison. So you could be free of him.”

  “I had the right,” Lyle insisted. “It’s my life, my career. I didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “What about all of the people who you threw out of work, Lyle? What about your family?”

  He filtered that one out. “I had the right,” he repeated stubbornly.

  “Okay, maybe you did,” I conceded. “Maybe killing Chubby was a victimless crime. Just like getting caught with your dick in your hand was a victimless crime. But you didn’t leave it at that, did you? You couldn’t. Because it backfired on you. For one thing, there was such a hue and cry from civil libertarians that the network had to bring you back. And you had to come back—because your agent couldn’t get you a movie job. Not one. And because you were broke. You blew most of your money on those houses you gave your ex-girlfriends. Whatever you had left was quickly slipping through Katrina’s fingers. Ten million on your beach house alone.”

  “Katrina’s a magician,” Lyle sneered. “She can turn money into shit.”

  I heard a scuffle behind me. Katrina, in tears, was trying to flee the booth. Very blocked her path.

  “Besides, the really big bucks come from syndication,” I added. “That meant one more season. So you came crawling back. You had no choice. Just as God had no choice in letting you. You agreed to tell all in a memoir, too. Again for the money. You wanted a best-seller. You wanted me. To rope me in, you told me someone set you up that day at the Deuce. You stole your own sweater to make it look like this someone was still after you. And to make yourself into an even bigger victim than the public thought you were. This was strictly you hyping your book. For the money. And for the attention. You need attention. Let’s never forget that. And you need something else, Lyle. You need control. Total control. You just have to have your way. If you don’t get it, well, we all have a pretty good idea what happens when you don’t get it … From day one this season, God wouldn’t let you have it. Oh, sure, he knuckled under to public pressure. Brought you back. But on his terms. He wanted changes. He wanted Chad Roe in the show as a love interest for Fiona. He wanted to see more of them and less of the ol’ Chubster. He wanted to ease you out. It was to the network’s advantage. You’re unpleasant, you’re unstable, and you’re expensive. Plus your image as a role model for kids—your kids—frankly sucks. It was to just about everyone else’s advantage, too. Certainly The Boys, who’d get to run it, and Amber, who’d direct. The Kids could move up. Fiona could stretch. Lots of people around here would be happy with you gone. And that threw me off for quite a while, Lyle. Because I kept thinking you were the victim. I thought one of them was the perpetrator. Possibly even all of them together. I had it backwards. You were the perpetrator. You were rat-fucking your own show. Strictly to get your way. When God stuck you with Chad, you said fine, and then refused to speak to the poor guy. Wouldn’t give him direction. Wouldn’t let him use your john. You treated him like complete shit. Even went so far as to assign him to me, with my two hours of experience in the business, and then forbade me to speak to him. You treated his character the same way. Instructed The Boys to write him like a complete dick. Gave him woefully little to do in the season premiere. In fact, he was barely in it. Not that this escaped the network’s notice. After the first cast reading Marjorie gave you God’s verdict in no uncertain terms. We want more Rob, and we want the audience to like him. You didn’t want that—it spelled the end for you, and you knew it. You bellowed and you roared, but it did you no good. Marjorie wouldn’t budge. So you caved in. Devised a new second act where Rob and Fiona got some quality airtime together in the Japanese restaurant. Your idea. Then you turned right around the next morning and bombed the set, which ‘forced’ you back into using the one you’d originally called for, the pool hall. Again, your idea. Seize the initiative was what you called it, I believe. Once again this was you getting your way. Or trying. Somewhat extreme, but quite effective. Besides, no one got hurt, and the set was your own property. If you had to nuke it to get your way, hell, that’s what creative differences are all about. Nice bit of publicity, too. Where did you get the blockbusters, anyway?”