Just the Funny Parts

by Nell Scovell

  “And that’s why Abel was killed,” Tom said.

  “No,” Dick responded. “Abel was killed for interrupting his brother.”

  The audience roared as the brothers launched back into singing, “Give me that old time religion.” People applauded at the end. My heart swelled. When Tom came offstage, he spotted me in the wings and approached. He leaned in close with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I had to make Dickie sweat up there,” he confided.

  A twist! Tom hadn’t forgotten the line. He knew exactly what he was doing. And in that moment, I realized that it wasn’t just Dick; we all play straight man to Tom Smothers.

  Around the third and fourth episode, the mood shifted at work. We’d burned through the material we stockpiled during preproduction and no longer had time to hone new sketches. Tom and my carpooling days were over. Before production started, I’d moved out of his maid’s room and onto the couch of Marcy Carriker, the show’s Associate Producer. Marcy and I were both short, brunette, and in our twenties and she became the life preserver that kept me from drowning in a sea of middle-aged men. A bond often naturally develops between the female employees on predominantly male shows. Even if the two women are as different as humans can be, there’ll be times when they huddle and whisper, “Did that just happen?” At one job, I regularly stopped by another woman’s office to ask, “Am I corporeal? You can see and hear me, right?”

  Marcy was an exceptional roommate: kind, generous, and a remarkable storyteller. Back then she was obsessed with true crime and would recount the horrific details of her favorite homicides. Sometimes a grisly murder-suicide was just the thing to take my mind off the increasingly tense writers’ room.

  Heading into the fourth out of six episodes, the network was still weighing a pickup. Tom was on edge. One way to increase the possibility of more episodes is to make changes in your creative team, which signals to the network that the production is still trying to find the right formula. In a sad twist, Mason was demoted abruptly and Jim Stafford was elevated to head writer. This made me nervous. Stafford favored sketches that ended with Tom calling his brother a “butt brain.” He also didn’t seem to value, or even want, my input. The first Friday after the personnel shakeup, Tom sent all the writers off to come up with ideas for a cold open over the weekend. I arrived on Monday morning with a page of pitches. I stopped by Stafford’s office to hand them in.

  “Thanks, Nell,” he said. “But you know some of the boys and I got together by the pool yesterday and we worked it all out.”

  My fears were coming true. You can’t succeed when you’re not even allowed to participate.

  As Stafford got more powerful, he got bolder. Guitar great Chet Atkins was booked on the show and I walked from the offices to the stage to sit in the empty audience and watch him rehearse. Stafford was waiting to rehearse, too—he was now appearing on every episode—and sat next to me. We listened as Atkins sang a gorgeous tribute to his deceased father.

  When the song ended, I gushed about Atkins which gave Stafford an idea. “If you like him, Nell, here’s what you should do,” he said. Then he suggested that I go offer Atkins “a blowjob.” This comment came out of nowhere. One second my mind was on Atkins singing about his father and death and the next Stafford was suggesting something you don’t associate with either of those. A twist!

  I decided it was best to treat this as a joke and laughed. Every woman knows that forced “huh-huh-huh.” Still, something about Stafford’s comment threw me. It wasn’t the crudeness. Maybe it was the setting. Stafford and I were isolated and that made the moment creepy. Coincidentally, a photographer was on the set that same day and asked to snap our photo. The result captured our dynamic for all of time. Stafford tossed his arm around my shoulders and leaned his head against mine, invading my space. I reacted politely to his overfamiliarity, as women in the workplace are expected to do, but my smile is not my usual toothy grin. It’s tight-lipped and restrained. My body is curled up in a ball and my right hand is visibly clenched.

  With Jim Stafford

  Courtesy Comedic Productions

  Detail of my clenched hand

  Courtesy Comedic Productions

  The sense of desperation was mounting as we started our final week of production. Would this episode be the last? Finally, word came in: CBS wanted six more episodes. We all cheered, although my status was unclear. My contract was only for the initial order and now Stafford was in charge. I asked my agent to see where I stood. Stafford told Gavin that no decisions had been made on the writers. He’d be figuring it out over the break.

  I would have been more freaked out by the uncertainty except something distracted me. The day before we taped our last episode, another writer pitched a last-minute cold open that parodied a recent spate of tell-all memoirs. The bit involved three Smothers’ employees stepping forward to hawk their books. The parts were cast at the last minute. Tom cast Ken Kragen, his actual manager, to play his fake manager. He hired Steve Martin’s old roommate Gary Mule Deer to play a gossipy beekeeper. The third employee was described in the script like this:

  (NELL, DRESSED AS A FRENCH MAID, ENTERS AND STANDS BESIDE KEN. SHE ALSO CARRIES A BOOK.)

  Courtesy Comedic Productions

  It was part of the show’s DNA to have writers double as performers so when Tom asked me to pitch in, I was pleased. Still, the costume gave me pause. After months of wearing baggy jeans and Agnes b. striped shirts, I now had to dress like a fifties sexual fantasy. Also, I’d been sitting on my butt for two months eating junk food and was worried my thighs weren’t exactly “camera ready.” The costumer fitted me that morning and, hours later, I wriggled into fishnet stockings, patent leather pumps, an off-the-shoulder black bodice, and a short black skirt with stiff crinoline. A stylist piled my hair in an up-do and stuck on a stupid doily hat. Fake eyelashes. Lipstick. Eh, voilà.

  My writers’ room colleagues approved of the look. “Now that’s more like it!” one said.

  I didn’t get terribly nervous because my one line was spoken in unison with Gary and Ken so there was little to screw up. The bit was over in a flash. The director shot us from the waist up so the fishnets and skirt were completely unnecessary. I was back in my civvies before Harry Belafonte sang the season’s last number.

  The wrap party was held onstage. I didn’t know whether I was saying goodbye to people for a month or forever. As it turned out, I had one more chance to see some of the writers when Stafford decided to throw a small pool party that weekend. Part of me wanted to skip seeing the pool where he and “the boys” worked, but I worried that if I didn’t stop by, it would look like I didn’t want to be a member of the team. I came up with the perfect solution: I’d arrive late and take off early.

  It was getting toward evening when I stopped by. The crowd was thin—no Marcy, no Tom, no Mason. Stafford greeted me enthusiastically. I tried to be as cheerful as possible. (Last impressions and all that.) I made small talk with some guests and then, per my plan: “Would you look at the time!”

  I found my host to say thanks.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Stafford said.

  We were passing through his house to the front door when he offered to show me around. The last stop was his bedroom. He ushered me in, shut the door, and immediately started kissing me up against the wall. It was so weird. Why was he kissing me and, even weirder, why wasn’t I pulling back? My brain was churning, but my body seemed frozen in shock. For weeks, I’d been so desperate to get Stafford’s approval. Ha, I was getting it now! But what did it mean? Had I been wrong? Did he actually like me? You don’t kiss someone unless you like them, right? Maybe that’s why I wasn’t pulling back. If making out meant he liked me, I didn’t want to do anything to make him not like me. He held my future in his hands. And then, ohmigod.

  He started maneuvering us to the bed. We fell on top of his covers, fully clothed, and continued making out. At one point, I ran my fingers through his hair.

  “Careful!
” he snapped. “I have a piece.”

  I peered closer and saw a thin molded piece of plastic glued to the front of his scalp with fake hair coming out. I’d never noticed it before.

  “Wow,” I thought. “That’s a good piece.” But before I could contemplate his hair further, Stafford made his next move. He unzipped his pants and used his hand to guide my head down. This is so, so hard to admit but . . .

  Reader, I blew him.

  A twist! You didn’t see that coming, did you? I sure as hell didn’t.

  And then it was over—one and done. The entire incident took less than ten minutes. There was no reciprocity. My clothes never came off. He had a party to get back to and I had to be, you know, anywhere else on the planet.

  Racing to my car, I thought, “What an interesting turn of events just happened to someone who looks a lot like me.”

  Reality rushed back in before I made it home. I knew what had happened and my heart sank. During the act, I had felt a false sense of pride that so many women feel, that smug feeling that Stafford wanted something from me which meant I was the one in control. The truth was not so flattering. I had been manipulated.

  Oscar Wilde is credited with the quote: “Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” Stafford had just reminded me of a woman’s true purpose and it wasn’t writing jokes. He had gotten what he wanted or maybe even what he thought he deserved—the same tribute he suggested I offer Atkins.

  When Stafford started kissing me, I worried that if I rejected him, he’d retaliate by not hiring me. Later, it struck me that the reverse outcome was just as undesirable. If Stafford hadn’t taken me seriously as a writer before, this would not make things better. And if I did return to the room, would I feel like I’d gotten the job for abilities other than my writing? Would more be expected?

  I never had the chance to find out. I was back in NYC when Gavin called with a “sad agent” hello. Stafford wasn’t bringing me back on staff. I imagine he never intended to.

  After I hung up the phone, I replayed the beats in my head: I feared that Stafford would penalize me . . . so I submitted to him . . . and he still penalized me. In a way it was funny. This “joke” provided a classic shift in perception which reveals a surprising motivation: I saw myself as a determined, hardworking writer and Stafford saw me as a way to get off.

  And that’s when it hit me: I really don’t like spiders and snakes.

  Stafford and I never spoke or crossed paths again. It’s unlikely we will since I don’t get to Branson, Missouri much. If we did meet, I don’t know what I’d say to him. But I know what I’d tell my younger self: don’t mistake sexual power for real power. If you think gratifying a colleague or boss will help your career, think again. Gloria Steinem put it perfectly: “If women could sleep their way to the top, there would be a lot more women at the top.”

  There’s a tendency for women who wind up in these situations to beat themselves up and declare, “I was such an idiot” or “God, how could I have been so stupid?” I’m glad I never did that. I don’t believe I acted stupidly. Vulnerable and in shock, I’d made a decision out of fear and confusion.

  I never considered any recourse, in part because I wanted to move on. Besides, what recourse did I have? If the show or network had a human resources department, I wasn’t aware of it. There were no handbooks on company policy or sensitivity workshops to enlighten employees. It would be three more years until Anita Hill testified against Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Like so many, I hung on every word of Hill’s courageous testimony. I watched a hero rise in real time.

  Twenty-five years later, Hollywood still has a long way to go in changing its casual acceptance of behavior that ranges from inappropriate to criminal. In fact, sexual harassment is so embedded in show business, the industry even has a cutesy name for it: the “casting couch”—which does sound a lot nicer than the “rape sofa.”

  Predatory behavior often becomes an open secret. Back in the nineties, female assistants at William Morris would warn one another not to get in an elevator with client Bill Cosby. In 2005, Courtney Love was asked to give advice to “any young girls” planning on moving to Hollywood. She bravely responded, “If Harvey Weinstein invites you to a private party in the Four Seasons, don’t go.” So many coworkers, agents, lawyers, and managers looked the other way while the assaults continued. And so many of these same people have behaved inappropriately themselves. I worry that Weinstein actually raises the bar on bad behavior. As long as a producer doesn’t walk into a hotel room naked, clutching a tiny bottle of lotion, he can now consider himself a gentleman.

  I understand there’s no greater love in this world than that of an Executive Producer for a vulnerable intern, assistant, or actress. But if you’re a powerful man, control your impulses. Ruling out sex with employees and professional contacts leaves three billion possible partners minus maybe two hundred. And, of course, you can reverse the genders and the same holds true.

  Heading into the second season, Stafford also jettisoned Mason and one other writer. New writers were added to replace us—all male. The penis party was in full swing. The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour lasted for ten more episodes before getting cancelled.

  Since then, I’ve stayed in touch with Tom who ended up marrying Marcy—a twist! Marcy remains one of my closest friends. She and Tom have two great kids and our families have spent many happy days at their vineyard together. I still look back on my time at the show fondly and the good far outweighs the bad. Tom and Mason were patient mentors. I watched world-class musicians perform up close. And I got to work with a hero of mine.

  Martin Mull wasn’t the biggest name to appear on the show, but he was the one I was most excited about. At sixteen, I was obsessed with Fernwood 2 Night, a short-lived Norman Lear series that starred Martin as Barth Gimble, a smarmy, leisure-suit-wearing host of a cheesy talk show. Fred Willard played his guffawing sidekick. Fernwood was my introduction to anti-humor. The show fascinated me in part because I didn’t always get the jokes, like when Barth deadpanned lines like: “For those of us who saw the tragedy of Vietnam firsthand on TV . . .”

  All the writers gathered when Martin came in to pitch us a possible cold open. He ran through the setup and some dialogue and then hit us with the punchline:

  It’s time to lay to rest this entire “brothers” business. They are not brothers. It has all been a big lie. Join me, then, won’t you in accepting and enjoying, Mr. Dick Smothers and his lovely wife, Tommy.

  Tom roared. He sent Martin off to an empty office to fill out the monologue. Martin was halfway out the door when Tom suddenly had a thought.

  “Nell,” he said. “Why don’t you go help him?”

  Like a puppy, I leapt from my chair and scampered after Martin. He sat at a desk and I sat across, smiling as I watched him massage the beats. Occasionally, Martin would ask me about a word choice and I’d offer an opinion. Mostly, I listened and nodded and laughed. About twenty years later, it hit me: Martin Mull didn’t need my help. Tom just wanted to give me the chance to observe a genius hone a bit.

  Now that’s a nice twist.

  Martin Mull signed my script with some good advice.

  Courtesy of the author

  Chapter 5

  The Payoff

  INT. VERMONT-INN-DAY

  LARRY

  Then it hit him like a ton of sticks.

  DICK

  You mean “bricks.”

  LARRY

  A ton of anything is still a ton, Dick.

  Newhart, “Get Dick” Writer’s First Draft, 1989

  A PROFESSIONAL COMEDY WRITER’S JOB IS TO MAKE others laugh. Sometimes we write jokes and think, “Yes, that will work.” And sometimes we write jokes that crack ourselves up. When the sticks/bricks joke first popped into my head, it made me laugh. Re-reading it twenty-eight years later, it still does.

  By June 1989, I had no idea where my TV career stood.
In twelve months, I’d been hired on three different series, which seemed like a positive sign. But then none of those jobs had lasted longer than three months, which seemed like a negative sign. For all the encouragement I’d received, there’d been equal disappointment. To put it in dating terms: the guy seemed really into me, but I suspected he might be gay. Still, I wanted to make this new career work. Writing for TV made way more sense than writing for magazines. And by sense, I mean money.

  After months of being twenty years younger than my Smothers Brothers colleagues, it was great to be back in NYC and reunite with friends my own age. Most Fridays, I attended Movie Night, which was founded by magician Penn Jillette and some friends. We’d all gather at the Howard Johnson’s in Times Square for brownie sundaes before heading to a midnight movie.

  Movie Night rules include sitting in the front row and applauding whenever the name of the movie is mentioned. Any establishing skyline shot triggers a chorus of “Chicago!” Even if the Eiffel Tower or the Washington Monument appear in the shot, you still shout, “Chicago!”

  I first met Penn and his partner Teller on assignment for Rolling Stone magazine to cover the release of their movie Penn & Teller Get Killed. The interview took place at their office in a sketchy Times Square apartment building. After I asked all my questions, Penn offered to walk me to the elevator and see me out safely. If the elevator had come right away, my life would’ve been very different. Instead, we waited and waited and ran out of small talk. I became self-conscious of the differential between Penn’s physical presence and my own. At 6-6 and 220 pounds, he was a foot-and-a-half taller and double my weight.

  “You know,” I blurted out. “If a volcano erupted right now and covered us in lava, archaeologists would dig up our bones in a million years and assume I was your lunch.”