5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  “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.”

  “Have you had one stolen before?”

  “No, never,” she replied, peering out at me from behind a pair of thick glasses. “I keep them locked up tight.”

  “I thought Lyle didn’t believe in locks.”

  “Lyle doesn’t, but I do. The wardrobe room is locked. Has to be. Otherwise it would be like leaving a small fortune lying around.”

  “Who has keys?”

  “To what, dear?” Gwen fumed impatiently.

  “The wardrobe room.”

  “Stephen, my assistant,” she replied. “Lyle, of course. And Katrina and Leo. But people are always in and out when we’re in there working. Common pilfering happens all the time. A real pain, but there’s no way to avoid it.”

  Annabelle introduced me to six or eight others as well. Too many to remember. All of them hoping that someone, anyone, knew how to turn down the air-conditioning. Leo did, but her departure, I’m sorry to say, freed up Chad Roe. The actor nailed me at the coffee pot.

  “Hoagy, nice to see you again, man,” he said warmly and earnestly.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I did Streetcar with Merilee at the Long Wharf,” he reminded me, moving in for the kill. “But, hey, I guess that was years ago, huh? How’s your novel coming?”

  Possibly I’m not being fair to Chad Roe. He really wasn’t a terrible guy. He was sincere, decent, politically and environmentally correct, solid, nice. It’s just that he was, well, too much of all of those things. A big oaf. A clod. Early in his career, he had been dubbed the next Redford. Never happened. He didn’t have the talent, just the looks. Still had them. Even at forty-whatever he remained maddeningly perfect looking—big and strapping and boyish in his blue chambray work shirt, faded jeans, and running shoes. The posture was perfect, the tummy flat, the hair still blond. Possibly it was thinning a bit at the temples and crown, but that may just have been my imagination. Or wishful thinking. The camera always liked Chad a lot. He had a jaw you could chop wood with and one of those automatic matinee-idol smiles that was all sparkling white teeth—sixty of them at least—and sincere blue eyes. And then there was his dimple. It was in his right cheek, and it showed whenever he smiled just so. Which he did with calculated regularity. Working the dimp was what Merilee had called it. It was a habit wi
th him. So was clinging. He always stood just a little bit too close when he was talking to you, forcing you to back away from him. No use—he’d just keep coming. He was always anxious to talk. He was always needy. He was, let us not forget, an actor.

  “Hoagy, I want you to know, straight out, that it’s not me,” he informed me solemnly.

  I started backing away. He stayed chest to chest with me. “What’s not you, Chad?”

  “I’m not the father. Merilee and I were, are, friends. But that’s all we are. Were. I mean, we’ve never—”

  “I see.” Chad was married to an actress himself. Brenda something. They had twins. “I appreciate hearing that from you, Chad. Means a lot.”

  “Sure, man. Sure.” He moved in closer.

  I moved back, until something ugly happened—I hit wall. I was trapped now. Doomed.

  Chad worked the dimp. “It changed everything for me when I heard you were joining the show. Lyle kept telling me about all of the serious things he wanted to do this season, but I have to admit I was skeptical—until I heard about you. I was genuinely surprised.”

  “As I was.”

  “Pleasantly, I mean.”

  “As I wasn’t.”

  “I mean, you’re … how else can I put this—you’re a guy.”

  “Seem to be, so far.”

  “You’re somebody I can talk to about Rob. Have lunch with, go to Mets games with—”

  “I’m more of a Yankee fan, actually.”

  “I have so many ideas for him.” Chad plowed on, undeterred. Nothing could stop this man, short of a sharp blow to the skull from a ball peen hammer. “He needs humanizing. He needs to be, I don’t know, more of a …”

  “A guy?” I suggested.

  “Exactly. What do you think about rock climbing?”

  “I suppose it’s fine for some people. Me, I’ve always preferred the relative safety of the lobby of the Algonquin and a nice glass of—”

  A huge cheer interrupted me. The King had arrived, masked and gloved, along with his beloved queen, Katrina, who was decked out in a sleeveless leopard-skin leotard, hot pink tights, and gold-colored spiked heels. Her hair was done up in a rather severe bun and she wore a pair of heavy black-framed glasses. All of which made her look a little like Mamie Van Doren showing up for her first day of law school.

  “I meant for Rob,” Chad said doggedly, barely noticing their entrance. “His hobby is rock climbing. It might give him that inner calm those guys have. Guys who stare death in the face. I once played a test pilot on The Love Boat, and he was like that. Calm. A climber’d have those strong hands, too. And wear the boots and stuff. What do you think, Hoagy?” He worked the dimp. “Want to talk about it over sushi today?”

  “I’m afraid Hoagy can’t,” Lyle replied for me. He’d worked his way over to us, and was clearly peeved. “He’ll be in rewrites. Would you excuse us a moment, Chad?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Chad pleasantly. “Say, Lyle, I still have some questions about my character.”

  “Later,” Lyle blustered. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “But that’s what you said on the phone last—”

  “We’ll talk about it later!” he roared.

  “Okay, Lyle,” said Chad, backing off. “Later.” Mercifully, he moved away.

  “You don’t wanna talk to that guy,” Lyle growled at me through his mask.

  “Hey, tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “I’m serious, pal,” he insisted. “I don’t want you talking to him. I want him speaking to me and me only. Got it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, Lyle. I speak to whomever I want to. Last I heard there was still a Constitution, and this was still American soil.”

  “You’re not on American soil. You’re on my soil.”

  “I may have to quote you on that one.”

  “Help yourself,” he snapped.

  “I generally do.” I couldn’t believe it—I was actually standing there fighting for my inalienable right to speak with Chad Roe.

  Lyle’s chest rose and fell. “Look, I want you involved. I do. I just want your input filtered through me, that’s all. So he gets one clear signal.” Lyle glanced around at the others, then edged in closer to me. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to get close to me that morning. “What do you think about my sweater, huh?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  “Gwen figures one of the crew took it. Big collector’s item.”

  Lyle shook his huge, round head. “Don’t kid yourself, man. That was no robbery.”

  “What was it then?”

  “A warning,” he replied, with total certainty. “I’m right and this proves it.”

  “Proves what, Lyle?”

  “Somebody in this fucking room wants me off the air. And they aren’t giving up.” He stabbed himself in the chest with a fat, gloved thumb. “Well, neither am I, Hoagy. They aren’t gonna win. I won’t let ’em, ya hear me? I won’t give ’em the satisfaction. They’ll never, ever—”

  “I need you, Lyle,” Leo broke in gruffly. “I have a problem—with Chad.”

  Lyle rolled his eyes. “Now what?”

  “It’s about the john in his dressing room,” she replied.

  Lyle stared at her. “He hasn’t got a john in his dressing room.”

  “Exactly,” she responded wearily. “He has to use the same men’s room out by the stairs that the crew uses. He says it’s filthy. Actually, the word he used was revolting. Plus all of the extras dress in there on tape day and he’s really uncomfortable about that, because he’ll be spending a lot of time in there.” She lowered her voice. “It seems the man has a … nervous colon.”

  “Why is Chad Roe’s colon my problem?”

  “He claims it’ll affect his performance,” she said. “He needs privacy to collect himself before he goes on. If he has to share a bathroom with everyone he won’t get it.”

  Lyle ran a gloved hand through his red curls, exasperated. “I can’t do anything about that. No one has their own john.”

  “Fiona has her own,” Leo pointed out.

  “Fiona’s been here three seasons.”

  “You have your own.”

  “Well, I’m not installing one for him.”

  “You installed one for Katrina.”

  “Katrina’s different,” fumed Lyle. “She’s an executive.”

  “Then how about sharing yours with him?” she asked.

  “What?!”

  “You won’t even see him,” she pressed. “He can use the outside door—it opens right out into the main office. He won’t have to go inside your dressing room at all.”

  “It’s my john!” Lyle raged. “Mine! I don’t want his germs all over it. Why would I want that, huh?” He shuddered. “No! I forbid it!”

  “Fine,” Leo said shortly. “I’ll tell him.”

  “Wait,” he commanded, glancing at the breakfast buffet. “Who sent that fruit basket?”

  “God did,” she replied.

  “Get rid of it—microbe city.”

  “Yes, Lyle.” She carried it off.

  Lyle shook his head in disgust. “Totally unreal. Where does it stop, huh? What next?” He shot me a cold look. “Remember what I told you, Hoagy. Don’t talk to him.”

  “What if we run into each other in the men’s room?”

  He didn’t answer me. Annabelle was right—whatever Lyle didn’t want to hear he didn’t hear. He wandered off.

  Katrina was busy playing hostess. Each and every person got a hug, a kiss; and a squeaky “We’re gonna have so much fun!” Randy, the art director, also got a paper napkin with a drawing on it. “My ideas for the set of Rob’s apartment,” she informed him. “Just in case we ever build one.” She left him staring at it in wide-eyed horror.

  When she got over to the writers she steered around Tommy, who was busy curling his lip at her. Not a major fan. Bobby, on the other hand, was a goner. He gaped at Katrina Tingle like a lovestruck fourteen-year-old. She dragged him to his feet
and hugged him and squeaked, “God, you’re so cute!” All he could do was give her a feeble grin. And blush.

  “Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom,” Tommy muttered as she went ootsie-fooing off, hooters heaving. Then he turned to Bobby and said, “That a yardstick in your pocket, Bobster, or are you just glad to see me?”

  Bobby dove back into his script, blinking furiously.

  Katrina carefully sidestepped Leo Crimp, refusing to so much as make eye contact with her former boss. When she got to me she lit up and cried, “It’s Hoagy!”

  Hugging her was somewhat like running smack into a pair of leopard-skin water balloons. I practically bounced off the woman.

  “Lyle is so glad you’re here,” she whispered. “He’s incredibly nervous about this episode. It’s so personal.” She deposited a wet kiss on my neck. “And I’m glad you’re here, too.”

  There was another big cheer when The Munchkins, Casey and Caitlin, arrived with Amber. They were an impossibly cute little pair of moppets with soft blond hair, tiny noses, and huge brown eyes. Casey was six, his sister five. Both reacted with pure delight at the sight of Lulu. She let out a low moan when she spotted them scampering her way, and skittered under the table. They went under there with her, tugging at her ears and making a big fuss, all of which she suffered in stoic silence. Amber, a taut, toothy Park Avenue blonde in her early forties, came over, too. Amber wore her hair back in a ponytail and no makeup or nail polish. Her face and hands were weathered by the outdoors, nearly leathery. But it was good leather, the kind that ages well. And there were strong bones underneath. She was dressed in jodhpurs and gleaming black riding boots and a white silk blouse buttoned at the throat. I wasn’t sure if she was affecting the severe Claremont Riding Academy look or the severe Erich von Stroheim look. I do know she carried herself with great authority and confidence, and wore no monocle. And I felt quite certain she owned a Range Rover.

  “You used to play squash at the Racquet Club with Niles,” she informed me, gripping my hand. Hers was firm and a helluva lot drier than Bobby’s. “Niles Walloon. I was married to him. I’m not anymore.”

  “That makes us even,” I said. “I’m not a member of the Racquet Club anymore.” Largely because of dullards just like Niles Walloon, a stiff-necked commodities trader, very old money. Everyone called him Walloon the buffoon.