door, which he slammed behind him.
She was shaking, still laughing and simultaneously fighting off tears as she went into the bathroom, washed her face, and
ran a brush through her hair. After a few minutes she noticed Jeffie reflected in the mirror. He was wearing his football
pajamas, standing sleepy-eyed in the doorway.
“Hi, baby,” she said.
“What was all the Yellin’ about?” he asked.
“Um, it was me. I mean, I just had the TV up too loud,” she lied. “I’m sorry I woke you, baby.”
“Jeez, what in the heck were you watching?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, putting an arm around him and walking him back to his room, “some really bad show.”
Have Patsy say: I was having a relationship with a great guy, but we broke up because of religious differences. He was a devout
coward. He gave me a gorgeous diamond ring and then he wanted it back. Can you believe it? Next time some guy asks for my
hand, I think I’ll just give him the finger. (Censor will delete, leave it in for now, Patsy will laugh.)
“Eyyy, R.J.,” Harry Elfand said, kicking her door open as usual. His brow was furrowed and he was carrying some typed pages
in his right hand and a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee in his left. The steam was rising from the coffee. R.J., never able
to shake her role of Nice Jewish Girl, made it fresh for the guys every morning. When she first started working on the show,
she occasionally brought in homemade cookies, until one of the other writers accused her of trying to “bake her way to the
top.” For a minute she thought that Harry was coming in to complain about the coffee. Then he handed her the pages.
“Could ya quit pourin’ yer friggin’ personal life all over the goddamned script?” he said. “First you give me guys who can’t
make a commitment, then lines about broken engagements. Lighten up, will ya? Besides, program practices will chew your ass
off.”
“Sure, Harry,” R.J. said.
“I mean, they’re sort of funny… but enough is enough,” he said, turning to another page. “Now this one was for Patsy to do
with Jerry Lewis. Right?”
“Right.”
“Well, he’s out. He’s got another gig, so can ya rewrite his part for the guest we got to replace him?”
R.J. nodded. “Who is it?”
“The Pointer Sisters.”
Harry went back to his office and R.J. stared at the sketch for a few minutes, until the intercom on her telephone buzzed.
It was Harry.
“Did I mention that the Pointers will be here at two o’clock to see the pages?”
R.J. looked at her watch. It was one-fifteen.
“Thanks, Harry.”
Every day of every week was like that. The staff of writers were all bananas. The pressure to be creative on deadline was
getting to them all.
“What’s the ending, the goddamned ending of the sketch?” she heard Iggy Richmond say, frantically pacing up and down the hallway.
“Do what you always do,” Marty Nussbaum yelled out the door of his office. “Have the guy jump out the window.”
“The window,” Iggy Richmond hollered back, excitedly. “Brilliant idea! The guy could jump out of the window except for two
small factors. The first factor is that there
is
no guy in the sketch. There’s two gorillas. And the second factor is that the sketch takes place in the jungle.”
“Nuance,” Marty Nussbaum replied.
There was a chuckle from one or two of the other cubicles.
“If you guys would shut the fuck up out there and do your work insteada cockin’ around,” Harry Elfand shouted from his office,
a double cubicle because he was the head writer, “maybe we could go home at a decent hour tonight.”
R.J. got up from her typing chair and closed her door. Not that it would help very much. The worse the pressure, the louder
they got.
Patsy hated the current script. After the read-through she’d been very quiet; then with a flick of her wrist she’d tossed
it across the reading table. As it landed in a nearby wastebasket
She was shaking, still laughing and simultaneously fighting off tears as she went into the bathroom, washed her face, and
ran a brush through her hair. After a few minutes she noticed Jeffie reflected in the mirror. He was wearing his football
pajamas, standing sleepy-eyed in the doorway.
“Hi, baby,” she said.
“What was all the Yellin’ about?” he asked.
“Um, it was me. I mean, I just had the TV up too loud,” she lied. “I’m sorry I woke you, baby.”
“Jeez, what in the heck were you watching?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, putting an arm around him and walking him back to his room, “some really bad show.”
Have Patsy say: I was having a relationship with a great guy, but we broke up because of religious differences. He was a devout
coward. He gave me a gorgeous diamond ring and then he wanted it back. Can you believe it? Next time some guy asks for my
hand, I think I’ll just give him the finger. (Censor will delete, leave it in for now, Patsy will laugh.)
“Eyyy, R.J.,” Harry Elfand said, kicking her door open as usual. His brow was furrowed and he was carrying some typed pages
in his right hand and a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee in his left. The steam was rising from the coffee. R.J., never able
to shake her role of Nice Jewish Girl, made it fresh for the guys every morning. When she first started working on the show,
she occasionally brought in homemade cookies, until one of the other writers accused her of trying to “bake her way to the
top.” For a minute she thought that Harry was coming in to complain about the coffee. Then he handed her the pages.
“Could ya quit pourin’ yer friggin’ personal life all over the goddamned script?” he said. “First you give me guys who can’t
make a commitment, then lines about broken engagements. Lighten up, will ya? Besides, program practices will chew your ass
off.”
“Sure, Harry,” R.J. said.
“I mean, they’re sort of funny… but enough is enough,” he said, turning to another page. “Now this one was for Patsy to do
with Jerry Lewis. Right?”
“Right.”
“Well, he’s out. He’s got another gig, so can ya rewrite his part for the guest we got to replace him?”
R.J. nodded. “Who is it?”
“The Pointer Sisters.”
Harry went back to his office and R.J. stared at the sketch for a few minutes, until the intercom on her telephone buzzed.
It was Harry.
“Did I mention that the Pointers will be here at two o’clock to see the pages?”
R.J. looked at her watch. It was one-fifteen.
“Thanks, Harry.”
Every day of every week was like that. The staff of writers were all bananas. The pressure to be creative on deadline was
getting to them all.
“What’s the ending, the goddamned ending of the sketch?” she heard Iggy Richmond say, frantically pacing up and down the hallway.
“Do what you always do,” Marty Nussbaum yelled out the door of his office. “Have the guy jump out the window.”
“The window,” Iggy Richmond hollered back, excitedly. “Brilliant idea! The guy could jump out of the window except for two
small factors. The first factor is that there
is
no guy in the sketch. There’s two gorillas. And the second factor is that the sketch takes place in the jungle.”
“Nuance,” Marty Nussbaum replied.
There was a chuckle from one or two of the other cubicles.
“If you guys would shut the fuck up out there and do your work insteada cockin’ around,” Harry Elfand shouted from his office,
a double cubicle because he was the head writer, “maybe we could go home at a decent hour tonight.”
R.J. got up from her typing chair and closed her door. Not that it would help very much. The worse the pressure, the louder
they got.
Patsy hated the current script. After the read-through she’d been very quiet; then with a flick of her wrist she’d tossed
it across the reading table. As it landed in a nearby wastebasket
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