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

were an authentic map rather than a harbinger of endless rewrites.
    (Reams upon reams of paper fed this mill, in a process that was largely responsible for the destruction of the Amazon forests.) Everyone from Props to Set Dressing to Wardrobe to Lighting knew
    they’d have to go through the motions of work for work’s sake, following today’s script, which wouldn’t remotely resemble tomor-
    row’s script.
    Despite all this, when the department heads saw J.T. there were small smiles and nods. J.T. smiled knowingly back at them, giving the camera coordinator, Doc Ray Piscatori, an especially broad grin as he filed past. Most of them had worked with him before.
    They’d witnessed J.T.’s legendary brawls with above-the-line executives and producers, coming to the defense of his crew. They felt the respect he had for them. They knew he was one of the
    few directors who understood that he could never do their jobs
    as well as they could, who knew that it was their experience, their 6 4
    W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
    professionalism, their schmuckiness that could haul a show out of the crapper and make it worthy of broadcasting to an audience of millions.
    What they didn’t know was how ashamed J.T. felt about the
    disparity between his salary and theirs, and how determined
    that made him to make sure that, at least on his watch, none of the fucking millionaires who made their money off the underpaid schmucks would ever treat the schmucks like schmucks. It
    was J.T.’s mantra. If he’d written it down, he’d have used a fancier phrase, like “utmost respect.”
    They all took their seats and opened their scripts, which had
    marks and highlights scribbled all over the pages. They sat in a rectangular configuration, the standard arrangement for production meetings and the table reads that followed them. J.T. sat at the head of the table. William, who’d stopped to grab more food, was disconcerted to find that Ash had already sat down on J.T.’s right, the notebook he always carried at the ready. William hovered momentarily before letting out a loud, indignant breath and lowering himself into the chair to J.T.’s left as regally as could be accomplished with a plateful of bagels in one hand.
    J.T. looked at his wristwatch: thirty seconds to an on-time production meeting. Not one member of the writing staff or a single producer was in the room. The showrunners, the Pooleys, were
    nowhere to be seen . Not good, J.T. mused.
    William stood up and spoke, very sincerely. “Uh rugruh—” He
    swallowed. “’Scuse me. I regret to tell you that our last director, Jasper Jones, died tragically this weekend. It’s really brutal. Awful story. Terrible. I won’t take up your time now, but if anyone wants to know the details, come to me after the meeting ’cause it’s really gruesome.” He looked around expectantly. No one looked like they wanted to take him up on the offer. A little deflated, he continued,
    “Um, so, that means Jasper Jones will not be directing this episode.
    But we have in our presence the one and only J.T. Baker. He’ll be R o b b y
    B e n s o n
    6 5

    with us for the next three episodes that Jasper can no longer do.
    Because he’s dead. Now, if you all will join me in a moment of silence for Jasper.”
    William closed his eyes and bowed his head. Then he startled
    everyone by beginning to intone, sincerely, “God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for . . . uh, this production meeting . . . and the food . . .”
    What a buffoon, Doc Ray thought. He rolled his eyes at Ash, who was trying to control his smirk.
    J.T. took the opportunity to look around the table at the crew.
    His colleagues.
    “ . . . and for this show . . . and the food . . . and for, you know, everything. And the food. Amen.” William looked up. “Thank you for sharing that moment. That was very kind of you,” he said, sincerely.
    “Now, how about a round of applause for J.T.! During sex!”
    The room was suddenly