The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler Page B

Chubster. End result: God gets what he really wants, which is The Uncle Chubby Show back on the air, and Lyle Hudnut off the air. And out.”
    “Him and Katrina both,” added Marty. “Which would also make the studio very happy. They’d save close to half a million an episode on their combined salaries.”
    “Is this just Lyle’s paranoia?” I asked. “Or is it actually the network’s plan?”
    “We don’t know,” Tommy replied quickly.
    Marty weighed his response more carefully. “It could be,” he allowed. “Lyle’s a loose cannon. And he’s controversial. God hates controversy. Pickets make him crazy.”
    “And who would run the show?” I asked.
    The Boys made eye contact with each other.
    “That’s strictly idle speculation at this point,” Marty replied evasively.
    “Bullshit,” Tommy snapped. “We would. Muck and Meyer. Sure we would. Which would make us very happy, too. We’d be able to digest our food again.”
    “I can’t remember what that’s like,” confessed Marty.
    “I’m, like, it could be a totally excellent show,” gushed Annabelle, egging them on.
    “It could be cute,” Marty admitted guardedly.
    “And good for The Munchkins, too,” she added. “We can let them have their own stories for a change. They can grow up as characters.”
    And she, I mused, could grow up as a writer—into a baby producer. “And who would direct?”
    “Amber,” Annabelle suggested. “She’s ready.”
    “But it’s strictly idle speculation at this point,” Marty insisted. “Like I said.”
    Or was it? The pieces were all in place. Something for everyone. Except for Lyle, of course. Was this real? Had they been approached by the network? Or were they simply dreaming of what it would be like to get out from under the man’s thumb?
    “What we need from you, Hoagy,” said Marty, “is a way to make Rob more likeable that won’t freak Lyle out. We can’t get a thing by him.”
    “If you can do that,” said Tommy, “I’ll kiss you on the mouth.”
    “That’s not a good line,” Marty told him.
    “You’re right—it needs work,” he admitted, turning to me. “I’ll get back to you.”
    “Do you know Chad?” Marty asked me.
    “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “Well, watch out for him. The man’s a major suck-up.”
    “He may even lick your face,” added Tommy, with great distaste.
    “All the actors lobby us for good material,” Annabelle explained. “It’s kind of an occupational drag thing.”
    There was a faint tapping at the door. A scrawny nebish in his late twenties stuck his head in. “Morning,” he said, bashfully.
    “Come in, darling!” Annabelle sang out warmly. “I’m like, did Naomi … ?”
    “Just needed a k-kicking,” he stammered, blinking furiously. “Feeder was jammed. I-I miss anything?”
    “Strictly a minor eruption,” reported Marty. “A three point two on the Lyle wig-o-meter.”
    “Bring us any brisket sandwiches, Bobby?” needled Tommy, brightening. Although I’m sure an electrocardiogram would still have classified him as comatose.
    “Be nice, Tommy!” Annabelle ordered, with motherly protectiveness. “Now, Bobby, dear, come meet Hoagy.”
    Bobby Ackerman came over to me with his hand stuck out. He had a head of soft, curly blond hair and an innocent, almost angelic face. He looked like a lamb—a really intense lamb. The kid was tightly wrapped. Typical writer in that regard—timid on the outside, simmering on the inside. Most of us are shy egomaniacs, myself excluded. I have never been shy. Bobby wasn’t overly tidy. His blue oxford button-down was frayed at the neck, his gray twill trousers stained and wrinkled, his Rockports scuffed. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut. He needed to stop blinking.
    “It’s an honor to m-meet you,” he said to me. Actually, he didn’t so much stammer as he did speak in choked, overheated bursts. “I really admire y-you.”
    “You won’t once you get to know me better.” I