Romantic Comedy, page 11
Then it was time for Blabbermouth, and though Noah and Henrietta were high-spirited as their silliness culminated in the airplane bit, I felt a deep, uneasy knowledge that the sketch wasn’t quite good enough; it wasn’t making a point that earlier iterations of Blabbermouth hadn’t made better. I also knew that I wasn’t going to start wildly revising this close to dress and air. Some writers kept making changes for as long as they could, but I believed a point arrived when potential gains in quality came at the expense of the cast’s familiarity and comfort with the script.
After Blabbermouth was Catchphrase’s horrible sketch, during which I had the unpleasant experience of realizing Catchphrase could simultaneously unicycle and juggle, which impressed me in spite of myself; then Noah’s second musical act, the song called “Inbox Zero”; then the Bathroom Cabinet sketch, which seemed to me to be about 75 percent of where it needed to be writing-wise; then the Three Tenors. Then Noah reappeared on Home Base and said, “Thank you for coming to this rehearsal that was perfectly smooth in all ways.” Over the speakers, I heard the assistant director Penelope say, “And that’s a wrap on the run-through, folks.”
Bob, Nigel, Autumn, Penelope, and Elliot converged on the floor in front of Home Base, and Noah hopped offstage and began speaking with them. I tried to discreetly approach Autumn from the back, touching her elbow. When she turned, I murmured, “Annabel is still coming for dress and air, right?”
Autumn frowned and shook her head. The other people in the conversation all had gone quiet and were looking at me.
I said, “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Annabel Lily.”
“Annabel’s not coming today,” Autumn said. “Period.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because something came up for her.”
“I can reach out to her,” Noah said.
“Or Danny can,” I said, just as Bob said, “Noah, you’ll have your hands quite full between now and air.”
“It’s no big deal,” Noah said. “I kind of know her.”
In a much warmer voice than the one she used to address me, Autumn said, “That’s above and beyond of you to offer, but guess what? It’s time for you to meet your snake.” She glanced among the others and said, “The handler recommends that Noah and the snake have one-on-one time to get used to each other.”
My eyes met Noah’s, and I said, “Wait, you are using a real one?”
He grinned. “I’ve been reassured it’s non-venomous.”
Elliot patted Noah on the back and said, “It’s gonna be awesome, man.”
Bob said, “In the last thirty-seven years, we’ve only lost, what, Nigel? Three hosts? Four?”
Dryly, Nigel said, “No more than that.” Then he looked at me and said, “A strong show for you tonight, Sally.”
Saturday, 6:01 p.m.
I was back in the cue cards room when my phone buzzed with a text from Henrietta: OMG Annabel and Danny have broken up for real?!?!!! Is Danny okay?
“Oh, shit,” I said aloud and turned to the nearest cue card guy. “I’ll be right back.”
I hurried to Danny’s dressing room and knocked on the door several times. There was no answer, but, when I turned the knob, I saw Danny lying facedown on his brown corduroy love seat. The room was about six by eight feet, a windowless box with a Formica counter under the mirrored wall, and Danny had done little to personalize the space other than installing the love seat. His legs hung off it, and he still had on his blazer from News Desk.
“Danny, it’s me,” I said.
When he turned his head, his face was red and tear streaked. “I guess you heard,” he said.
After I’d perched on the edge of the love seat—he was taking up so much of it that my right thigh was squeezed against his left hip—I could smell him. But it was a scent that was recognizable and human and not disgusting; the recognition of it felt familial.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “Although do you think it’s over over? Given your history—”
“Remember on election night, when it was like, the worst could happen? And then all of a sudden, it was like, Oh my fucking God, it’s happening. And then it had happened.” He sniffed. “Her publicist called my publicist, and Belly already put out a statement, which I’m sure the publicist wrote because it’s phony bullshit wording.” He grinned darkly. “Then she blocked me on all her socials.”
It seemed, among other things, either stunningly insensitive or deliberately cruel to behave this way hours before Danny was scheduled to perform live on national TV. And it would have been a lie to say that I didn’t once again wonder about the fate of my Danny Horst Rule sketch, but this time it wasn’t the main thing I was thinking about. The main thing I was thinking was that Danny had dodged a bullet.
“Did something specific happen?” I asked.
He rolled onto his side, his back against the corduroy cushions. “I was at her apartment this morning, right? We’re chilling in the kitchen, we’re making smoothies, and she has this super powerful, top-of-the-line blender. We’re talking about how it has a ten-year warranty, and I start making dumb jokes like, by the time the warranty expires, all cars will be self-driving, all meat will be grown in labs, and we’ll probably be divorced but we won’t even care because we’ll both be banging robots.”
He was quiet, and I said, “Is there more?”
“For real, I was barely even awake. I was just talking shit. But she flipped out.”
“Did she understand you were kidding?”
“She said I’ve never been serious about her because I’m incapable of being serious.” He shrugged. “I come back here thinking, Okay, that sucked, but we’ve been through it before. She’ll show up here and we’ll have make-up sex”—it was not, I told myself, the moment to ponder which emissions this couch had absorbed—“and instead she went scorched earth.”
“I know this is easy for me to say, but what if you ignore social media, get some sleep after the show, and go see her in person tomorrow?”
“She’s a little crazy,” he said. “But when she’s not being crazy, she’s the sweetest, most caring person I’ve ever known. She has this huge bed with a million pillows and a big down comforter like in the fanciest hotel, and we just lay on it, looking into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know people did that gazing shit outside of movies until I met her.”
“That sounds nice,” I said.
Neither of us spoke for a few seconds, and Danny’s stomach grumbled.
“When did you last eat?” I asked.
“Good question.”
“Let’s have a page go get you a sandwich. What about something plain, like turkey and cheese? You should have some protein.” But when I stood, he held out an arm to stop me.
“You know when you’re really vibing with another person?” he said. “Like for once the loneliness lifts, and you fully get each other—do you think that’s all bullshit?”
I took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think it’s bullshit. I think it’s rare, but real.”
Saturday, 6:27 p.m.
I told the two assistants at desks in front of Nigel’s office that I urgently needed to see him, and one stood, entered his office, then reemerged and motioned for me to come in. Inside, standing around the corkboard, were Elliot, Bob O’Leary, and two other producers. Nigel himself was behind his desk drinking from a tall, clear glass, and when he set it down, he said, “Sally, never underestimate the value of water.”
“We need to cut The Danny Horst Rule,” I blurted out. Because I hadn’t done this before, I wasn’t sure if the pronoun should have been we as in we need to or you as in you need to. “Danny and Annabel just had a big public breakup, and she’s putting stuff on social media, and it’s very messy.”
In a calm tone, Bob said, “Annabel is hardly essential in the sketch. Bianca was fine.”
“We need to cut it for Danny’s sake,” I said. “He’s really upset.”
“Danny’s a pro,” Elliot said. “He’ll be okay. Plus, don’t they break up a lot?”
“It seems different this time.”
“Might the sketch be cathartic?” Nigel asked.
Looking among their faces was disorienting; trying to get them to cut one of my sketches, after nine years of doing the opposite, was disorienting. Perhaps I was wrong and they were right? Both for Danny’s well-being and so that I could have a hat trick, I wanted them to be.
“It wouldn’t be cathartic,” I said. “It would be kicking him when he’s down.”
“Should we keep it in dress and see how it goes?” Bob asked.
“Or see if they’ve gotten back together in an hour,” Elliot said.
“We need to put Danny out of his misery now,” I said.
“Either way, he’s still on News Desk,” Elliot said.
“That’s not about him,” I said.
“You’re certain of this?” Nigel said.
Naturally, in this moment, I wasn’t. “Yes,” I said. “I’m certain.”
Nigel turned to Bob and said, “Let’s put Medicine Cabinet back in.”
Elliot and I made eye contact and—not judgmentally but more musingly—he said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d lost your edge.”
Saturday, 6:35 p.m.
Both the host’s dressing room and the musical guest’s dressing room were on the same corridor, and their doors had been closed on my way to Nigel’s office. As I returned to the studio, the host’s was open and filled with people. I heard someone say, “Hey, Sally!” and Noah appeared, gesturing for me to come in. Behind him, standing or sitting on the surprisingly crappy furniture in the surprisingly unfancy space, were Autumn, Madison and Addison, one white man with a well-tended goatee, one Black man with a well-tended goatee, a spiky-haired woman in overalls, a blond-haired woman who looked like a suburban mom, and a white guy in a suit and tie. I assumed the ones that weren’t Autumn, Madison, and Addison were his agent, manager, and other members of his business team.
Noah was wearing a tuxedo and also a layer of makeup, and—perhaps because I was used to seeing both men and women in foundation, bronzer, and blush—I thought he looked radiantly handsome. If he really did wear a wig, it was exceptional.
“Hey,” I said. “How did bonding with the snake go?”
“We’re like this now.” He held up crossed fingers. “Honestly, it wasn’t bad. I thought it would be cold because of cold-blooded, but it was warm. Or I should say her, not it. Her name is Eleanor.”
“For real?”
He nodded. “I wanted to tell you—I texted Annabel, and it sounds like she and Danny broke up.”
“They did,” I said. “And the sketch was cut.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It happens. I mean, thanks for trying. How are you feeling?”
He made a self-mockingly anxious expression. “Maybe not one hundred percent calm?”
“I think you’re going to be great and have a great show,” I said. “Truly.” It was common for hosts to be palpably nervous as the live show approached—and some were so nervous all along that they were vomiting and shaking for the entire week—but I personally had never offered reassurance to any of them. I had, however, once randomly found myself in a hall hugging the panicking male backup dancer of a female rapper, a bald, extraordinarily muscular man wearing a tight tank top and short denim shorts. To Noah, I added, “This week’s show is actually in much better shape than a lot of them are at this point.”
“Yeah?” Noah said. Then, simultaneously, we both said, “Actually?” and smiled. It felt in this moment like we knew each other much better than we did, and I thought that Noah clearly was a good guy, in addition to being radiantly handsome, and also that it would be an enormous relief when the live show was finished and we were no longer having dozens of ostensibly casual encounters. If TNO was like summer camp, at least his session would last only a week. I gestured with my thumb and said, “I should go tell Danny my bitchy little sketch about his love life is cut.”
“Before you go—” Noah leaned into the room and set his palm on the shoulder of the blond woman, who wore a maroon dress with brown flowers on it and was eating a hundred-calorie bag of cashews. There was a bowl of such bags on a table, along with bananas, apples, grass-fed beef jerky, a crudité platter, tiny brownies, and water bottles. The woman turned toward him, and Noah said, “Sally, this is my sister, Vicky, and Vicky, this is Sally, who’s a writer here.”
Warmly, Vicky said, “You’re one of the people making Noah’s dreams come true.”
“Well, not personally,” I said, which immediately seemed weird on my part. “Nice to meet you,” I added as we shook hands.
“Likewise.”
“Do you live here in—” I began, but before I could finish, Autumn was upon us in her Autumn-ish way, saying, “Sally, I’m going to steal both Noah and Vicky and show them where Vicky will stand when she introduces Noah’s first song.”
“Oh, fun.” I took a step backwards and waved vaguely. “Break a leg!” I said, then I scurried away.
Saturday, 11:08 p.m.
Working at TNO was often hectic, but the most hectic time was between the end of the dress rehearsal and the start of the live show. The three-hundred-plus audience members needed to be escorted out, and another three hundred–plus needed to be brought in. All the writers and all the producers and all the cast crammed into Nigel’s office—this time, his office overlooking the studio—so he could reveal which two or three sketches he was cutting for time, and how he thought the sequence of the remaining ones needed to be rearranged, and which last-minute adjustments he wanted made to the scripts, sets, and costumes. If at times his attention to detail seemed ludicrous—he’d decree that a potted plant in a sketch should be moved from the right side of a desk to the left—the counterargument was that he was Nigel Petersen, and the rest of us were not.
Dress had gone well, with the audience laughing a lot, but it hadn’t gone so well that it made me fear for the live show; sometimes you went into live knowing you couldn’t top dress, and this wasn’t one of those nights. There’d been a true dud—Sister & Father, the one that featured Viv as the nun—where the audience was quiet from start to finish, but it had been right before Noah’s first musical performance, which to some extent served as a palate cleanser and prevented the dud from ruining the rest of the show. It was understood that, although all of us always preferred to kill, the fact that sketches could bomb, that the audience wouldn’t reward us just for showing up, gave killing its value and meaning.
In keeping with Nigel’s frequent inscrutability, he wasn’t cutting Sister & Father; instead, he wanted it rewritten so that rather than Noah as the Pope coming in two-thirds of the way through, the sketch started with Noah, and Noah’s headgear changed from a miter to a skullcap. Both Blabbermouth and the Cheesemonger survived dress, though Nigel wanted twenty seconds cut from Blabbermouth, which raised the question for me of whether to eliminate the recent addition when Henrietta flew airplane-style on Noah’s feet or to thin out the chatter between the male judges. I went with the latter, while wondering if doing so would undermine the entire sketch. And Catchphrase’s Unicycle sketch had been moved to the last slot. Later sketches tended to be wild cards—clearly, including them wasn’t Nigel’s priority, because they might need to be cut for time during the show—but they sometimes became unexpected classics.
After the meeting, I raced to the cue cards room and ran into the writer Benji, who said, “That’s a bummer Nigel cut The Danny Horst Rule. I thought it was solid.”
Even if I’d wanted to, there wasn’t time to clarify; we both needed to check new cue cards. I simply said, “I know.” There were ten minutes left to air, and I could hear the house band playing on Home Base, and the chatter of the audience members eagerly waiting for the show. Usually, Danny took the stage for a couple minutes before air to warm up the audience, but I heard Bailey, who also had gotten their start as a stand-up, doing it instead. Then Bailey left the stage and the cast member Jay bounded out, with Bianca, Lynette, and Grace taking their places behind him. Though I couldn’t see Home Base, I knew because this was how it always happened that Jay was wearing a three-piece, seventies-style pale blue suit, and the women were wearing matching short silver halter top dresses with tall white boots. They all belted out “We Are Family,” and the audience went nuts.
As I walked toward the spot under the balcony where I usually watched the live show, a no-man’s-land quite separate from Nigel’s cave, and without rosé, I passed Viv, who was about to play Comey’s book editor in the cold open. In the seconds before a cast member went on, when they were surrounded by a makeup artist, a hair stylist, and someone from wardrobe all making last adjustments, the clusters always reminded me of when the mice and birds in the original Cinderella movie dressed her for the ball. I didn’t want to get in the way, or to call out Dr. Theo’s name, so when Viv’s eyes met mine, I merely held up my right hand, first with the thumb up, then with the thumb down, and raised my eyebrows. She nodded and held up her own thumb. I wasn’t sure whether I’d been asking if Dr. Theo was there or if they’d spoken, but, either way, the confirmation seemed promising. “Awesome,” I said, and kept walking to take my place next to two other writers, Patrick and Jenna. Unless things went awry during the show—if another sketch went way over and I was told by a producer I needed to make more cuts—this was where I’d stay. Even on nights when none of my sketches were in the lineup, it was thrilling to be in the studio seeing the cast members perform and knowing the sketches were appearing on television screens all over the country. Like Noah and millions of other people, I too had once been a kid who lived far from New York and watched TNO and was electrified.
