by John Warner
The funny man smiles up at his wife and reaches a hand toward her beautiful face. “I got sick,” he says. “I ran out of pills.”
15
THIS IS THE first time I’ve seen any crack in the judge’s composure. Barry and me and the prosecutor are in her office, the two of them standing before her desk, me off of Barry’s shoulder a step and a half back, my usual subservient spot. She has Barry’s brief and the prosecutor’s response spread in front of her. There are Post-its tagged in half-a-dozen spots. Eight-inch thick law books bound in calfskin are open on the floor surrounding her chair. Looking down at the briefs she flicks her glasses to her face and then off again and looks up at Barry.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, counselor, but I think you’ve got a point here.”
Barry stays perfectly still, but the prosecutor slumps in his place and groans audibly. I can see that his collar is imperfectly rolled down over his tie. “Come on,” he mutters under his breath.
The judge shakes her head. “I hear you, Mr. State’s Attorney, but we’re in a real bind here.” I see Barry suppress a grin. “If I deny this, you’re looking at an appeal for sure. Hell, he’s going to appeal anyway, am I right?”
Barry refuses to give anything away, standing stock-still, his expression unchanged.
The judge continues. “But if I deny it and he appeals, you’re looking at pretty much a full retrial. The appeals court may even just send it back here and we start all over completely, new jury, everything. That’s what I’d do if I was them, anyway.”
The prosecutor apparently concedes the point, ducking his chin to his chest.
“So what I’m thinking,” the judge says, “is that we just bite the bullet and get it over with. Let’s lay all the cards on the table and see what the jury makes of it and we’ll let appeals come in and clean up the whole mess rather than sweeping some of it under the rug for later.” The prosecutor nods in a way that makes it look like someone is pulling a string on top of his head. Barry allows himself a grin.
I want to tell him that it’s never good to laugh at your own jokes, but as we leave and hustle back to the town car, I decide not to piss on his parade.
“The one regret I’ve always had,” he says, “is that I wasn’t born a woman so I could experience the miracle of birth.”
“I can think of a few million women who might trade with you,” I reply. “I’m totally serious. It’s why I don’t have children. Being the father is an inferior substitute. But here, with this, I feel like I’m actually birthing something, that what I’m doing here will be permanently woven into the tapestry of the American experience.”
“Your legacy,” I say.
Barry frowns. “Are you listening to me? I’m not talking about something as simple as that. We’re at the DNA level here, my friend. A legacy is the thing people remember about you. What I’m talking about is marrow-level permanence. This will forever be of the world, even if people don’t know it. It’s like, when we … when I do this act, where others are bound to a generally agreed-upon reality-based community, I am capable of creating my own reality, and others will come behind me to study what I do and comment, judiciously, if you will, but there I am creating newer realities that others will live by. I will be one of history’s actors.”
“Like Hitler?” I say.
“We’ll see,” Barry replies. “We shall see.”
16
PILAR RETURNS FROM her vacation with presents for everyone, beaded necklace for the missus, a stuffed polar bear almost as large as a real one for the boy, and even something for the funny man, a hand-carved pipe shaped like a whale’s body. “Eskimo,” she says as she hands it to him, kissing him on the cheek. The funny man watches her back as she wheels her suitcase down the hallway to her room and he admits to himself that he is glad to see her small, sturdy carriage. When she returns to the kitchen and ties the apron behind her back and switches the television from the sports channel to the Spanish-language network, it appears as though their domestic universe has been restored.
To the funny man, the term accidental overdose is a complete crock of shit. First of all, it makes him look like an addict and while he knows that “a doctor prescribed them to me” is the oldest excuse in the book, in this case it happens to be true. Right, hindsight says the amount of the pink, ovoid one in his system was truly horrifying, but he blames that on the little round blue ones, which caused him to forget that he’d already had his allotment of the pink, ovoid ones. Sure, he could have refrained from working some of his shadier connections made on the road to score some additional little round blue ones, but they seemed to be the only thing kept the dancing, jazz-playing, stars-shooting-out-of-their-eyeballs elephants from attacking.
And the pain. The pain was so real, like it had become part of him, like he was pain. No one should doubt the pain. The MRI proved the pain was real and would probably follow him around for some time, maybe even forever. “Significant narrowing,” the doctor said. “Stricture.” “Impingement.”
He knows finding him in the basement like that scared his wife, but it was the only place the funny man could get any real relief because the elephants didn’t like to go downstairs and the concrete felt so cool and inviting. He couldn’t have been there more than ten or twelve hours, if that.
There is still some lingering pain, but his wife and Pilar control the blue circular ones so there is no danger of overdoing it there. Pilar is also a help with the doctor-prescribed stretching and strengthening, working the hamstrings by levering the funny man’s foot toward his head as he reclines on his back on the new living room carpet.
Some other things are lingering as well, like his wife’s resentment. He knows it is resentment born out of fear, born out of a worry that she’d lost him or could lose him, resentment from a loving place, but it makes it no less painful when he looks up and sees those brief flashes of hate in her eyes.
Though he has been deemed untrustworthy, probably permanently, he has not been completely neutered. It is his task daily to retrieve the boy from school and if he informs someone ahead of time they are allowed to go out for ice cream on the way home. On Pilar’s night off he makes dinner, something he is getting better at, progressing from carryout to food preparation (opening of cans, combining of no more than three ingredients, heating) to actual cooking (recipes, chopping, basting, dry rubs, etc.). He is not superfluous, but neither is he vital. The money continues to flow, even as he does nothing, refusing all bookings and projects presented by his agent and manager. Been there, done that, he thinks. When he signed the contract to do the horrible movie he said to himself that it was a lifetime’s worth of money and he was right. He has left a mark, a small one, but it is indelible. He may not get his hourlong biography, but when they get around to doing the “Remember that crazy shit back in that decade that just passed” shows, he will be in there, forty-five seconds’ worth, maybe even a whole minute of being made fun of by funny men who would kill for even a fraction of that kind of success. Now that’s irony!
He is chronologically very young, but he feels so old, so maybe it is time to retire. He has achieved his goal. He is a comedian, not a great one, maybe not even a good one, but he has made many people laugh. More than many, actually. If you stacked the number of people he has made laugh on top of each other he imagines they would reach the moon. The only question left is whether or not a press release is even necessary, if anyone would bother taking note.
But then his manager calls. The movie is done and they would like him to see it. The funny man thinks that he experienced it, why does he need to see it? But thanks to a little time and necessary perspective, and the pink, ovoid pills at a reasonable and safe dosage, the thought of watching this abomination fills him with more curiosity than dread.
The showing is scheduled for a private screening room in the city, and the funny man expects to be reunited with everyone from the movie: The easily swayed director, the cinematographer, his costars, the love
interest, but when he arrives, while there is room for thirty or so attendees, the only people present are his agent, his manager, and two guys in suits expensive enough that they must be executives, one of whom looks a bit on the young side.
Handshakes and introductions all around confirm what the funny man has suspected about the men in the suits. They are from the studio, and one of them is really, really young. They offer him popcorn, which the funny man declines, and as the lights dim, the funny man tosses back one of the pink, ovoid pills and settles in.
“I think you’re going to be surprised,” the older-looking suit says. “And we hope you’re going to be pleased.”
As the movie plays the funny man is unsurprised about at least one thing, and that is that the movie is truly terrible. It is unoriginal, unfunny, poorly paced, wretchedly shot, and unbelievably (blessedly) short, with a sixty-six-minute running time. Much of the footage used is outtakes that the funny man assumed would be buried deep in the DVD extras (if there even was a DVD release), moments where someone broke character, or a boom mic bobbed into the frame, or when the getaway van burst into flames too early, or when the funny man had pulled his hand out of his mouth in order to yell at someone. (He doesn’t remember doing this and feels some shame over it.) Five minutes in the middle appear to be cell phone—filmed footage of two extras having sex behind one of the production trailers and the climax utilizes cardboard cutouts of the funny man’s and the love interest’s faces with human lips pushed through—Clutch Cargo—style—to deliver the dialogue.
However, there is one extremely surprising thing about the film. He is now its star, the undisputed lead. Rather than being a footnote to this disaster, he is out front, the name on the marquee. He is all over this movie from the first frame to the last. As the final names of the credits scroll up the screen the funny man turns to look at his agent and manager and the two suits who sit behind him and he says, “How did this happen?”
“It’s a hit,” one of the suits says. As the lights rise in the theater the funny man can see that the expensive suit masks the fact that this executive is indeed no older than fifteen. His cheeks are hairless and pimples dot his forehead. His wrists below the cuffs are small and bony.
(The funny man only learns this later, but the studio has hired this kid because, for the last year, on his blog, he has predicted the box-office gross of every major theatrical release within three million dollars. He simply knows what will and what will not be popular with mass audiences, often without having to see the movie. If he actually views the movie, the prediction is within decimal points. In the industry, he is known as “Peoria” because he always knows what plays there.)
“How old is he?” the funny man asks his agent and manager. The second suit jumps into the breach. “We were surprised too,” he says. “But once we got rid of that jerkoff”—everyone in the room knows he is referring to the director—“and took control of the footage, it’s like the movie just announced itself.”
“But it’s terrible, right?” the funny man says, still looking at his agent and manager. Surely these two owe him the truth since he relented on his promise to fire them, and on the advice of his therapist, even apologized for his harsh tones. “I mean, it’s really, really bad, isn’t it? We’re looking at a career-ender for everyone involved here, aren’t we?”
“It’s a hit,” Peoria says again.
“In fact,” suit number two says, “we’re moving up the release. It’s going to be our comedy tent pole for the summer.”
“Tent pole?”
“The movie that holds everything else up. Our rock. Our anchor. Our sure thing,” the executive says.
“But it’s hardly a movie,” the funny man replies. “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not even long enough to be a movie.”
The executive smiles. “That’s the beauty of the thing. Thanks to the tight running time we can cram in an extra showing per day. Multiply that by five thousand screens seven days a week and you’re talking real money, my friend.”
“It’s a hit,” Peoria says again.
It is at this point that the funny man begins looking around for the hidden cameras. In an instant it becomes clear that his refusal to take any work has resulted in a desperation move by his agent and manager to book him on one of those shows where celebrities are lured into unsuspecting situations and secretly filmed embarrassment ensues. You’ve Been Played, Sucka! the show is called. At least they didn’t crush his car with a piano falling out of window, or make him believe he’d murdered a prostitute in an Ambien haze, like they’ve done to others. He would like to shout “well played!” because it is. The funny man used to love a good prank as much as anyone and the lengths they’ve gone to here with the screening room and the kid in the suit, and even cutting something together that looks sort of like a movie is just brilliant stuff. He imagines this is a little payback from his agent and manager for their temporary firing, and it is hard to begrudge some harmless revenge, and there’s got to be a few bucks in it for him when the show actually airs. The funny man stands fully ready to blow the lid off, to invite the hidden crew and show host in from the wings, but looking at his agent and manager, he thinks better of it. Now that he is aware of their little game, the con has been reversed. This is like The Sting and he is Redford, or even better, Newman! This is Ocean’s Eleven and he is Sinatra and Clooney depending on which era one prefers. He has the upper hand and there is no harm in continuing to play along, to have a little fun of his own and besides, they won’t be able to show any of it because he’ll never sign the release. Who will get the last laugh then?
The funny man notices a small, circular pin on the lapel of his agent’s suit, which he figures must be a camera because who would wear a lapel pin that ugly. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” the funny man thinks.
“Fantastic!” the funny man says, leaning into the lapel pin for his close-up. The funny man has just seen incontrovertible evidence that he is a shitty actor, so he hopes that he is not overplaying things. “This is going to put me on a whole new level, right?” His agent and manager nod enthusiastically. They are better actors than the funny man by far. Their obvious relief that the funny man has decided to rejoin the celebrity race is palpable. They should get out of the agenting and managing business, they are so convincing. More handshakes and promises of meetings for marketing and strategy, all of which the funny man heartily agrees to. He doesn’t know when they’ll break the illusion, when they’ll burst from the wings shouting “you’ve been played, sucka!” but he knows he’s not going to do it himself because they’re the ones who are getting played. Suckas!
“This is going to be great,” the funny man thinks.
WHATEVER THEY’RE DOING to him must be the longest, most elaborate con in the history of televised prank shows.
The screening-room showing was one thing, and it’s easy enough to cut a trailer once you already have the fake movie. It probably started to get a little expensive when the marketing campaign kicked into full gear with the television commercials and fast-food tie-ins. (Anyone willing to try to order their foot-long sub with their hand in their mouth gets 10 percent off.) Taking the time to negotiate his contract for a sequel was a nice touch, very subtle, very attention-to-detail. That they gave in on his salary (eight times the original) and profit-sharing demands (significant percentage from dollar-one gross, plus full share in merchandising) and his increasingly ridiculous rider for the upcoming “shoot” (private jet transportation home at the end of each shooting day, regardless of location or end time) only confirmed that the con was continuing. He didn’t bother reading it, but he assumes that the script for the sequel would’ve passed believability muster. They even gave him final cut. “No one gets final cut,” they said, right before giving it to him.
He does not tell his wife about his theory, saying, “fine” and “progressing nicely” whenever some movie-related question was posed. He does not want to be talked out of his delusion because it i
s what allows him to get up in the morning and live his life. Isn’t most everyone’s life the product of delusion, a delusion that things are progressing, that they are prospering, or if not prospering presently, will be prosperous in the future? It’s just that the funny man’s delusion is a bit larger than average, which is fitting since he is more important than the average person. His delusion is sized to scale.
The movie-related activities are barely a blip in the humming-right-along daily household goings-on. Talk of more children has stopped—the diaphragm back in place—but with the boy and Pilar, the house feels full enough. He is afraid if he shares all of his machinations because his wife is good and kindhearted, she will force him to pull the plug on his prank and he’s now thinking of his prank as a nice swan song to his career, if it is indeed a prank.
The press junket is a real coup. He has to admire the effort there. Bravo. The funny man was more than happy to agree to three days sitting in a hotel room while the nation’s media come to him to ask about the film and return home with their blurbs and video clips. He was contractually obligated to do so, after all, and by saying yes, he forced the prank show into pulling it off.
And boy, do they.
He convinces himself that as he’s shown into a hotel suite decked out with a small, two-person interview set that this is where everyone will burst out of the bedroom saying, “You’ve been played, sucka!” But no, as he sits in his assigned chair a woman comes and dabs some makeup to take the shine off his chin and forehead and another clips a small microphone to his jacket lapel. Not wanting to give away that he knows what’s what, he has gotten dressed up for the occasion, strategically distressed jeans, button-down shirt, stylish sport coat. On his way out, his wife cupped his buttock over his jeans and wolf-whistled. He hasn’t looked this good in years. His agent and manager are there, nibbling on the snack spread and drinking bottled water, giving thumbs-up whenever the funny man looks their way.
