she announced, “This script sucks the hind tit.”Then she stood, aimed her famous breasts toward the door, and marched out.
The writers were surprised. They’d all been congratulating themselves for days about how funny this week’s script was. All
of them looked down at the table in disappointment, except R.J., who looked at the group of them, amazed at how much they
resembled a bunch of little boys. Their expressions reminded her of a group of Jeffie’s friends at a birthday party when she
told them there would only be birthday cake because she’d forgotten to buy the ice cream.
“Hey,” Harry Elfand said. “At least ya can’t say our star ain’t elegant. I mean, what a way with words that cunt has—no offense
there, R.J.”
“So what do we do?” Sherman Himmelblau asked.
“We start again.”
“From scratch?”
“Unless you want Madame Patsy to say she’s not showin’ for rehearsals on Wednesday,” Elfand said, sucking on an unlit cigar.
“Wednesday—Christ, that’s forty-eight hours from now.”
“That’s right, kiddies. So call your wives and boyfriends, and your wives’ boyfriends and your boyfriends’ wives, and tell
them not to hold dinner for you… or anything else for that matter, ’cause we got our work cut out for us.”
That was Monday. On Tuesday they came back with little or no sleep and stayed until two Wednesday morning. Finally abandoning
the idea of working alone or in teams, they decided they’d get more work done if they all worked together. Wearily, they moved
into the conference room. R.J. had inhaled as much cigar smoke in the past day and a half as if she’d smoked a box of stogies
herself. And the food that the constantly browbeaten office runner brought in to sustain them throughout the long days was,
as Harry Elfand aptly described it, “as tasteless as the jokes get at half past midnight.”
By Wednesday at nine A.M. , R.J. had chills from exhaustion though she wore her jeans and her black turtleneck sweater. The script had to go to be Xeroxed
at noon. She wore no makeup and her hair was limp and dirty. And the worst part was that all of them would probably have tostay all night tonight. Thank God she had Manuela to look after Jeffie.
“So all right,” Harry Elfand said. “Where
are we?
“
“We’re on the funeral home sketch, Harry,” R.J. said. “Where Redd Foxx goes to his father’s funeral and the guy in the casket
is white.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, let’s see… Nussbaum, this was your sketch. What’ve you got? Nussbaum!”
Marty Nussbaum’s face was on the conference room table and it was clear to all of them that he was asleep. Poor Marty. Of
all the writers on the show, he was R.J.’s favorite. He looked like those dolls they used to sell when she was a kid, the
ones that were called troll dolls. He had wild long hair that stuck straight up all over his head, and a big belly. And he
always wore a silly little smile. The sketches he wrote were invariably bizarre—strange but wonderfully clever. He would write
a whole piece in what he called “Nussbaum insults Shakespeare,” in which all the characters spoke in iambic pentameter, or
he could write a nonsense dialect so cleverly that you were sure the characters were speaking a foreign language. Unlike the
other comedy writers, who never laughed at one another’s jokes but rather nodded in appreciation if they liked one and mumbled
a barely audible “That’s funny,” Marty Nussbaum laughed when he liked your joke, until he had to pull a handkerchief out of
the back pocket of his jeans to wipe the happy tears from his eyes.
“Eyyy, Nussbaum, ya
putz,”
Harry Elfand said, but Marty Nussbaum didn’t stir. “You doin’ the Redd Foxx shit or what?”
Nothing.
“What
is
this asshole? Dead or something?”
No one moved, especially Marty Nussbaum.
“We’ll get back to ya, Nussbaum,” Harry Elfand said to the top of Marty Nussbaum’s long
The writers were surprised. They’d all been congratulating themselves for days about how funny this week’s script was. All
of them looked down at the table in disappointment, except R.J., who looked at the group of them, amazed at how much they
resembled a bunch of little boys. Their expressions reminded her of a group of Jeffie’s friends at a birthday party when she
told them there would only be birthday cake because she’d forgotten to buy the ice cream.
“Hey,” Harry Elfand said. “At least ya can’t say our star ain’t elegant. I mean, what a way with words that cunt has—no offense
there, R.J.”
“So what do we do?” Sherman Himmelblau asked.
“We start again.”
“From scratch?”
“Unless you want Madame Patsy to say she’s not showin’ for rehearsals on Wednesday,” Elfand said, sucking on an unlit cigar.
“Wednesday—Christ, that’s forty-eight hours from now.”
“That’s right, kiddies. So call your wives and boyfriends, and your wives’ boyfriends and your boyfriends’ wives, and tell
them not to hold dinner for you… or anything else for that matter, ’cause we got our work cut out for us.”
That was Monday. On Tuesday they came back with little or no sleep and stayed until two Wednesday morning. Finally abandoning
the idea of working alone or in teams, they decided they’d get more work done if they all worked together. Wearily, they moved
into the conference room. R.J. had inhaled as much cigar smoke in the past day and a half as if she’d smoked a box of stogies
herself. And the food that the constantly browbeaten office runner brought in to sustain them throughout the long days was,
as Harry Elfand aptly described it, “as tasteless as the jokes get at half past midnight.”
By Wednesday at nine A.M. , R.J. had chills from exhaustion though she wore her jeans and her black turtleneck sweater. The script had to go to be Xeroxed
at noon. She wore no makeup and her hair was limp and dirty. And the worst part was that all of them would probably have tostay all night tonight. Thank God she had Manuela to look after Jeffie.
“So all right,” Harry Elfand said. “Where
are we?
“
“We’re on the funeral home sketch, Harry,” R.J. said. “Where Redd Foxx goes to his father’s funeral and the guy in the casket
is white.”
“Oh, yeah. Okay, let’s see… Nussbaum, this was your sketch. What’ve you got? Nussbaum!”
Marty Nussbaum’s face was on the conference room table and it was clear to all of them that he was asleep. Poor Marty. Of
all the writers on the show, he was R.J.’s favorite. He looked like those dolls they used to sell when she was a kid, the
ones that were called troll dolls. He had wild long hair that stuck straight up all over his head, and a big belly. And he
always wore a silly little smile. The sketches he wrote were invariably bizarre—strange but wonderfully clever. He would write
a whole piece in what he called “Nussbaum insults Shakespeare,” in which all the characters spoke in iambic pentameter, or
he could write a nonsense dialect so cleverly that you were sure the characters were speaking a foreign language. Unlike the
other comedy writers, who never laughed at one another’s jokes but rather nodded in appreciation if they liked one and mumbled
a barely audible “That’s funny,” Marty Nussbaum laughed when he liked your joke, until he had to pull a handkerchief out of
the back pocket of his jeans to wipe the happy tears from his eyes.
“Eyyy, Nussbaum, ya
putz,”
Harry Elfand said, but Marty Nussbaum didn’t stir. “You doin’ the Redd Foxx shit or what?”
Nothing.
“What
is
this asshole? Dead or something?”
No one moved, especially Marty Nussbaum.
“We’ll get back to ya, Nussbaum,” Harry Elfand said to the top of Marty Nussbaum’s long
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