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

the remote attached to the nurse’s call button.
    “Daddy, who . . . ?” Jeremy’s vocal cords had so little air to support his voice that strange
    harmonics were taking the
    The Hollywood Dictionary
    place of his natural speak-
    THE QUAD SPLIT (TAKE ONE): A
    ing voice.
    single monitor that shows four
    Natasha urged him to
    different camera angles at once.
    drink some ice water. “Who
    what, sweetheart?”
    R o b b y
    B e n s o n
    4 5

    “It’s okay, Jeremy. Just close your eyes. Sleep.” J.T. spoke with the helplessness of a father who could not control the situation and the authority of a television director who was used to being in control of everything.
    “Daddy?”
    “Yes, Jeremy. We’re here.”
    “Who . . . who stole the . . .”
    “Who stole the what, sweetheart?” J.T. asked, concerned that
    his son might be hallucinating from the drugs.
    “No one stole anything, darling,” Natasha said, her voice nur-
    turing.
    Jeremy’s eyes, clear with the genius of innocence, slowly moved from the television to his father.
    “Daddy—Who . . . stole the funny?”
    “Who stole the funny?” J.T. repeated. He snapped his head
    back and looked at his wife, dumbfounded. Brilliant. Our kid is fucking brilliant!
    Monday
    J.T. was barreling along Sepulveda Avenue in a jalopy that had
    barely passed the California roadworthiness test eleven months
    before, trying to steer with one hand and talk with the other. He was on the phone with his agent, and he wasn’t smiling. “You mean to tell me—”
    “J.T., J.T., my main man-director-man-guy. No need to get up-
    set over the little things,” Dick Beaglebum interjected.
    “Dick, I’m driving a rental car with no brakes. I can’t stop the fucking thing,” J.T. said in a panic.
    “Why’d you rent a car with no brakes?”
    “Because, Dick, when I got to the counter and gave them the
    reservation letters that you faxed to me, they informed me that they don’t make reservations with letters, they make them with numbers ! Numbers!”
    “Well of course they do, J.T. Who confirms a reservation with
    letters? Really. I mean, that should’ve tipped you off right there.”
    J.T. veered to avoid a pedestrian. “Tipped me off? Dick, that
    was your way of telling me they weren’t going to give me trans-
    portation?”
    “J.T., you’re gonna crash and kill yourself if you don’t calm
    down.”
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    “Oh, I see. If I calm down, I won’t crash? Is that what you’re
    saying?”
    “Fuck you!” yelled the driver of a pickup truck.
    “Listen to yourself, J.T.”
    “I can’t hear myself over all of the honking horns! I’m going
    through red lights at major intersections! I just got cursed at by a redneck who’s more redneck than a real redneck!”
    “Huh? Just pull over, J.T.”
    “I can’t just pull over unless I want to use a pedestrian as a
    brake pad!”
    “Well . . . just coast until you stop.”
    “I’m going downhill !”
    “Well, go up hill.”
    “I can’t go uphill because I’m going downhill !”
    “Of course you can go uphill, J.T. If you’re going downhill,
    there must be an uphill, huh? Gotcha!”
    “I’m coming to another red light. Hold on, I’m going to try the emergency brake. Damn—I’m almost fifty! This is a shitty way to die!”
    “J.T.,” Beaglebum quickly said, “don’t tell anyone you’re almost fifty! They think thirty’s old. Forty’s the new cutoff. You can’t be funny if you’re over forty. Got it?”
    J.T. tossed the phone on the car seat, held his breath, and pulled up hard on the emergency brake. The rent-a-wreck skidded to a
    stop. He fumbled for the phone. “It worked.”
    “Good. Can you imagine the chatter around town if two direc-
    tors died on this show?”
    J.T. slumped in his seat. “Tell me I’m getting per diem. Tell me they’re paying for a hotel.”
    “J.T.—”
    “Nothing? Are you pleading poverty on the only bona fide hit
    show on TV?”
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    W H O S T O L E T H