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

that represent each and every move an actor makes within each and every scene. It’s the attention to detail on camera-blocking day that saves a show on the following shoot night. “It allows for the freedom to get back to the funny,” J.T. would always say.
    William raised his arm to play-punch J.T. in the shoulder,
    thought better of it, and scratched his head. “Hey, buddy—I knew you wouldn’t mind if I was a little late on Thursday. Maybe a lot late! It means so much to me. To my family . Quitting smoking and all. Then becoming a triathloner. I mean, it’s major! Life-changing!
    And I also cleared it with the Pooleys,” he added, sincerely. “During sex!” William thought his bit was hysterical. Then, when J.T.
    once again failed to move a single facial muscle, William went back to his sincere expression.
    He was so sincere J.T. just wanted to slap him, but felt Natasha on his shoulder, whispering, Jeremy .
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    W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
    “Yeah. What director needs his A.D. on camera-blocking day?
    And very wise of you to clear it with the showrunners before clearing it with your director.”
    “Now, don’t make me feel guilty,” William said, sincerely. He
    glanced nervously at Ash, who had slipped away to the drinks table and was now quietly moving closer to J.T. “I cleared it with Jasper, only he’s dead now. And listen, you’ll have my assistant. My second A.D. And she’s better than I am! No shit. She really is better than me!”
    “Well then, maybe she should have your job.”
    “Hey—J.T., it’s me. Baby, it’s me! William . I’m there for you, man. I’ve always been there for you, man. You know I’d never let you hang out to dry. After sex. Remember. It’s me,” William insisted . . . sincerely.
    J.T. started to tremble, this time from anger. We haven’t even started and we’re already behind schedule (after sex), you fucking ass, he thought. Sabotaged by his right-hand man, his A.D.—the very
    first person from the show he’d made contact with. One for one .
    J.T.’s jaw muscles were steroidal in size from grinding his teeth.
    Ash placed his large hand on J.T.’s shoulder. “How about a nice glass of pure, one hundred percent California orange juice, J.T.?
    It’s pulp-free .”
    “Pulp-free—that kinda sums it up,” J.T. said, taking the juice
    from Ash. “Yeah, thanks. Just what the psychiatrist ordered.” He drank it slowly, willing himself to calm down with every sip.
    William was waiting like an eager puppy for a response. “So
    whattaya say, J.T.? Can I go? You’re not mad, right?”
    “Mad? Nah. Sure. Go. Hope you win, William,” J.T. said, know-
    ing full well that William was a long shot to even finish, let alone win. But he gave William a gentle pat on the back. He hoped it’d leave a bruise.
    Ash shot J.T. a look. He was impressed. Ash had been poised
    for the first of the many lectures (explosions, really) to be expect-R o b b y
    B e n s o n
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    ed from J.T. on the subject of professionalism. But no. J.T. had pledged to Natasha and Jeremy that he would stay in control. And he managed it this time. Ash grinned.
    J.T., on the other hand, felt his stomach begin to make excess
    acid. It was no longer Natasha on his shoulder; now J.T.’s inner voice had developed Tourette’s syndrome: Jeremy. Insurance. Jeremy. Insurance. Jeremy. Insurance .
    People started to file into the room. J.T. looked down at his
    watch. One minute to ten. Not one of the skilled department
    heads went anywhere near the food. Their collective feeling of resentment was palpable as they assembled for the meeting. A hit show—the number one show—and not a one of them wants to be
    here, J.T. thought . Not good . Again .
    They were all pros; they had done their homework. This epi-
    sode had a script that they knew would probably be a page-one
    rewrite by the next morning. But their job descriptions told each and every one of them that they had to follow this script as if it