Middle Men (9 page)

“Do you need anything else, Mr. Lavoy?”

“No, I can manage. I'm not a fucking child.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

•  •  •

For the next two hours, as lights were tested and contestants prepped, Adam drove the Benz back and forth between the research library and the soundstage production booth, delivering
game scripts and updated schedules for promo shoots. After his last run before taping started, he bumped into Doug outside the office. Doug, on his smoke breaks, always wore a leather gimp mask. It was black with silver zippers. Doug had made friends with all the prop masters on the lot and he kept his office stocked with weird getups. A few years ago he wore the gimp mask outside on a dare, delighting the Teamsters who were lined up at the lunch trunk, as well as a passing tour group, who snapped pictures of him. Doug enjoyed the attention and he wore the mask a few more times. It got to the point that the tour guides began to look for this lurid creature, pointing him out as a hallowed studio legend, like the ghosts that supposedly haunted Stage 21. Doug was now weary of the attention, but he told Adam that he felt an obligation to maintain the facade of wackiness. During Adam's time as a temp, in which he stuffed over sixty thousand envelopes, most of the staff treated him politely, but nobody asked him anything about himself. Doug was the only person who acknowledged the possibility that Adam had a life beyond stuffing envelopes. He had spotted Adam going off to lunch one day with a copy of
The Man Who Was Thursday
in his hand, and a righteous bond was forged.

“Well?” he said.

“I drove around in a golf cart with Max Lavoy.”

“Living the dream, bitch.”

“I asked if he needed anything else, and he said, ‘I'm not a fucking child.' That was the single greatest moment of my life.”

“The man is human,” said Doug. “Don't forget that.”

“When I was growing up my family watched him every night at dinner.” Adam pointed to the distant banner of Max. “We'd sit on the couch and shout the answers.”

“I hear that a lot.”

“I'm stoked.”

“You'll get sick of it,” said Doug. “And then you'll hate yourself for getting sick of it. I've got five more years guaranteed on my contract. Five years! Nobody in town has that and I still curse God because I haven't sold my pilot.”

“I didn't know you wrote a pilot.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“What's it about?”

“It's called
Paralegals
. It explores the world of paralegals.”

“Fuck you. I love it here.”

“Yeah, but you're young and stupid. And ugly.”

“If you knew some of the jobs I've had.”

“I was a writer's assistant on
Mr. Belvedere
.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Adam.

There was a grim silence, as if Doug had just confessed his role in some infamous wartime atrocity.

“So how'd you end up writing questions for Max?”

“I don't know,” said Doug, releasing smoke from his zippered mouth. “I sort of failed my way to the top.”

He put out his cigarette on the side of his head and went back inside.

Most of Adam's responsibilities involved prep work, so once taping started he didn't have much to do. For a while he checked his email and fantasy sports leagues; then he took out an index card and put together his open mic set for later that night. Trying to perfect one bit, he crossed out the word
cabrón
, replaced it with
puto
, but after thinking about it for a long time, he crossed that out and put
cabrón
back in. It was torture making these kinds of decisions.

He got a free lunch ticket on tape days—the studio perks
were coming thick and fast—and on his walk back from the cafeteria, he stopped by the soundstage to pocket free cookies and watch Max in action.

Black curtains surrounded the gilded set. The wings were hushed and dark and Adam found a place behind the contestant coordinators, who stood poised with hair gel and bottled water. Max, taking his cue, walked over and chatted with the contestants. The first one, a pediatrician from Omaha, flubbed her defining personal anecdote. Max covered his mic and whispered something that made her laugh. It was a polite laugh, but that didn't matter; looking more relaxed, she did fine on the second take, describing a fairly benign misadventure on her honeymoon in Yellowstone, and there was palpable relief in the studio audience. Adam had to give Max credit. Though pompous and strange, he was good at his job. Because they taped five shows a day he only worked about fifty days a year, pulling in ungodly sums of money, but still, everything depended on him, and if he were ever to quit, it would spell doom for everyone on staff, from the executives down to the production assistants.

“Good, you're here,” whispered Melanie, suddenly behind him. “Max is out of Diet Rite.”

“No.”

“Yes, it's true,” she said, in a dry, withering tone that Adam loved. “I need you to stock the fridge in his dressing room before this game ends.” She handed him the key. “The holiest of holies. Don't linger.”

Adam made a lap of the set, first grabbing a twelve-pack from the pantry, and then moving with stealth toward the dressing room, which was just on the other side of the giant blinking game board.

The dressing room had a nice leather couch, a coffee table piled with magazines, and a small closed-circuit television tuned to the live feed of the game currently in progress. There was a large mirror surrounded with lightbulbs, and on the dressing table below it a framed photo of Max with a German shepherd. In contrast to the natural solemnity of the dog, Max's smile was eager and silly. Black-and-white publicity shots covered the far wall, but in these his smile seemed less genuine: Max getting his star on the Walk of Fame, Max with some underprivileged kids, Max hamming it up with Leonard Nimoy.

Adam stocked the mini-fridge and then, for a long time, he just stood there, lingering. Faintly, he heard the final-round theme song begin, which meant that he had at least thirty seconds to take advantage of the blazing mirror. After a medley of bad impressions—Connery, Bronson, Shatner—he did an abridged version of Dirk Diggler's concluding monologue from
Boogie Nights
, but when he got to the grand finale, he decided it would be tacky, in the these circumstances, to pull out his dick.

But he did it anyway.

The door started to open. Adam zipped up and then turned quickly, shamefully, to find a woman holding a blow-dryer and makeup kit. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I'm Adam. The new P.A.”

She started to nod, but hesitated.

“Max was out of Diet Rite.”

“Oh!” she said brightly, and this seemed to resolve everything. Adam forced a smile and left the room.

At four o'clock, when the final game wrapped, Adam collected all the game scripts and shredded them, for security
purposes. The evening mail drop came and he spent a few minutes sorting Max's fan letters. A lovestruck woman in Kalamazoo had decorated her envelope with hearts and question marks. When the last of the senior producers left, he waited five minutes, to give the impression that he was busy and working late, and then he turned off his computer and exited through a back door.

The rain had stopped. A shuttle made the rounds, taking people to the parking structure at the far end of the lot, but Adam preferred the long walk through the giant soundstages. He liked spying on the sets of future blockbusters. Now and then he saw a movie star, but he always got more excited when he identified a character actor. He was proud of this ability, thinking it showed a deeper commitment to the culture.

Adam's car was parked at the top of the structure, which gave him a panoramic view of the city. On most days downtown was obscured by smog and haze, but now, after the rain, he could see the glass towers rising like columns of fire in the evening light. There was even a rainbow, connecting Baldwin Hills to the south and the 10 freeway to the north; it arched over the studio buildings and Adam felt blessed as he noticed something both beautiful and preposterous, the kind of thing that was only possible in Los Angeles. Beneath the rainbow, in the immediate foreground, there was a white windowless warehouse, three stories high, with two giant words painted on the side: “Scenic Backdrops.”

•  •  •

Adam drove to El Goof, a beer dungeon on Lincoln Boulevard. It wasn't crowded yet; a few regulars milled around in the darkness, playing
Ms. Pac-Man
and talking with the owner
and MC, Frankie “El Goof” Moreno. He was a fellow SoCal, a fat stoner with a stringy black ponytail and one eye that was significantly more bulgy than the other. Adam waved to him.

“I already put you down,” said Frankie, holding up his clipboard. “You're going first.”

This was Adam's preferred spot—he liked to go first and get it out of the way. Adam thanked Frankie and left to get dinner. He drove one block to Del Taco and spent an hour in the parking lot, devouring his macho-sized No. 1 combo, listening to the Dodgers game, and going over his three minutes.

A homeless man interrupted him, tapping his window and asking if he wanted to buy a copy of
Street Spirit.

“No, thanks,” said Adam. “I read it online.”

Nothing. Adam started rummaging for some quarters, but the man had already moved on to other cars waiting in the drive-through line. After a little while, the nerves hit. Adam got out of his car, walked behind a dumpster, and methodically threw up his dinner. This was all part of his Friday routine.

He looked down Lincoln Boulevard, a treeless span of auto body shops, futon outlets, and discount shoe emporiums. Adam savored these sights, knowing that someday, in a nostalgic mood, he would look back fondly on his tawdry origins.

When he returned to El Goof, the place was full, which wasn't unusual on a Friday. Frankie had recently rebuilt the stage and invested in a new PA system that didn't electrocute the talent. Booking agents had started to show up regularly and several people who performed there had landed some nice paid gigs. Adam bought a bottle of Coors Light and took his usual seat next to Sleeper Cell, a sketch troupe made up of Persian degenerates from the Caliphate of Brentwood. They specialized in airport security gags. One of them was insanely
talented and had recently moved up another level at the Groundlings. Adam expected to see him on TV at some point, getting sodomized with a broomstick by Jack Bauer. No one else in the room would be that lucky. Behind him there was a guy named Ramon, who for the last six months had been working on the same bit about the disappointing lack of starring roles for Mexicans: “
Lawnmower Man
—no Mexicans!
The Mexican
—no Mexicans!” It had potential, but he just couldn't get it right. In front of him, a college girl studied her notes, which she kept in her Trapper Keeper. That was one of her jokes, owning a Trapper Keeper. It was ironic. She was supersmart and hip, and on some nights she was easily the funniest person in the room, but she wasted most of her time talking about all the weirdos who stalked her online. One of the stalkers, Adam assumed, was sitting to her right, a pale and neatly groomed bearded man of indeterminate age wearing a stiff pair of jeans and a yellow Izod shirt. He didn't wear a belt on his jeans and typically, instead of jokes, he divulged repugnant details about his personal life. Hemorrhoids, flatulence, the metallic scent of his urine—these were the wellsprings of his comedy. He had the humid lips of a pedophile, and after three minutes of his squint-eyed horror, everyone in the room wanted to go home and take a shower. But Frankie had a democratic spirit and gave everyone a chance to be heard. Favoring his bad leg—an old spearfishing injury—Frankie mounted the stage and did his normal intro.

“Welcome to comedy night at El
Gooooof
!” Frankie was a laid-back guy but he always let loose on the goof. It actually got Adam pumped up. “If you don't know already, everybody gets three minutes. When you see my flashlight, start wrapping up. Please be attentive and respectful. And remember. You're
here to entertain the people in front of you, tonight, in this room. If you have a bigger agenda than this room, then congratulations. The exit is right there. We'll see you on
Carson
.”

“Carson's dead!” shouted Chris Hobbs, a handsome twenty-three-year-old from someplace back East. Most of his material dealt with his adventures as an earnest young man trying hard to make it in Hollywood. Apparently, during his two months here, he had met a lot of phonies. Also, the traffic drove him nuts. Every time he opened his mouth Adam wanted to carve his face with a broken beer bottle.

“Or
Leno
,” said Frankie. “You know what I mean.”

“Leno sucks,” said one of the terrorists, getting a round of applause.

“He's not so bad,” said Frankie. “Dude has to reach a broad audience.”

Frankie was basically just a local. He had never done stand-up, which made his solicitude toward the worst people on earth, comedians, a total mystery. After Adam's first set at El Goof, he had been very encouraging, though as time wore on Adam didn't understand why he didn't do more to help, like giving him longer sets or introducing him to booking agents. But Adam knew he was being ungrateful. Every Friday, Frankie sat in the back of his crappy bar, laughing generously and running outrageous tabs. Adam thought of Father Damien among the lepers.

“Okay. Let's have some fun,” said Frankie, looking at the clipboard. “Our first comedian tonight is Adam Cullen.”

Mandated applause. Adam rising from his squeaky folding chair, floating down a tunnel of light. Frankie with a pat on the shoulder. Up the steps, beer in hand, and then the turn, facing the audience, a dark treacherous bog. On a dead
run: “I finally found the self-help book that's going to unlock my potential. It's called
Mein Kampf
.” Nothing, absolutely nothing. Only Frankie with a squeal of delight. “I've got the audiobook on my iPod and it really gets me going when I'm doing hills on the elliptical.” Coughs, bottles sliding back and forth on tables. Pausing. A fatal mistake opening with Hitler. Still paused. “Um.” Peeking at the index card. “Fine. Let's have some fun. We'll play the dozens. Here we go. Yo mama so fat . . . she died of complications from diabetes.” Thirty faces cringing. “More? Sure. Yo mama so stupid . . . she was declared legally retarded and made a ward of the state. Her kids are now in foster care. It's a vicious cycle, people.” Too grim, too grim. “On weekends I play soccer in the park with some of my friends from the Honduran immigrant community. They love me and they've given me a nickname—
cabrón
, which I believe is Spanish for ‘champion.'” A few ripples out there. Strike with pathos. “The worst job I ever had was clerk at a party supply store. It was like being alone on my birthday five days a week.” That's right. Feel the joy. “Um.”
Ms. Pac-Man
pinging in the back. To the index card. Looking for something to please the rabble. “Do you know what I like most about pornography? The raw and explicit content.” Nothing. “Plus the whimsical sense of humor that presides over the industry. You know, the way porn titles make puns on Hollywood movies. I saw a great one the other day for
The Matrix
. It was called
Teenage Ass Sluts Volume Ten
.” Wretched and obvious, longest setup in history. Keep going. “Maybe I don't quite know what a pun is, but that's because I was educated on the streets.” Sip of domestic beer. “Of New Haven, Connecticut. I graduated from Yale with a degree in economics.” A car alarm outside. “Um.” Um. Fuck. Um is doom. “Um.” Playing with the mic cord. Red-faced.
Sinking into the bog. “Thank you.” Giving up, before Frankie even flashed his light.