Sidney Sheldon - A Stranger in the Mirror

Toby said, “I understand you fellas are going to write some jokes for me.”

O’Hanlon and Rainger exchanged a look. Rainger said, “Cliff Lawrence thinks you might be America’s new sex symbol. Let’s see what you can do. Have you got an act?”

“Sure,” Toby replied. He remembered what Clifton had said about it. Suddenly, he felt diffident.

The two writers sat down on the couch and crossed their arms.

“Entertain us,” O’Hanlon said.

Toby looked at them. “Just like that?”

“What would you like?” Rainger asked. “An introduction from a sixty-piece orchestra?” He turned to O’Hanlon “Get the music department on the phone.”

You prick , thought Toby. You’re on my shit list, both of you . He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to make him look bad so that they could go back to Clifton Lawrence and say, We can’t help him. He’s a stiff . Well, he was not going to let them get away with it. He put on a smile he did not feel, and went into his Abbott and Costello routine. “Hey Lou, ain’t you ashamed of yourself? You’re turnin’ into a bum. Why don’t you go out and get yourself a job?”

“I got a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Lookin’ for work.”

“You call that a job?”

“Certainly. It keeps me busy all day, I got regular hours, and I’m home in time for dinner every night.”

The two of them were studying Toby now, weighing him, analyzing him, and in the middle of his routine they began talking, as though Toby were not in the room.

“He doesn’t know how to stand.”

“He uses his hands like he’s chopping wood. Maybe we could write a woodchopper act for him.”

“He pushes too hard.”

“Jesus, with that material—wouldn’t you?”

Toby was getting more upset by the moment. He did not have to stay here and be insulted by these two maniacs. Their material was probably lousy anyway.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. He stopped, his voice trembling with rage. “I don’t need you bastards! Thanks for the hospitality.” He started for the door.

Rainger stood up in genuine amazement. “Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

Toby turned on him in fury. “What the fuck do you think is the matter? You—you—” He was so frustrated, he was on the verge of tears.

Rainger turned to look at O’Hanlon in bewilderment. “We must have hurt his feelings.”

“Golly.”

Toby took a deep breath. “Look, you two. I don’t care if you don’t like me, but—”

“We love you!” O’Hanlon exclaimed.

“We think you’re darling!” Rainger chimed in.

Toby looked from one to the other in complete bafflement. “What? You acted like—”

“You know your trouble, Toby? You’re insecure. Relax. Sure, you’ve got a lot to learn, but on the other hand, if you were Bob Hope, you wouldn’t be here.”

O’Hanlon added, “And do you know why? Because Bob’s up in Carmel today.”

“Playing golf. Do you play golf?” Rainger asked.

“No.”

The two writers looked at each other in dismay. “There go all the golf jokes. Shit!”

O’Hanlon picked up the telephone. “Bring in some coffee, will you, Zsa Zsa?” He put down the phone and turned to Toby. “Do you know how many would-be comics there are in this quaint little business we’re in?”

Toby shook his head.

“I can tell you exactly. Three billion seven hundred and twenty-eight million, as of six o’clock last night. And that’s not including Milton Berle’s brother. When there’s a full moon, they all crawl out of the woodwork. There are only half a dozen really top comics. The others will never make it. Comedy is the most serious business in the world. It’s goddamned hard work being funny, whether you’re a comic or a comedian.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A big one. A comic opens funny doors. A comedian opens doors funny.”

Rainger asked, “Did you ever stop to think what makes one comedian a smash and another a failure?”

“Material,” Toby said, wanting to flatter them.

“Buffalo shit. The last new joke was invented by Aristophanes. Jokes are basically all the same. George Burns can tell six jokes that the guy on the bill ahead of him just told, and Burns will get bigger laughs. Do you know why? Personality.” It was what Clifton Lawrence had told him . “Without it, you’re nothing, nobody. You start with a personality and you turn it into a character. Take Hope. If he came out and did a Jack Benny monologue, he’d bomb. Why? Because he’s built up a character. That’s what the audiences expect from him. When Hope walks out, they want to hear those rapid-fire jokes. He’s a likeable smart-ass, the big city fellow who gets his lumps. Jack Benny—just the opposite. He woudn’t know what to do with a Bob Hope monologue, but he can take a two-minute pause and make an audience scream. Each of the Marx Brothers has his own character. Fred Allen is unique. That brings us to you. Do you know your problem, Toby? You’re a little of everybody. You’re imitating all the big boys. Well, that’s great if you want to play Elks smokers for the rest of your life. But if you want to move up into the big time, you’ve got to create a character of your own. When you’re out on that stage, before you even open your mouth, the audience has to know that it’s Toby Temple up there. Do you read me?”

“Yes.”

O’Hanlon took over. “Do you know what you’ve got, Toby? A lovable face. If I weren’t already engaged to Clark Gable, I’d be crazy about you. There’s a naive sweetness about you. If you package it right, it could be worth a fucking fortune.”

“To say nothing of a fortune in fucking,” Rainger chimed in.

“You can get away with things that the other boys can’t. It’s like a choirboy saying four-letter words—it’s cute because you don’t believe he really understands what he’s saying. When you walked in here, you asked if we were the fellows who were going to write your jokes. The answer is no. This isn’t a joke shop. What we are going to do is show you what you’ve got and how to use it. We’re going to tailor a character for you. Well—what do you say?”

Toby looked from one to the other, grinned happily and said, “Let’s roll up our sleeves and go to work.”

Every day after that, Toby had lunch with O’Hanlon and Rainger at the studio. The Twentieth Century-Fox commissary was an enormous room filled with wall-to-wall stars. On any given day, Toby could see Tyrone Power and Loretta Young and Betty Grable and Don Ameche and Alice Faye and Richard Widmark and Victor Mature and the Ritz Brothers, and dozens of others. Some were seated at tables in the large room, and others ate in the smaller executive dining room which adjoined the main commissary. Toby loved watching them all. In a short time, he would be one of them , people would be asking for his autograph. He was on his way, and he was going to be bigger than any of them.

Alice Tanner was thrilled by what was happening to Toby. “I know you’re going to make it, darling. I’m so proud of you.”

Toby smiled at her and said nothing.

Toby and O’Hanlon and Rainger had long discussions about the new character Toby was to be.

“He should think he’s a sophisticated man of the world,” O’Hanlon said. “But every time he comes to bat, he lays an egg.”

“What’s his job?” asked Rainger. “Mixing metaphors?”

“This character should live with his mother. He’s in love with a girl, but he’s afraid to leave home to marry her. He’s been engaged to her for five years.”

“Ten is a funnier number.”

“Right! Make it ten years. His mother shouldn’t happen to a dog. Every time Toby wants to get married, his mother develops a new disease. Time Magazine calls her every week to find out what’s happening in medicine.”