The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler Page A

naturally. From when he tries to fuck you out of the credits on any episodes you write. Don’t let him get away with any of it. Fight him. Because it’s residuals money out of your own pocket, and because he’s full of shit. He doesn’t write the show— you do.”
    This from Lyle’s own partner in crime. There wasn’t a lot of warmth around this place. In that sense it was like the house I grew up in.
    Leo took the Sherman out from behind her ear and stuck it in her mouth. She didn’t light it. Smoking was prohibited in the production offices. “Just telling it like it is,” she explained brusquely. “I admire writers, but most of you are babes in the woods when it comes to money and what people will do to get it.”
    “Thank you, Leo. I appreciate the advice.”
    “You know good from evil?” she demanded, removing the unlit cigarette from her mouth.
    I tugged at my ear. “Does anyone?”
    “Watch out for Katrina,” she said vehemently. “She’s the worst kind of evil.”
    “And which kind is that?”
    “She’s a user.”
    “Aren’t we all?”
    “Steer clear of her, Stewart Hoag,” Leo Crimp warned. “I mean it.”
    I thanked her for this bit of advice as well. I was getting real curious about what had gone on between the tough producer and her former runner. She stood there twirling her Sherman around in her fingers.
    “Ever smoke that thing?” I asked her.
    She stuck it back behind her ear. “Only in the ladies’ room.”
    “Sounds a little like high school here.”
    She considered this. “No, it’s more like a four-car pileup. Horrifying, yet at the same time so fascinating you can’t tear your eyes away from it. Welcome to my place, Stewart Hoag,” she said. And then she went barging out.
    My phone rang. It was Annabelle.
    “All clear, Hoagy,” she reported. “Their door’s open and I’m, like, Lyle’s safely back in his own cage.”
    “Did they quit?”
    She let out a shriek. “No way! The three of them go through this every season. He chisels them out of what he promised them, they threaten to walk, then they back down and take whatever he gives them. It’s an opening day ritual of theirs.”
    “Like throwing out the first ball at Yankee Stadium?”
    “I’m, like, they’re total wusses, in case you haven’t figured it out. Wait, hang on—” She covered the phone a second before she said, “C’mon, they’re calling for you.”
    Lulu stayed behind this time. The better to focus on her morning nap.
    Tommy and Marty were calmly reading over the script. Annabelle was seated on the sofa.
    “Ah, there you are, Hoagy,” said Marty, smiling pleasantly. “Where were we?”
    “As I recall, you two were in the middle of changing careers.”
    Marty shrugged his shoulders. “That’s just Lyle being Lyle,” he said with mild resignation.
    Tommy slumped in his chair, fuming. “I hate that man,” he said savagely. “I really do. I fantasize about him dying in painful, horrible ways. It’s how I get to sleep at night, instead of taking Sominex.”
    Marty said, “We’ve got an assignment for you, Hoagy.”
    “Feelings,” I said. “Nothing more than feelings.”
    “We’re not happy with how Deirdre’s new beau turned out in this draft. He’s a total yutz.”
    Tommy: “Straight out of a Grecian Formula commercial.”
    Marty: “We ought to know—we made him up.”
    “To Lyle’s exact specifications,” pointed out Annabelle, in their defense.
    “Yutzy’s how Lyle wants him,” Marty acknowledged. “Even the guy’s name—Rob Roy Fruitwell. Is that a yutzy name or what? See, Lyle’s being … Lyle about this. He hates the whole idea. Because it wasn’t his. Because it’s being forced on him by God. And because—”
    “He’s scared shitless,” Tommy said bluntly. “He figures God’s master plan is to phase him out. Deirdre gets involved with Rob. Deirdre marries Rob. Zap, you’ve got yourself a solid franchise than can function fine without the