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

hostile. The entire crew had already
    come to despise William and that stupid fucking joke. Then a few looked at J.T. and smiled.
    J.T. smiled back. “Well, all I can say is, William . . . that was a very moving tribute to Jasper Jones,” he said.
    “Are you fucking with me?” William narrowed his eyes.
    “No! I must say that I am saddened to be here—”
    J.T. was cut off by laughter. Everyone knew J.T. had escaped
    from L.A. and wouldn’t be back if he didn’t need the work—or
    the insurance.
    “—um, under these unfortunate circumstances.”
    “Okay,” William said, sincerely, “now that the tragedy is behind us, life goes on. And so does I Love My Urban Buddies . So allow me to begin this production meeting. Since we are waiting for the Pooleys, let’s take this opportunity to go around the table and introduce ourselves to our new director, J.T. Baker! Oh! And no one has signed up for the show’s softball team yet. Come on! Let’s show some team spirit! During sex!”
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    W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
    Silence. Then, “While you sleep, William. I’ll kill you while you sleep,” J.T. whispered. Everyone heard him.
    “Okay! Anyway, I give you—J.T. Baker!”
    “Um . . .” J.T. said, standing up, “William. Allow me to do the honors. You might remember that most of these folks are my buddies. Let’s see if I can go around the table and say hi to them. I need to gut-check my Alzheimer’s. Now might be a good time to start.”
    “You have Alzheimer’s?” William asked, sincerely incredulous.
    “No, William. But if I get it this week, I’ll forget that you won’t be there on camera-blocking day. And if I have it now but have forgotten that I have it and don’t make it through the week, don’t go out and get another director. Everyone moves up one .”
    The production meeting was off to a good start for J.T. The
    ones who mattered felt safe. William did not. Even during sex . J.T.
    had his A.D. firmly on the defensive, and it was only 10:04.
    J.T. always took the time to walk around the table on his first day, greeting each department head. J.T. was effusive with all of his emotions, including respect for people who knew their craft, and this bubbled over as he spoke. People sat back more easily in their chairs, and even laughed, as he moved from one to the next. Then he introduced Ash.
    “Everyone—or almost everyone—here will remember my as-
    sistant and fellow professor of film, Asher Black.” J.T. made Ash stand up.
    “Buck wild on the rilla, boss baller,” William barked out, in
    support of his ghetto buddy.
    “Whatever he says,” Ash half smiled as he stood.
    J.T. felt a surge of pride as the room gave Ash an earnest round of applause.
    Actually, what was surging was panic. J.T. was starting to hy-
    perventilate; his adrenaline was uncontrollable. He’d made sure that everyone in the room was back in their comfort zone, but in doing so, he’d reminded himself of how Hollywood had screwed his
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    friends, and he was about to have a panic attack. Then, on cue, Natasha seemed to float onto J.T.’s shoulder, softly whispering, Jeremy .
    With perfect timing, the door flew open and a showrunner
    walked in without saying hello to anyone. Anyone. J.T. had seen it all before. This was nothing new. All eyes were on Stephanie Pooley. She marched over to the craft service table, looked at the food, mumbled something under her breath, then poured herself a cup
    of coffee. She brought the coffee cup to her mouth; it was her own personal mug, with her name etched into the glass. It was like a . . .
    license plate cup. She took a sip, managed to swallow, then an extraordinary thing happened.
    Stephanie actually changed—morphed—her body language to
    such a degree that it was cartoon-like. Seconds before, she’d been a late, angry bitch; now, backlit by the near-constant Los Angeles sun that scorched and bleached the carpet through the oversized windows,