The Boy Who Never Grew Up (61 page)

“Tell him I was in rehearsal and couldn’t be disturbed. And where’s Katrina with my macro-fucking-biotic lunch? I’m hungry enough to eat my foot.”

“I’ll get right on it, Lyle,” she vowed.

Lyle’s blue eyes twinkled at her impishly. “Thanks, kid. Y’know, that’s kind of a nice little ass you’ve got on,” he observed, admiring the curve of her tight jeans. “Been wearing it long?” Subtle he wasn’t.

Naomi giggled invitingly. Subtle he didn’t have to be. “As long as I can remember.”

“Don’t know why I never noticed it before.”

“Maybe you had your mind on other things,” she said coyly.

He cackled. “You go ahead and do
your
thing. I wanna watch.”

She headed off with her tail twitching, knowing he was watching her. Which he was. And from the look in his eyes it wasn’t just his foot he was ready to devour. She was next in line, definitely.

He moved over to the living room with Fiona and Chad and flopped down into Chubby’s easy chair, where he scanned the new pages, making those flatulent noises with his lips while he read. Chad and Fiona were reading them, too. When Lyle finished he tossed the new scene aside and said “Okay, whatta we think?”

Fiona tipped her head forward so her hair shielded her face. “I’d like to be a little more in the moment,” she replied, gurgling. “I’m always so centered all the time.”

“You have to be,” Lyle pointed out firmly. “You hold the place together.”

“But no one holds
me
together,” she countered, glancing down at the script. “Like Rob asks her how she feels about dinner. She says, ‘I happen to be a big supporter of the food pyramid.’ She has to have some vulnerability under that, like … ‘I happen to be a big supporter of the food pyramid—of course, I also supported Jerry Brown.’ Or—”

Lyle let out his
hoo-hah-hah
of a laugh. “I love that. Get it down,” he commanded the typist. “How about you, Chadster?”

Chad took off his glasses, thumbed his big, square chin thoughtfully. “Who am I? That’s my gut reaction, Lyle. Who the hell am I? I’ve been asking you and asking you. You kept telling me it would all become clear to me when I saw the script. Well, I’ve seen the script. And it’s not clear. All I am is a passenger. I need some direction here, Lyle. We have to talk about this. And we have to talk about it
now.
”

Lyle shifted his bulk in the chair, staring at him. “Sure, okay. Whatever you say, pal. You wanna talk, we talk. You excuse us a minute, Fee?”

Fiona got to her feet. “I’ll be in my dressing room.” She slipped off the set and across the soundstage. As she neared the bleachers she spotted the first major new literary voice of the 1980’s, and came on over.

“Chad has a stage background,” she informed me. “He needs to talk things through,
feel
his character evolve.”

“And Lyle?”

She shuddered and began to claw at her cuticles. “Lyle goes more by instinct. He’s not very good at analyzing. Way too impatient.” She glanced over at Amber a few rows away. “Amber’s much more Chad’s kind of director,” she murmured. “But if he talked to her Lyle would freak. He’s very easily threatened.”

“Does he have reason to be?” I asked her, wondering how much she knew.

She hesitated, tipping her head forward. “This is TV.”

“Meaning what?” I asked, tipping my own head forward. I could barely hear her.

“Meaning,” Fiona replied, “we’re all replaceable parts.”

“Speaking of which, what happened to the milkman?”

“Lyle didn’t care for his delivery.”

“I see.” Or for someone else making jokes at his table.

“Oh, I spoke to Noble. About your book. He said it would be a positive thing for me to talk to you. He thought it would help me to get in touch with my inner core.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She headed off to her dressing room. Or possibly her inner core. On her way out she passed Naomi, who was on her way in with Lyle’s macro-fucking-biotic lunch. Lyle lit up at the sight of it. Or possibly her. Off came his mask, better to attack his plate of brown rice and beans and steamed veggies. He ate greedily, food spraying from his open mouth as he chewed.

“Okay, let’s talk,” he said to Chad, pausing to gulp down some mineral water. “Wait, where’s the Hoagster?” He spotted me in the bleachers. “Get your bony ass down here, man! Conference time!
Now!”

I stayed where I was.

“Hey, come here!” Lyle commanded, louder.

Phil, the stage manager, scampered over to me. “Uh, Hoagster? Lyle wants you on the set.”

I stayed where I was. The crew was staring at me now.

Lyle frowned at me, then heaved an exasperated sigh. “Uh, Hoagy, would you mind joining us for a moment,
please?”

“Be glad to, Lyle,” I replied cheerfully. I strode onto the set and sat next to Chad on the living room sofa.

“So you’re one of
those,”
Lyle growled at me.

“One of those what, Lyle?”

“People with
manners,”
he replied scornfully. “I bet people in your family say please and thank you and shit like that to each other all the time, right?”

“Actually, we don’t speak to each other at all. But we are very polite about not doing it. And Lyle? Don’t ever call me the Hoagster again. It makes me sound like some three-in-one garden gadget.”

He roared with laughter, just a great big jolly fat man. This was him trying to loosen up Chad. Maybe get him off of his back. It wasn’t working. Chad sat there with his script, totally focused. No dimp.

“Now what do you mean when you say you’re a passenger, Chad?” Lyle asked.

“I mean that I have no personality,” Chad replied earnestly. “I mean that I’m a consummate wienie. Even the kids think so. It’s right here in black and white.” Chad searched through the script. “Here when they’re watching TV. Erin says, ‘I think he’s a wienie.’ And Trevor says, ‘He seems okay to me—for a wienie.’ I
hate
being called that. Frank Rich called me that once in the
Times.
”

“Would you feel better if we changed the word?” asked Lyle patiently.

Chad considered this. “That’s a start.”

“To what?”

“How should I know?” Chad demanded petulantly. “I’m not a writer.”

Lyle looked around for his stage manager. “Phil?! Get The Boys, will ya?!” Phil promptly skedaddled off. Lyle cleaned his plate and belched and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his caftan. The mask went back on. I think I liked him better with it on. “Okay, what else is on your mind, pal?”

“Camera angles,” Chad replied, somewhat uncomfortably.

“What about ’em?”

“I, uh, have certain specific angles that I can’t be shot from. When I’m seated, I mean. At least I’d rather not be.” Gingerly, he tapped the crown of his blond head. So it wasn’t my imagination after all. The man actually had a bald spot. “It’s nothing major, but sometimes if the light hits me wrong there’s, well, a … shine.”

“Say no more, pal,” Lyle assured him soothingly. “No way I want you to look bad. You look bad, we look bad. Just remind me when we do the camera blocking on Thursday.”

“Thanks, Lyle,” Chad said gratefully.

Muck and Meyer came charging onto the set now, Lulu waddling along behind them. They had her dressed up in an Uncle Chubby T-shirt and crew cap, which was turned around backwards. She was one of the gang, and loving every minute of it.

“Trouble with the new pages, Chief?” asked Marty.

“Trouble with wienie,” Lyle replied. “Chad doesn’t feel good about it. What can the kids call him that isn’t so negative?”

“If it’s not negative it won’t be funny,” Tommy said with a pained expression on his face.

“What is it about wienie that bothers you?” Marty asked the actor.

“I’m trying to get a handle on this guy,” Chad explained, working the dimp. “I need to figure out who he is. About all I have to go on is that Erin and Trevor think he’s a wienie. And to me, a wienie is—”

“A dick,” snapped Tommy. “Commonly accepted sitcom euphemism.”

“Or schmuck,” added Marty, nodding.

“Well, I don’t want to play a dick or a schmuck.”

Marty crouched before us, his elbows on the coffee table. “Okay, so what we need is a new word …”

“Erin did call him a stud in the kitchen,” I mentioned. Never let it be said I don’t earn my paycheck.

Chad brightened. “Now stud’s a word I can—”

“Much too positive for here,” said Marty, trying it: “ ‘He seems okay to me—for a stud.’ No, definitely not. What we need’s a word like stud, only negative.
Slightly
negative,” he added hastily, before Chad could object.

Tommy tugged at his white forelock. “Pretty boy … Hunk …”

Marty: “ ‘He seems okay to me. For a hunk.’ Nah.”

“Beefcake. Stiff. Drip.” Tommy was whipping through them now. “Dork. Bozo. Gonzo. Yutz. Putz—”

“They won’t let us use putz at eight o’clock,” Marty said.

“Putz and a half. Putz and seven eighths—”

“Will you stop with the putz?”

“Sissy. Wimp—”

“Wimp means the same thing as wienie.”

“Not necessarily,” interrupted Chad, stroking his chin.

The Boys exchanged a hopeful look.

“You
like
wimp?” Marty asked him.

“Well, yeah,” replied Chad. “Because I’m obviously not one. To me, wimp says weakling. It’s a physical put-down. Whereas, you call a guy a wienie you’re attacking his manhood. Wimp is different. Because people will look at me and they’ll know I’m not one. Especially if I’m a rock climber.”

“Who’s a rock climber?” growled Lyle.

“Actually, we were thinking of making you a champion swimmer,” said Marty.

“We were?” asked Lyle.

“Ooh, I like that,” exclaimed Chad. “A guy who’s competitive, in great shape …” He frowned. “I don’t have to shave my chest, do I?”

“Not on my account,” replied Tommy.

“I had to shave it when I did
Tender Is the Night
with Debbie Raffin. Got this rash all over that took three weeks to go away.”

“From Debbie Raffin?” asked Tommy, with keen interest.

“No, from shaving my—”

“Is wimp okay with you, Chad?” Lyle broke in irritably.

“I feel good about wimp,” Chad affirmed.

Lyle heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Fine. If you feel good about wimp then I feel good about wimp. Thanks, boys. You saved the show.”

“Come on, Lulu. Let’s go.” Marty gathered her up in his arms and tickled her tummy, which made her leg twitch, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. She was in basset hound heaven. “Lulu’s our new Team Chubby mascot, Hoagy.”

“Her deadpan inspires us,” explained Tommy.

“Can we keep her?” asked Marty.

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

Off the three of them went, leaving me there with Lyle and Chad.

“What else, pal?” Lyle asked him with mounting impatience.

“Balls,” said Chad. “Rob needs some balls. Like when the two guys are fixing the dishwasher together. Chubby nails him about why he’s not married. Rob should nail him right back. He should say, ‘What are
you
doing sponging off of your sister, fatty?’ ” Lyle’s eyes widened. “Maybe not those exact words,” said Chad, beating a hasty retreat, “but he should be a
guy.”

“He
is
a guy,” Lyle argued. “Look, Chad, I understand what you’re going through here. You’re an outsider coming into a close-knit family. You’re not sure how you fit in. Rob’s in the same boat. He doesn’t know where he fits either. He’s feeling what you’re feeling.”

Chad listened intently, head bowed like a fighter soaking up last-minute advice from his trainer.

“So don’t block those feelings out,” Lyle continued. “Use ’em. Be yourself. Be the terrific guy you are. You’re a health ed teacher now. That was Hoagy’s idea. You’re hip. You’re relevant. The girls all wanna fuck ya. You’re hot.”

“I don’t feel hot,” Chad confessed.

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s this business about my bathroom. Leo told me that you said no way. I just can’t believe it.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, pal.” A hard edge crept into Lyle’s voice. “The studio won’t spring for it. Times are tough.”

“That’s just not acceptable, Lyle,” Chad declared angrily. “You can’t treat me this way. I’ve worked with Spielberg. I’ve worked with DePalma. I’ve done three series. And I’ve never, ever not had my own toilet. Not once. I want a toilet. I have to have one. Or I’m having my agent call God.”

“Fair enough, Chadster,” Lyle said pleasantly. “If that’s how you want it. Only answer me this: When was your last successful series?”

“What do you mean?” Chad’s voice quavered slightly.

“Lemme see now …” Lyle said, counting them off on his gloved fingers. “There was that piece-of-shit Indiana Jones rip-off you did for ABC. Then there was that piece-of-shit
Bull Durham
rip-off you did for NBC. Then there was that thing you did with Valerie Bertinelli where you were the alien.”

“I wasn’t the alien,” Chad retorted. “She was.”

Lyle suddenly turned vicious. “Who’s fooling who here, huh?” he snarled. “This show is
it
for you—your last series shot. You know it, I know it, and God sure as hell knows it. You’re, what, forty-five?”

Chad swallowed. He looked like he was about to be sick. “I’m forty-two.”

“Bullshit!” Lyle exploded. “You’re forty-seven. Your hair’s falling out by the handful and you’re fucking lucky to be here! So don’t go copping a fucking attitude with me, you fucking bastard, or so help me
I’ll
call up God and get you axed! This is
my
show!
I’m
the director!
I’m
the star! You’ll play the character I tell you to play and you’ll piss where I tell you to piss! Got it?!”

Everyone on the soundstage had stopped what they were doing. They were all staring at Lyle, transfixed. In the bleachers, Casey and Caitlin were gaping at him as if he were the monster in a real-life horror film.

Chad was too angry to speak. The man just sat there a moment, quivering, before he lunged for Lyle’s empty lunch plate and hurled it at him. It bounced harmlessly off Lyle’s big chest. Lyle jumped to his feet. They both did, Lyle towering massively over his new leading man.