The Funny Man (18 page)

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.

W
HATEVER 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 is 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.

The funny man doesn’t need to look for any hidden cameras because there is one right there in front of him recording each and every answer to the “questions” that these “journalists” have to ask him. They ask so many of the same questions. He’s not sure why he needs to do so many individual interviews, but perhaps it is all part of the gag. Yes, that’s it: The prank has become a war of attrition. They weren’t counting on the fact that the funny man has nothing better to do. Every seven minutes with twelve-minute breaks every three interviews, a new person is sitting in the chair across from him. The funny man imagines they are pulling people off the street to come in and pose as, for example, “Jennifer Hoffkiss, of KMBC, Channel Nine, Kansas City, Noon News at Eleven AM.”

Like the rest, “Jennifer” enters the room with an armful of swag, posters, CDs, drink koozies all emblazoned with the film’s title or a picture of the funny man with his fist shoved in his mouth. She is pretty without being beautiful and wears too much makeup. There is a reason she is Jennifer Hoffkiss, Kansas City, and not Jennifer Hoffkiss, Los Angeles, or even Chicago. The interviews are as formal as kabuki. As the video technician changes out the tape they begin with the ritual introduction (i.e., “Jennifer Hoffkiss, of KMBC, Channel Nine, Kansas City”) and handshake, followed by the insincere praise (“the movie looks great”) and acceptance of said praise (“glad to hear it”). Following the preliminaries there are the questions, which are drawn from the following:

1. This was your first movie. That must’ve been a fun change of pace from performing solo.

2. What’s it like performing for the camera when you’ve spent so much time working with live audiences?

3. Tell me about working with the director.

4. Do you see yourself doing more movies in the future?

5. What’s your favorite comedy of all time?

6. How was the on-screen chemistry with (the love interest)?

7. Who would you like to work with someday?

8. You did some filming in our fair city? How did you like it?

9. Is it hard to shove your hand all the way inside your mouth?

10. What’s next?

And there is Question 11, which every Caitlin, Ben, Ashley, Kelly, Jeremiah, Elizabeth, Ian, Amy, Bradley and Jennifer from Ann Arbor, Syracuse, Mendocino, Nashville, Tulsa, Boise, Corpus Christi, Des Moines, Indianapolis, Sioux Falls, and Kansas City ask: “Real quick, can you put your hand all the way inside your mouth and say ‘hello’ to our viewers back home?”

I
T IS WEARING
on the funny man, but he plays along. He has the grit to persevere. He has the pink, ovoid pills as the Tonto to his Lone Ranger. They are raising the stakes, these prank-show shitbirds, but the only way for him to lose now is to give in. He is fully invested in the charade, and there is no turning back, no matter the frequency or intensity of the warning signs in his path. They are sweating, these fucking, prank-show motherfuckers. They are huddled in the closet, sucking on the stench of their own body odor, sweat pooling in their ass cracks as they watch their monitors, waiting for him to get flustered, to give up the prank-show money shot, but he will not do it, no way. He answers the questions thoroughly, dutifully, semi-consistently. He slathers praise on one city’s barbecue and another’s crab boil. One has the best cheese he’s ever tasted. Another he found to be remarkably free of potholes. It doesn’t matter if any of these statements are true. Each city will receive the flattery with gratitude.
Hey, he
really knows us.

The funny man expresses a deep-seated desire to work with every name actor and director of the last quarter century. He is so appreciative of the director that he can’t imagine working with anyone else ever again. His love interest is “a doll,” “a major talent,” “on the verge of tremendous things,” “capable of more and then some.”

He shoves his hand in his mouth and waves hello to every bored, television-watching mouth-breathing asshole from coast-to-coast.

At the end of the last interview he steps out into the hotel hallway and finds himself face-to-face with his movie love interest.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” He is both surprised and not that they’ve roped her into the scam, but if they’ve gone this far, why not go all the way? The film is likely a career-ender for the love interest as well, so maybe this is the only work she can get. The two of them are apparently alone in the hallway. She is dressed in what the funny man would call “demure sexy,” a summery dress that doesn’t look short until she sits and crosses her legs, at which point the crease where ass cheek meets upper thigh is no longer left to the imagination. There is a small pendant resting in the cleft of her breasts. This is where the camera must be. There, plus fish-eye lenses in the peepholes on the hotel room doors.