Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood by Robby Benson Read Free Book Online

was getting a second or maybe a third life in show business.
    “Maybe a fourth or a fifth . . . anyway, call me, J.T. UVWYXZ!”
    Then the phone rang again. It was Debbie from the network
    saying it was, like, great that J.T. was on board. Then the phone rang again. It was Lance. The studio couldn’t be happier with the choice to have someone so experienced come in at this tragic but chaotic moment; someone to keep the ship sailing; someone to keep the train on track; someone who could keep the ball in play .
    “Jeez. Do they actually go to Cliché School?” Natasha mut-
    tered.
    The phone rang again—two voices, one male and one female.
    The Pooleys were so excited to be working with someone like J.T.
    They had heard so many old, er, great stories about him.
    Where’s the fucking sunset when I need it? J.T. thought. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the smog of Los Angeles and everything that represented to him.
    J.T. ran to the sink and threw up. He was savvy enough to know
    he was being asked to step into a hornet’s nest. No one in Hollywood would ever say anything positive about him and he knew
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    W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
    that. Something was really wrong. Lance’s train needed to stay on track; his ship needed a sailor; his baseball needed to be kept in play— out of foul territory . There definitely wasn’t a fair territory in this game. There never had been. And speaking of has-beens . . .
    He threw up again.
    “Now who’s the cliché?” J.T. tried to say as he wiped his
    mouth.
    Natasha put her arms around her shivering husband/director.
    So fragile, she thought. She cleaned him with a warm hand towel.
    “We should’ve changed our phone number again. Do you
    think you have to go?”
    “You know I have to go,” was all he said as Jeremy ran into the kitchen. He wanted a snack but knew he couldn’t eat or drink past eight o’clock because he was due at the hospital for blood tests, then the dialysis . . . Natasha and J.T. went silent.
    “Who puked?” Jeremy asked.
    “Your father was finally hit with the postpartum, cow-birthin’, Green Acres blues,” Natasha said.
    J.T. tried to smile and hide his shaking from his child.
    Jeremy, however, absorbed everything. From having to face
    daily medical traumas, he had knowledge of the world that other kids his age just didn’t have. He bravely understood that without a kidney transplant, he would die. “Dad, please don’t go back into the caves. Please. Please don’t contaminate yourself with those people because of me. Please.”
    “Contaminate?” J.T. said, still trying to distract Jeremy. “I’m not sure if that’s the right—well—no, come to think of it, that is the right word. Never mind.”
    The caves . That’s what J.T. called the soundstages. When J.T.
    worked, he would usually enter the caves before the sun rose and leave the caves late into the darkness of night. The weather was a constant in the caves. Reality was warped within the caves . Mil-R o b b y
    B e n s o n
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    lions of dollars were at stake, so in order to attain success, people allowed almost anything to go on inside the caves.
    Anything .
    What went on in the caves was biblical in scale: people lost all sense of priorities and moral proportion in the service of their own advancement. Temptation, power, and delusion ran rampant
    within the caves.
    “Mom, I know. It’s not my fault and could I please go to my
    room while you and Dad talk . . . and then Dad will pack and
    then . . . he’ll leave. I’ll go to my room. I love you.” Jeremy grabbed a banana and left.
    With everything J.T. and Natasha were trying to microman-
    age cerebrally, they also had a jolt of pride because of their son’s
    . . . compassion. True compassion, J.T. thought. He’s doomed . Why couldn’t he be more selfish? Why couldn’t he be a good little jerk, like a regular kid? Why did he have to be so damn good?
    “I’ve gotta corrupt this kid, Natasha,” J.T.