Sidney Sheldon - A Stranger in the Mirror

“Trust me.” Toby had smiled.

The dinner plates were being cleared and Downey was standing in front of the microphone. “Mr. President, honored guests, it’s my pleasure to introduce to you our master of ceremonies, one of our brightest young comedians, Mr. Toby Temple!”

There was polite applause as Toby rose to his feet and walked over to the microphone. He looked out at the audience, then turned to the President of the United States.

The President was a simple, homespun man. He did not believe in what he called top-hat diplomacy. “People to people,” he had said in a nationwide speech, “that’s what we need. We’ve got to quit depending on computers and start trusting our instincts again. When I sit down with the heads of foreign powers, I like to negotiate by the seat of my pants.” It had become a popular phrase.

Now Toby looked at the President of the United States and said, his voice choked with pride, “Mr. President, I cannot tell you what a thrill it is for me to be up here on the same podium with the man who has the whole world wired to his ass.”

There was a shocked hush for a long moment, then the President grinned, guffawed, and the audience suddenly exploded with laughter and applause. From that moment on, Toby could do no wrong. He attacked the senators in the room, the Supreme Court, the press. They adored it. They screamed and howled, because they knew Toby did not really mean a word of what he said. It was excruciatingly funny to hear these insults coming from that boyish, innocent face. There were foreign ministers there that night. Toby addressed them in a double-talk version of their own languages that sounded so real that they were nodding in agreement. He was an idiot-savant, reeling off patter that praised them, berated them, and the meaning of his wild gibberish was so clear that every person in the room understood what Toby was saying.

He received a standing ovation. The President walked over to Toby and said, “That was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We’re giving a little supper at the White House Monday night, Toby, and I’d be delighted…”

The following day, all the newspapers wrote about Toby Temple’s triumph. His remarks were quoted everywhere. He was asked to entertain at the White House. There, he was an even bigger sensation. Important offers began pouring in from all over the world. Toby played the Palladium in London, he gave a command performance for the Queen, he was asked to conduct symphony orchestras for charity and to serve on the National Arts Committee. He played golf with the President frequently and was invited to dinner at the White House again and again. Toby met legislators and governors and the heads of America’s largest corporations. He insulted them all, and the more he attacked them, the more charmed they were. They adored having Toby around, turning his acerbic wit loose on their guests. Toby’s friendship became a symbol of prestige among the Brahmins.

The offers that were coming in were phenomenal. Clifton Lawrence was as excited about them as Toby, and Clifton’s excitement had nothing to do with business or money. Toby Temple had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to him in years, for he felt as though Toby were his son. He had spent more time on Toby’s career than on any of his other clients, but it had been worth it. Toby had worked hard, had perfected his talent until it shone like a diamond. And he was appreciative and generous, something that was rare in this business.

“Every top hotel in Vegas is after you,” Clifton Lawrence told Toby. “Money is no object. They want you, period. I have scripts on my desk from Fox, Universal, Pan-Pacific—all starring parts. You can do a tour of Europe, any guest shot you want, or you can have your own television show on any of the networks. That would still give you time to do Vegas and a picture a year.”

“How much could I make with my own television show, Cliff?”

“I think I can push them up to ten thousand a week for an hour variety show. They’ll have to give us a firm two years, maybe three. If they want you badly enough, they’ll go for it.”

Toby leaned back on the couch, exulting. Ten thousand a show, say forty shows a year. In three years, that would come to over one million dollars for telling the world what he thought of it! He looked over at Clifton. The little agent was trying to play it cool, but Toby could see that he was eager. He wanted Toby to make the television deal. Why not? Clifton could pick up a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar commission for Toby’s talent and sweat. Did Clifton really deserve that kind of money? He had never had to work his ass off in filthy little clubs or have drunken audiences throw empty beer bottles at him or go to greedy quacks in nameless villages to have a clap treated because the only girls available were the raddled whores around the Toilet Circuit. What did Clifton Lawrence know of the cockroach-ridden rooms and the greasy food and the endless procession of all-night bus rides going from one hell-hole to another? He could never understand. One critic had called Toby an overnight success, and Toby had laughed aloud. Now, sitting in Clifton Lawrence’s office, he said, “I want my own television show.”

Six weeks later, the deal was signed with Consolidated Broadcasting.

“The network wants a studio to do the deficit financing,” Clifton Lawrence told Toby. “I like the idea because I can parlay it into a picture deal.”

“Which studio?”

“Pan-Pacific.”

Toby frowned. “Sam Winters?”

“That’s right. For my money, he’s the best studio head in the business. Besides, he owns a property I want for you, The Kid Goes West .”

Toby said, “I was in the army with Winters. Okay. But he owes me one. Shaft the bastard!”

Clifton Lawrence and Sam Winters were in the steam room in the gymnasium at Pan-Pacific Studios, breathing in the eucalyptus scent of the heated air.

“This is the life,” the little agent sighed. “Who needs money?”

Sam grinned. “Why don’t you talk like that when we’re negotiating, Cliff?”

“I don’t want to spoil you, dear boy.”

“I hear that you made a deal with Toby Temple at Consolidated Broadcasting.”

“Yeah. Biggest deal they’ve ever made.”

“Where are you going to get the deficit financing for the show?”

“Why, Sam?”

“We could be interested. I might even throw in a picture deal. I just bought a comedy called The Kid Goes West . It hasn’t been announced yet. I think Toby’d be perfect for it.”

Clifton Lawrence frowned and said, “Shit! I wish I’d known about this earlier, Sam. I’ve already made a deal at MGM.”

“Have you closed yet?”

“Well, practically. I gave them my word…”

Twenty minutes later, Clifton Lawrence had negotiated a lucrative arrangement for Toby Temple in which Pan-Pacific Studios would produce “The Toby Temple Show” and star him in The Kid Goes West .

The negotiations could have gone on longer, but the steam room had become unbearably hot.

One of the stipulations in Toby Temple’s contract was that he did not have to come to rehearsals. Toby’s stand-in would work with the guest stars in the sketches and dance routines, and Toby would appear for the final rehearsal and taping. In this way, Toby could keep his part fresh and exciting.

On the afternoon of the show’s premiere, in September, 1956, Toby walked into the theater on Vine Street where the show would be taped and sat watching the run-through. When it was over, Toby took his stand-in’s place. Suddenly the theater was filled with electricity. The show came to life and crackled and sparkled. And when it was taped that evening and went on the air, forty million people watched it. It was as though television had been made for Toby Temple. In closeup, he was even more adorable, and everyone wanted him in his living room. The show was an instant success. It jumped to number one in the Nielsen Ratings, and there it firmly remained. Toby Temple was no longer a star.