Even though inside, I’m already missing my two real friends.
Chapter 30
PUTTING IT ON ITS FEET (THE SCRIPT, NOT ME)
After the introductions, we all sit down around a square of cafeteria-sized folding tables to read through the first draft of the script.
I think Johnson and his team worked over the weekend. The script is actually pretty good now, which is a huge relief. Much better than I thought it would be. And nobody gets creamed in the face with a pie.
Mr. Wetmore, the tech director, starts us off by reading out the stage directions.
“Interior. Comedy club. We open on Jamie in a bright spotlight in front of a brick wall. He rolls up to the microphone and launches into his bully routine.”
I’ve marked all my lines with a neon-yellow highlighter. The whole first page of the script is all yellow. It’s just me.
“And cue Jamie,” says Brad Grody, doing a karate chop in my direction.
I launch into my monologue about bullies.
“Y’know, my school has these NO BULLYING ZONE posters hanging all over the place. Outside every classroom. Up and down the halls. Only one problem: Bullies aren’t big readers. Reading’s not really a job requirement in the glamorous field of Wedgie Yanking. So, I have a better idea: reverse psychology. No more posters. Instead, every time a bully dunks a kid’s head in a toilet, a teacher gives that bully a gold star. The principal congratulates him during announcements: ‘Way to go, Lars. Nice work on that Triple Nipple Cripple.’ Before long, the bully gets a reputation as a kiss-up and teacher’s pet. He has no choice but to cram his own head down a toilet and flush!”
The tables erupt with laughter. As always, it makes me want to keep going. Laughs are like potato chips. Once you have one, you want another.
I read my next lines.
“This one bully at my middle school, a big blond dude we call Lars from Mars, makes you eat a half dozen bean burritos in the cafeteria before he locks you inside your locker. Know why? Well, there’s very little ventilation in that tight metal box. Plus, the metal walls make the farts echo like crazy.”
More laughs. Even a couple of guffaws. I love guffaws.
“And fade to black,” says Mr. Wetmore.
The rest of the cast applauds.
“Way to go, Jamie,” gushes Donna Dinkle. “That was super-duper awesometastic.”
“I loooooved what you did with it, kiddo,” says Grody. “Like Donna said, it was awesometastic.”
“Stupendilicious,” says Stewart Johnson.
“I loved how you said my character’s name,” says the giant playing Lars from Mars.
It takes, like, five minutes for the whole cast to tell me how much they loooove me.
Both Uncle Frankies seem pleased.
Me?
I have to be honest: I absolutely love all the loooooove.
Chapter 31
THE PERKS OF BEING A TV STAR
Things are going so well, we wrap early.
And for the first time since Mr. Amodio landed his helicopter on the middle school ball field, I’m feeling good about the show. Maybe my dream really can come true. And if this one can, so can all my others. Except the one about the unicorn that brings me chocolate-covered marshmallows. That’s probably still a long shot.
It’s great to be a big-time TV star when I arrive home in Long Beach and bump into the real Lars Johannsen. The blond giant is so wide, he blocks the whole sidewalk. He kind of reminds me of Thor, but without the hammer.
“I hear you’re making fun of me on your TV show.”
“Not you,” I say. “Lars from Mars.”
“I’m not from Mars. I told you, I’m from Minnesota.”
While I’m boldly cracking wise, Lars makes low, rumbling grrrrr noises. He sounds like a German shepherd right before it locks its jaws around your leg and sinks in its teeth.
It doesn’t scare me. I keep going. Lars keeps growling.
“The TV people are paying me to act like a fool. What’s your excuse?”
I can tell Lars is thinking about the best way to rip my head off.
“You’re kind of blocking the way,” I say. “And I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with someone who doesn’t have any weapons.” I give him a little “shoo” wave.
He steps aside. I roll on by, grinning.
Like I said earlier, comedy is one surefire way to beat a bully.
Another is to have two beefy bodyguards assigned to your personal security detail while you’re working on a TV pilot for Joe Amodio.
Chapter 32
LAUGHING TILL IT HURTS
That night, Aunt Smiley helps me rehearse my lines.
“This is funny, Jamie,” she says. “But who are these Frownie people?”
I shrug. “A family the writers made up.”
“They’re so odd. They never seem to smile. Even when you’re cracking all these funny jokes.”
“I know, they’re so weird.”
“And this Lars character is so mean. He makes Stevie look like an angel.”
“I’m no angel!” Stevie shouts from his bedroom down the hall.
“Oh, look,” I say loud enough for Stevie to hear, “here comes Lars Johannsen.”
“I’m not home!” Stevie screams. Then he slams his door shut.
“Is someone coming up the walkway?” asks Mrs. Smiley.
“No. I was just practicing my acting.”
“Oh. That was good. I thought you really saw somebody.”
Yep. And so did Stevie.
After we go through all my scenes two or three more times, Aunt Smiley puts down the script and sighs.
“You know, Jamie,” she says softly, “more than anything, I wish your mom and dad were here to see how well you’re doing. Little Jenny, too. She’d be so excited. Her big brother, a TV star…”
All I can do is nod. If I try to speak, I’ll just start bawling my eyes out.
“Jamie? Have I told you lately how proud we all are of everything you’ve accomplished?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we are. They would be, too.”
We sit there silently, each of us remembering that horrible night on the rain-slicked highway. It seems so long ago. And like it only happened yesterday.
We’re both remembering the car wreck on the side of the mountain that made it impossible for me to walk and then did something even worse.
It made me an orphan.
It took away my baby sister.
“I’m so glad you found comedy, Jamie,” says Aunt Smiley, sniffling back her tears. “They say laughter is the best medicine. I think they might be right.”
Me too.
Making people laugh eases the pain. It doesn’t take it away. Nothing can do that. But it sure helps me keep going.
And when I’m in the spotlight, blinded by its brightness, when I can’t see anything but a hazy funnel of white, I think my mom and dad and Jenny can see me, no matter how far away they might be.
Aunt Smiley reaches across the table and pats my hand.
“Don’t worry, Jamie. They’ll see your show. There must be TV in heaven. HBO and cable, too. They probably have all the channels—even the ones that nobody really watches.”
Chapter 33
PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT… AND PERSPIRATION
We rehearse all week.
Brad Grody shows me how to “hit my marks,” which means where to park my wheelchair to deliver my lines so the cameras can see me.
The other actors are pretty amazing. Nigel Bigglebottom cracks me up as Uncle Frankie.
Then, whenever we take a break, he cracks me up even more as Uncle Frankie with a British accent.
The only slight problem is Jillda Jewel, my TV Gilda.
Donna Dinkle keeps improvising lines that aren’t in the script, and Brad Grody, the director, doesn’t correct her. I guess because Donna’s such a big-deal TV star. Actually, Grody doesn’t do much directing at all. He spends most of his time sending out tweets, espec
ially when we’re rehearsing the Jillda scenes.
For instance, after Lars from Mars decks me on the sidewalk in front of the school and Bob (my hybrid Pierce and Gaynor) helps me back into my chair, Jillda is supposed to say, “Are you okay, Jamie?” I’m supposed to tell her, “I’m okay, but I think I have a wad of bubble gum in my hair.” Then Bob says, “Oh, that’s mine. I spit it out earlier.” That’s when the audience will hopefully laugh.
But instead of saying her line, Donna Dinkle sort of ruins the bit by ad-libbing, “Did that hurt, Jamie? Can I kiss it to make it better? I know kissing you would make me feel better. A whole lot better.”
Finally, from the booth, Mr. Wetmore, the tech director, calls, “Cut.” His voice is tinny, coming out of speakers up in the light grid over the set.
“Brad?” he says.
Finally, Grody puts down his smartphone. I was wrong. He wasn’t tweeting. He was playing Candy Crush Saga.
“Yo, Rich, my man,” says Grody. “What’s the problem, bro?”
“This show will be going out live. If we keep adding lines, we’ll never finish on time.”
Donna Dinkle props her hands on her hips and looks up at the ceiling where Mr. Wetmore’s voice is coming from.
“I’m improvising,” she protests. “We did it all the time on Ring My Bell.”
“This isn’t Ring My Bell,” replies Mr. Wetmore.
“You’re darn right it’s not. Ring My Bell was a huge hit!”
And then she storms off the set.
Mr. Grody tells everybody to “take five,” as in a five-minute break. “I need to see if our star is okay,” he says, going after Donna.
Funny. I thought I was the star of Jamie Funnie.
Guess I was wrong.
Chapter 34
MY FANS ROLL IN!
When Donna storms off, the other actors and I are sort of stranded on the set, along with the whole crew.
“Wonder what would happen if you walked off the set like that,” says Michael McKee, the actor who plays Bob.
“It’d be a major medical miracle,” I crack.
Half an hour later, Donna and Mr. Grody come back, all smiles.
“Donna and I had a chill chat,” says Grody. “And she’s right. We need to pump some air into this bicycle tire, see if it has bounce. We need to run this show in front of a live studio audience.”
A live audience, this early in rehearsals? Right away, I feel anxious. I look over at Donna, who winks back smugly.
“So that’s what we’re going to do,” says Grody. “Tomorrow. We’ll invite our first audience. Friends, associates, colleagues. We’ll see how they react to our rehearsal. It’ll be a great chance to find out what’s working in the script and what’s not.”
The next day, when Uncle Frankie and I pull into the Silvercup parking lot, we see this long line of people waiting to come in and watch us run through the show. I feel a lot better when I see who they are.
A lot of the kids are in wheelchairs.
I think that’s pretty cool. So I work the line and sign a bunch of autographs.
“Hey, Jamie,” says one kid. “I voted for you on TV!”
“Me too!” shrieks a girl. “I love you, Jamie.”
“Well,” I say, “I love you guys.”
Richard Wetmore, the technical director, comes over. “Serena wanted to be here, but she had something after school.”
“Next time,” I say.
“Definitely,” says Mr. Wetmore. We fist-bump on it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Brad Grody comes barreling out the front door. “Who are all these cripple kids, bro?”
You ever hear a dozen people gasp at the same time?
None of us can believe what Mr. Grody just said.
“This isn’t some sort of charity telethon,” snaps Grody.
“They’re audience members,” says Mr. Wetmore. “Fans of Jamie’s. I tweeted about the sneak preview to some of my daughter’s friends.”
“This show is supposed to be funny. These kids make it look sad.”
“They’re in the audience, Brad,” says Mr. Wetmore. “Our cameras aren’t pointed at them. We hear the audience, we don’t see them.”
“Fine. But keep it that way. Joe Amodio will be watching today’s run-through out in LA. I don’t want to depress him with an audience that looks like a hospital ward.”
Grody goes back inside.
Mr. Wetmore puts his hand on my shoulder. Addresses the kids. “Don’t worry, guys. I’ll make sure we put extra microphones down front where you’ll be sitting. We want your laughs to be louder than anybody else’s. Right, Jamie?”
“Definitely!” I say.
The kids all applaud.
“Come on, Jamie,” says Mr. Wetmore. “Let’s head inside and give your fans a great show—the kind they deserve!”
I’m feeling totally pumped. “Let’s do it!” I pop a wheelie and hop the curb.
And as we head to my dressing room, I can’t help thinking that I wish Mr. Wetmore was on the floor, directing the show, and that Brad Grody was the one in the booth.
A tollbooth.
On the New Jersey Turnpike.
Chapter 35
YES, I’M A GUY AND I WEAR MAKEUP
A makeup lady comes into my dressing room and starts slathering what she calls “foundation” all over on my face.
It isn’t concrete and cinder blocks. It’s orangish gunk so I “don’t wash out” under the lights.
My co-star Donna Dinkle swoops into my dressing room from her much larger room next door.
“Gosh! Our first time putting the show on its feet in front of a live studio audience.”
“Actually,” I say, “I plan on remaining seated the whole time.”
Donna ignores my little quip because I was the one who said it, not her.
“I bet you’re nervous,” she says. “I know I would be. I remember my first run-through with a live audience. I was sooooo scared. All those people packed into the bleachers, staring at me. Waiting for me to say or do something funny…”
Now that Donna mentions it, maybe I should be a little more nervous.
“I thought I was going to die!” Donna continues. “Really. I did. So much pressure.”
I tug at my collar. “Yeah…”
“And, of course, Joe Amodio is going to be watching the run-through out in Hollywood.”
“I know.” Yes, my voice is cracking.
The makeup lady powder-puffs my face to blot away the flop sweat that just drizzled out of my hair.
Okay. I’m not just nervous anymore. Now I’m petrified. Like those trees that turned into rocks out in Arizona. Ms. Warkentien taught me about those. She even showed me a picture. For two seconds.
The first time I ever appeared in front of a live audience on Long Island, I totally choked. All I could remember were my punch lines. I’d forgotten all the setups. “An investigator!” isn’t exactly funny if you don’t say “What do you call an alligator in a vest?” first.
The makeup lady packs up her gear and leaves just as Brad Grody sticks his head in my dressing room door.
“Yo, Jamie, Donna—you two ready to rock?”
“You bet, BG,” chirps Donna.
All I can get out is, “Um… I… uh… hummina…”
Donna takes Mr. Grody’s elbow and leads him out of my dressing room. “I have an idea, BG.…”
When they’re down the hall, I think Donna is telling Grody something like, “If Jamie bombs, I could take his place. I know how to operate a wheelchair.”
I can’t be sure.
I’m so freaked out, my ears aren’t working very well. They feel like clogged echo chambers. On the plus side, if I go deaf, maybe I can score a second handicapped sticker for Uncle Frankie’s van.
Chapter 36
HELLO? WHO AM I?
I’m so out of it, one of the stagehands has to wheel me onto the set.
He parks me in front of the fake brick wall of the comedy club.
He adjusts the microphone stand.
I just sit there, trying to remember my name.
And why all these people are staring at me.
I see those kids in the wheelchairs down front. My fans. Their smiles are so huge.
Behind them, on risers, is an audience of maybe two hundred other people. I see the real Gilda, Gaynor, and Pierce. Vincent O’Neil waves at me. Uncle Frankie is off to the side of the bleachers, twirling his yo-yo. It’s what he does whenever he gets nervous.
Just like those French guys walking to the guillotine!
That means there must be something to be nervous about.
“Cameras up,” calls Mr. Wetmore from the ceiling speakers. “We’re live in five, four, three…”
A crew member counts down the seconds with his fingers.
When he hits one, he points at me.
That locomotive beacon of a spotlight thumps on. I’m not just blinded, I’m also struck dumb.
This is worse than that first performance in front of an audience. I can’t remember anything. Not a single punch line or setup, or even whether I remembered to put on underpants this morning.
I sit there. Stunned.
The audience is stunned, too. They came to see Jamie Funnie, not The Silence of the Jamie.
Suddenly, I hear Mr. Wetmore, whispering from the rafters.
“Y’know, my school has these NO BULLYING ZONE posters…”
I wonder why Mr. Wetmore is telling me about the posters at his school. Then I wonder, Why is he still going to school? He looks to be thirty or forty years old. He should’ve graduated a long time ago.
“They’re hanging all over the place,” he says.
Finally, I realize that’s what I’m supposed to say. He’s giving me my line. So I say it.
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