The Boy Who Never Grew Up (57 page)

“Welcome back,” Lyle began, playing genial host. “I hope you all had a good summer. Smelled the flowers and soaked up the sun and ate corn on the cob and all that good stuff.” He paused, for comic effect. “On account of not one of ya is gonna see daylight again until
February!”

This drew a rousing laugh from his minions. Muck and Meyer dutifully faked their orgasms. So did Annabelle, who possessed a hearty
huh-huh-huh
that came up like a hiccough. Bobby sat there in tight-lipped silence. Me, I just wanted to go back to France.

Lyle turned to Casey and Caitlin. “Did you have a good summer, Munchkins?” he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

“We sure did, Lyle,” they replied, in unison.

“What’d you do?” he wondered, doting on them.

“I learned how to ride a horse,” said Casey. “His name was Ghost.”

Lyle shook his head in amazement. “You kids aren’t real. You’re straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.”

Amber sat against the wall with the runners, beaming.

“And how about you, Caitlin?” Lyle asked. “What’d you do?”

“I played with Archie, my new kitten,” Caitlin replied. Innocently, she asked, “What did
you
do, Lyle?”

Everyone in the room froze, instantly uncomfortable.

Lyle cleared his throat. “Me?” He scratched his chin under his mask. “I mostly played with myself.”

It was all a setup. A prearranged ice-breaker. And a triumph. The entire
Uncle Chubby
family roared its appreciation, applauded. Because their fallen hero was back—bloodied but on his feet. And able to laugh at himself. He winked at Caitlin, who happily returned the wink, pleased that their little gag had worked so well. She didn’t understand it, of course. Too young. She only knew that everyone laughed and that Lyle was pleased.

“We’ve got some changes around here this season,” announced Lyle, getting down to business. “First off, we got ourselves a new coexecutive producer, and she’s somebody all of ya already know—Katrina Tingle.” He put his arm around her. “Fast rise up the ladder, kid,” he teased. “You must be doing something right.”

“Or someone,” Tommy Meyer muttered under his breath.

Leo was suddenly very busy with her script and her stopwatch. She would not look up.

Katrina folded her hands before her on the table and raised her chin. She reminded me of a little girl about to introduce her experiment at a science fair. “I’m really looking forward to working with all of you this season,” she began.

Tommy let out a small squeak, barely audible. Marty snickered. Annabelle kicked Marty under the table. Marty kicked her back. The three of them had gone back to their roots—class clowns. Bobby, on my right, would have none of it. He sat there burning with artistic purity, and blinking. I could hear his eyelids flutter. It was like sitting next to a moth.

“Titles don’t mean a thing to artists,” Katrina squealed. “And that’s what all of us are—artists. What matters is we care about what we do, and we care about each other. I personally hate divisiveness. I hate, hate, hate it. We have to treat each other with respect and love. If we don’t, we can’t win. If we do, we can’t lose!” She paused. “I just hope we can all stay friends. Thank you.” It was a bizarre little pep talk, something of a cross between Knute Rockne and Shannen Doherty.

Lyle patted her hand. “Nice going, kid. And I think I speak for everyone when I say you’ve definitely got the biggest pair of cazongas of any producer in network television history. Moving right along …” he said, over the laugh. “Say hello to the newest member of our writing staff, Stewart Hoag.”

Everyone smiled at me. I smiled back. Not one of the things I’m best at.

“Frankly,” Lyle confessed, “Hoagy was forced on us. We’re an equal opportunity employer and the law says we gotta have someone on the writing staff who’s over five feet six.” More laughter. “I’d also like to welcome those cast members who are here with us for the week,” said Lyle, glancing around the table at them. “You’re in for a unique experience. We hope you enjoy being a part of our family. Anything we can do to make you feel more comfortable, let us know.”

“You could pay us,” joked the singing muffler actor.

Which got a big laugh, though not from Lyle. He shot him The Scowl. Before he relaxed and whined, “I do the jokes around here.”

Which got an even bigger laugh, naturally.

“I’ve saved our most significant new addition for last,”

Lyle declared. “Someone who I’m very, very excited about. As I’m sure we all are.”

Chad smiled warmly at everyone. He was better at it than me. That damned dimp helped.

“Contrary to what you may have heard,” Lyle said, a bit defensively, “it was
my
idea to introduce a new character to our show. A fella for Deirdre. I’ve always known exactly who I wanted for the part—an actor whose strength and intelligence and basic human decency have shined through every single performance he’s ever given … Unfortunately, Donald Sutherland wasn’t available.” He waved off the laugh. “Seriously, I’m so thrilled to have this man here. And when I told God he was my first and only choice, God was just as excited as I was. Please welcome a man who’s going to make a major, major contribution to
Uncle Chubby
for years to come. Joining us in the role of Rob Roy Fruitwell is …” Lyle frowned. “What’s your name again … ?” More laughs. “Chad Roe, everybody!”

Major applause. Chad acknowledged it gratefully, working the dimp. The man was really something. A political future was not out of the question.

“I’d just like to say one more thing,” Lyle added. “On a personal note. Maybe it’s not necessary …”

“But I’m gonna do it anyway,” muttered Tommy, running a gelid hand through his white tuft of forelock.

“But I’m gonna do it anyway,” Lyle stated. “Because, well, you all know that we almost didn’t make it back this season. And you all know why.” It got very quiet in the rehearsal room. The only sound was Fiona gurgling. “A lot of people thought we were finished. For a while there, I was one of those people.” His eyes welled up with tears. “Your support was the only thing that kept me going through the hardest few months I’ve ever had in my life. You people, you’re the only ones who stood by me …”

“Because you pay us to,” Marty murmured quietly.

“Knowing you were pulling for me kept me
alive,”
Lyle went on, emotionally. “And I’d like to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart. It’s because of you that we’re back.” He paused significantly, holding everyone’s attention. Knowing he would. “And now that we are, boys and girls,
we are gonna make us some noise!
We’re gonna do television like nobody’s done it before. Important television. Gutsy television. We’re holding
nothing
back. And America is gonna sit up and take notice. Because this … this is
our Emmy season!”
The man was working the room now, directing his ass off. “Is that okay with you, people? Huh?”

They answered him with cheers. They clapped their hands. Stomped their feet. Pounded the table. Though it wasn’t a table at all anymore. It was a balloon, and Lyle was lifting it up into the air with his words and his willpower. Almost like a form of creative levitation. A common preproduction ritual. In cruder circles, they call it the circle jerk.

“I’m very, very proud of the episode we’re about to read,” Lyle said, when it was quiet again. “It was written by The Boys, Muck and Meyer. And I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s the best first draft I’ve ever read in my entire career. It’s not just howlingly funny. It has taste, it has humanity. It’s
real,
and I consider it a privilege to—”

The door burst open. An uncommonly tall and slender and leggy young woman came striding in.

“Shit, it’s Chuckles,” grunted Tommy.

“Sorry I’m late, Lyle,” she apologized coolly. “I was in a daytime programming meeting and simply couldn’t get out of it.”

“Class, say good morning to Marjorie,” commanded Lyle, adopting the tone of a stern schoolmaster.

“Good morning, Marjorie!” everyone sang out, as she took her seat next to The Munchkins.

Marjorie Daw of the network had large, liquid green eyes, a swanlike neck, and ash blond hair cut in a short, bouncy style
Seventeen
magazine would no doubt call “spunk ’n’ sass.” She handled herself as if she’d spent her formative years walking around with a book balanced on top of her head. Every inch of her was erect and under control. Perfect posture. Perfect poise. Perfect grooming. She was your classic goody-goody, the kind who looked like she hadn’t done a single spontaneous, reckless, or fun thing in her entire life. The kind whom little boys of all ages like to splatter mud on. All that was missing was the white gloves, and I wouldn’t have been shocked if she had a pair in her bone-colored Coach bag, which went with the bone-colored career-girl pumps, the double-breasted ivory gabardine Brooks Brothers blazer, the long, slim, glen plaid skirt, the demure white silk blouse and the single strand of pearls—faux, judging by the way the light hit them. Or didn’t. She wore clear nail lacquer on her fingernails. No lipstick or other makeup. Her complexion was flawless, her features young and softly defined, as if there were no bones underneath the skin. She looked very familiar to me, though I couldn’t imagine why.

“The woman never laughs,” Marty advised me under his breath. “The ideal network exec to supervise a comedy.”

“Which, fortunately, isn’t a problem with this show,” cracked Tommy.

“How’s God, Marjorie?” Lyle asked her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He was going out of his way to make her uncomfortable.

“Godfrey is very well, thank you, Lyle,” she replied, steadfastly refusing to employ her boss’s nickname. “Number two son had an ear infection, but it cleared up.” She had an unusually precise way of speaking, each word carefully weighed as if she were delivering a valedictory address. She reached into her briefcase and removed a Cross pencil. Also her reading copy of the script, which she’d marked up heavily.

The Boys shot each other a look of fear and loathing.

“All set, Marjorie?” asked Lyle.

“Yes, Lyle. Thank you.” She whispered hi to Annabelle. They were evidently chummy. Me she smiled at. I smiled back. Lulu immediately let out a low, threatening growl at my feet. She sensed trouble. Possibly it was those green eyes. Merilee has green eyes.

“Okay, start the stopwatch, Leo,” Lyle commanded briskly. “Let’s take this baby for a little spin and see how she handles. …”

“I
LOVE THIS SCRIPT
!” Lyle exulted afterward, when everyone but the writers, Marjorie, and Katrina had filed out. “Every beat is absolutely, totally perfect. Neil Simon would be proud to have his name on it. We’re not changing a word.” He shot a fierce look down the table at Marjorie, defying her to contradict him. “Not one word.”

In fact, the reading had gone quite well. Everyone had laughed at all of the right places. Chad’s handling of Rob Roy Fruitwell had been surprisingly charming. All of which meant nothing. What mattered was how it played before an audience that wasn’t on the
Uncle Chubby
payroll. What mattered were those notes that were scrawled all over Marjorie’s script. God’s envoy had sat there impassively throughout the entire reading, her emerald eyes betraying nothing. She would make an excellent poker player. Most network executives would. They only lack for one element—nerve.

“I thought there were a few minor dents,” said Marty, glancing down at his notepad.

Lyle waved him off with a gloved hand. “We’ll fix those on the floor. No point in—”

“I’d like to hear what the writers have to say, Lyle,” Marjorie interrupted, quietly but firmly.

Lyle gave her The Scowl from behind his surgical mask. Disgustedly, he threw down his pencil and crossed his huge arms. “Okay, fine. Go ahead.”

“First act, end of scene one,” began Marty. “We need a stronger beat when he gets stuck out on the porch in the rain. ‘I hate my life’ doesn’t play.”

“I’m, like, we could move the Chia Pet gag there,” suggested Annabelle. “It got a huge laugh.”

Marty: “What’s funnier than a Chia Pet?”

Tommy: “A Thighmaster?”

Marty: “We’ll work on it.”

Bobby said nothing. Just gripped his script tightly, blinking.

Marty leafed through his script. “I’d also like to take another whack at the scene where Chubby and Rob fix the dishwasher together. We’ve got our Ruth Gordon gag and not much else. Rob needs more attitude.”

“I didn’t
get
your Ruth Gordon gag,” Katrina squeaked. “I mean, where’s the irony, comedically speaking?”

“It’s a guy thing,” growled Tommy, his complexion turning bluer, “You’d get it if you had a penis.”

“It’s a reference to
Harold and Maude
,” Marty replied pleasantly, smiling his smile at her. Clearly, the man went home and whipped small animals. Kittens, maybe.

“I think we should explain that,” she maintained doggedly. “So people will get it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It won’t be funny if we stick the title of the movie in there.”

“It’s not funny now,” she insisted, her little voice trembling.

“I know what’s funny, Katrina!” Tommy snarled, furious. “That’s why I get paid! To know what’s funny! If I say it’s funny, it’s
funny!”

Katrina swallowed, struggling to control herself. “Look, I don’t think you guys are addressing yourselves to what’s really wrong with this script.”

“Gee, I could have sworn I just heard Lyle say it was perfect,” Tommy pointed out bitterly.

“Well,
I
say you’re totally missing the point of what
Uncle Chubby
is about now,” she argued.

The Boys exchanged a look.

“Which is what, Katrina?” Marty’s voice was husky, with dread.

“It’s about the six million American kids who will go to bed hungry tonight.” She was back up on the soapbox. “It’s about the sixteen million who have no medical coverage of any kind. It’s about teen suicide and drug addiction and—”

“I’m, like, don’t get me wrongola, but where do the jokes come in?” wondered Annabelle with fish-eyed confusion.