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The Sinister Sitcom Caper

By Sally Carpenter

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MONDAY: TABLE READ
Chapter 1: Getting Together

My first day back on the studio lot in fourteen years and I stepped on a dwarf.

“Watch it, mac!” he said.

I put the black gym bag holding my script and dance shoes on the floor and removed my motorcycle helmet so I could see the person I almost squashed. I pushed that stubborn lock of blond hair out of my baby blue eyes.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t see you down there,” I said.

“I guess not.” He spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Next time I’ll send up a flare.”

Can’t blame me for overlooking him. I stand six-foot-two, a bit more in my riding boots, which I had on, and this guy couldn’t have been more than four feet tall on tiptoe. With only a couple of work lights turned on in the soundstage, I couldn’t see him in the shadows. But I had to work with the man for the next five days so I tried to make amends.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Naw, I’m tough. Gotta be in this business.”

Although his torso was a normal size, his head was too large in proportion and his legs and arms, too short. His stubby fingers held a script––about forty hole-punched pages held together with metal brads. He was close to my age of 38.

I unzipped my black leather jacket, tucked the helmet under my left arm, and held out my right hand so he could reach it. “I’m Sandy Fairfax. I’m the guest star on the show this week.”

He shook my hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Yeah, I know who you are. The substitute. The second-stringer. The fallback guy. The producer tried to get some of the other over-the-hill teen idols for the part, but they all said no. Smart guys. They knew that a spot on this turkey would wreck their careers. I assume you’re here only out of desperation.”

When my agent said I’d landed a guest spot on a sitcom, I assumed he meant a respectable show like "Rosanne" or "Frasier" and not "Off-Kelter," the lowest-rated dud of the 1993 fall season. This wasn’t the way I planned my comeback. But how dare this pipsqueak say I’m second best. My ten gold records sold more copies, and my mug beautified more covers of Tiger Beat magazine, than all those other pop stars of the 1970s.

“A job’s a job. And you play the next-door neighbor. You’re Little Joe Graves.”

His face scrunched up in a frown. “Joseph.” He emphasized the last syllable. “Joseph Graves.”

“But in your movies you’re listed in the credits as–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That was back in the days when the little people in the business all had kiddie names. Now I want a grownup image so I can get better jobs.”

“You already have a job.”

“Not for much longer.”

Joseph wandered into the center of the room and onto the master set, the living room/kitchen/basement workshop setup of the Kelter home used in every episode. He gazed at the three flimsy canvas walls—the front of the set was left open for the cameras—that seemed so real on TV but looked rather cheap up close.

“Nobody’s expecting a renewal after this episode. The studio thought a big name guest star this week might pull in the viewers. Nothing personal, Sandy, I don’t think even you can help our ratings.”

I understood his concern. A new series only received six episodes to find an audience before the network signed on for a full season. Six weeks is hardly enough time for people discover a show in the multi-channel world of cable TV. My own hit series ran a glorious four years, but that was back in the day when viewers had the pick of only three networks.

A new voice called out. “Sandy Fairfax! Glad you could make it!”

A 20-something man all in black—black hair, black plastic-rim glasses, black T-shirt, black shorts, black shoes—hurried in from behind the set; his footsteps echoed in the hangar-sized building. He carried a pasteboard clipboard with a script nestled under the clip, and he wore a headset. He shook my hand firmly.

“I’m Carl McIntire, the assistant director. Welcome to Off-Kelter. The guard at the front gate called and said you’d arrived. Did you find a parking spot?”

“Yes, I left my Harley in Lot Five.”

“Great. Did you get a script?”

“Right here.”

I picked up my gym bag with my left hand (I’m a southpaw) and fumbled with it until Carl relieved me of my helmet. With my hands freed I unzipped the bag and removed the pages that the messenger had brought to my house last week. After my first reading of the script I was tempted to use the pages as kindling in the fireplace. A second reading made me want to set fire to the writers’ office.

“Good, good.” Carl turned his attention to the little person. “Hello, Joseph. You’re here early.”

As the dwarf approached us, he pulled the world’s fattest cigar from the pocket of his jacket and rolled it between his fingers. “I wanted to look over my lines before the battle-axe showed up. Whoever cast her on the show apparently had a lobotomy.”

“The final casting decisions went through the producer.”

“Like I said. Excuse me, gentlemen. I need a smoke.”

Smoking is not allowed on the sets, so he headed for the meat-locker-style stage door. Joseph pushed the door’s panic bar with both hands and stepped outside.

I asked, “Who’s the battle-axe?”

Carl’s chuckle sounded forced. “Don’t mind Joseph. That’s his nickname for Elsie Bloom. She plays the housekeeper on the show. Did you have any trouble finding the stage?”

“No, not at all. This is where I filmed my show.”

“No kidding!” His eyes grew wide. “I didn’t know that. You shot 'Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth' in here?”

I smiled. “Yeah, and also next door on Stage 15.”

“Then you must feel right at home.”

“We had the standing sets in here. Buddy’s underground laboratory was in that corner.” I pointed. “And the Spy Central office was over there along with the interiors of Buddy’s house. Stage 15 had the swing sets. But otherwise the place looks the same.”

“We’ve made a few changes. Let me show you.”

He turned on the overhead lights that bathed the stage in a warm glow. When I say “stage,” I don’t mean like a raised theater platform. The Kelter family rooms stood in the center of the vast concrete floor, surrounded by empty space for the swing sets, the temporary interiors that changed weekly according to each new script. Thick, quilted padding covered the outer walls to block out the street noise. A bank of raised bleacher seats, something that never existed on my show, faced the set. The first row stood about seven feet from the floor and narrow steps on both sides of the bleachers led to the seats. The first two rows consisted of the chairs reserved for the studio hotshots and special guests; tourists sat on the back benches where they could watch and (hopefully) laugh during the shooting. TV monitors hung from the ceiling so those in the back rows could see the action on the floor. The sound engineer and other technical personnel sat behind a glass window behind the back row.

Carl flipped a switch to start the air blowers that cooled the stage. “We can seat an audience of 220. Have you done a sitcom before, Sandy?”

“No, only single camera shows,” which included my guest spots on "Charlie’s Angels," "Fantasy Island" and "The Love Boat."

“Not much difference, except that we shoot the scenes in order and, of course, we have the audience.”

“What if I make a mistake?”

“We stop for retakes. Will the audience bother you?”

I bluffed. “No, of course not.”

I tried to picture the bleacher seats filled with enthusiastic fans, but failed. If this episode of Off-Kelter turned out as dreadful as the ones I’d watched at home, the guests might turn ugly and attack the cast. I haven’t appeared on camera for a number of years and I didn’t need a hostile audience to watch me struggling to get back in the game. But for Carl, I put on a brave front because I couldn’t afford to lose this job. The industry isn’t kind to teen idols once they outgrow their cute pin-up phase.

The AD slapped me on the back. “You’ll be great, Sandy. You’ll love working with this cast. They’re good people.”

A noise by the wall drew my attention. A man from craft services was setting out food and beverages on a wooden table. Everybody loved the craft services people. During long shooting days, a well-stocked table provided an oasis of refreshment for the cast and crew.

Carl followed my look. “Get yourself something to eat, Sandy. But first, let me put your things in your trailer.”

“Trailer? Don’t I get my old dressing room?”

“I’m afraid not. Harv’s using it.”

Of course the largest dressing room in the soundstage went to the star of "Off-Kelter;" whereas, I, as the one-time guest, was exiled to less desirable quarters. I’d lost my ranking as the former top dog at Mammoth Picture Studio. I handed my gym bag and helmet to Carl but I kept my script as well as my jacket on because the air conditioning was working its magic all too well. The AC’s great when you’re on the set working under the hot lights, but otherwise a person could freeze. Carl excused himself as I headed for the craft services table. I tucked my script beneath my armpit, and filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee from a metal urn.

“Good morning, Sandy. I have a Mountain Dew for you.” The craft services guy reached into a cooler on the floor and removed a chilled can. “I was told to stock some for this week.”

My agent, Marshall Ellis, was on the ball; he must have told the producer about my preferences. Nothing gets a good performance out of actors like pampering the actors like gods.

“Thanks. I’ll have one later. In the morning I need coffee.”

“It’ll be here in the cooler whenever you want it.” He returned the can to the ice-filled container.

I scanned the table for something to eat. “No brownies?”

“I put out the desserts after the lunch break.”

“On my show they always stocked brownies.” Because I pitched a fit if my favorite snack wasn’t available when I craved one. Chocolate gave me a nice sugar boost right before shooting stunts and action scenes. “Didn’t my agent say I like brownies? The soft, gooey kind?”

“I was told that you were watching your weight and I should have some low-fat options available.”

I’m gonna fire my agent. “Right now I need something to get me going. Got any high-fat options?”

“I have doughnuts. Will that do?”

The guy opened a cardboard box full of oversized, still-warm doughnuts. I salivated as I reached into the box—and stopped. As much as I hated Marshall for fussing about my weight, my recent years of heavy drinking had left me in dreadful shape. If I didn’t slim down, the cameraman would need a panoramic lens to keep me in the shot. So I look a plastic knife and cut one of the doughnuts in half. I put one half on a paper plate and then helped myself to a foil pan full of cooked bacon.

Before I took a bite, a newcomer interrupted me. “You don’t want to eat that.”

The blouse on this young, stunning blonde was unbuttoned far enough to reveal considerable cleavage. Her tight miniskirt showed off some great curves and long, smooth legs unencumbered with pantyhose. Ten toes tipped with red polish peeked through her high heel sandals. One thing I liked about showbiz was the number of attractive women I’d had the pleasure to work with over the years. If you’re going to spend long hours on the set in close contact with someone, it helps if she’s easy on the eyes. But I didn’t need a co-worker criticizing my food choices.

“And why not?” I replied.

“You’re filling your body with a disgusting glob of fat, chemicals and sodium. Ingesting animal products will cause aggression, premature aging and clogged arteries.”

“Elsie, let the man have what he wants.” Joseph had returned from his smoke-out. The heavy odor of premium tobacco clung to his clothes. I’d quit my own smoking habit years ago, but I still appreciated a quality leaf blend. To the craft services guy he said, “The usual, please.”

The guy placed several slices of the bacon and a hard-boiled egg onto a plate. He handed the plate, along with a Styrofoam cup of orange juice, to Joseph.

“See what I mean?” she said. “Red meat stunts your growth. Right, Little Joe?” She burst into a chorus of “We Are The Lollypop Kids.”

“Shut up, Elsie!”

“Oh, lighten up, Joe. Aren’t you a big enough to take a little teasing?”

He lowered his voice. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the guest star.”

She smiled and fluttered her long, fake eyelashes at me. “He’s so small minded, don’t you think?”

Her attempt to flirt with me might have worked if she wasn’t acting like a jerk. I tried to diffuse her teasing with humor.

“I thought short jokes went out of style with 'The Terror of Tiny Town,'” the 1938 all-midget musical western filmed long before the days of political correctness.

Those lashes stopped batting and her eyes darkened. “I guess shorty needs a big, tall man to stand up for him.”

Joseph said to me, “C’mon, let’s go before she spreads her rabies.”

With food in hand, he trundled away as quickly as his legs could go. I followed. I’d wait until Elsie cooled down before making further conversation. Starting the work week by fighting a cast member was never a good strategy. She stayed behind at the table, filling a plastic bowl with cottage cheese and banana slices. On the show, Elsie Bloom played the Kelter family’s housekeeper, Miss Tucker, although none of my real-life maids ever looked this good. One of the show’s lame ongoing jokes was that Miss Tucker had the hots for her diminutive neighbor, played by Joseph. Apparently Ivan Constantine, the show’s producer, thought a five-foot-ten-inch woman standing next to a dwarf looked hilarious. Maybe the actor guy was correct about Ivan having received a lobotomy.

Joseph sat down at a long, rectangular table set up in front of the set and started eating his food. Folding chairs surrounded the table on all sides. I set my food on the table beside him.

“Look on the bright side, Joseph. If the show’s cancelled, you won’t have to work with Elsie anymore.”

“She needs to retire so nobody has to put up with her.”

A middle-aged man dressed in jeans and a denim jacket ran up and embraced me in an unexpected bear hug.

“Sandy Fairfax! How the heck are you?” After releasing me he grabbed my hand and pumped it as if he was priming a pump. “Welcome to the show! Wonderful to have you here! I’ve been looking forward to working with you.”

Anyone who watched TV in the 1980s would have recognized Harv Brandon, the star of the hugely popular family sitcom "Anyone Home?" and the man who TV Guide dubbed as “America’s Most Loveable Dad.” Like many actors who achieved astounding success on one show (including yours truly), Harv failed to generate a post-series career. After his show folded Harv was absent from show biz except for a handful of flop movies and the game show circuit. He still had that friendly, open face—the “neighbor next door” look—but he’d grown thin and gaunt.

I pulled my hand from his grip. “Glad to meet you, Harv. I loved your work in 'Anyone Home?'”

“Thanks, Sandy, and you were fantastic on your show. Wow, you still look great.” How nice of Harv not to mention my extra poundage. “You’re hiding the fountain of youth in your back yard, aren’t you?”

“I’m just blessed with good genes, I guess.”

Joseph gestured toward the craft services table. “Looks like the battle-axe is getting her morning jollies.”

Elsie stood nose-to-nose with a young, muscular guy who sported perfect teeth and a photogenic face. If he weren’t an actor, I’d eat my boots. The man rubbed Elsie’s bare arms and whispered sweet nothings at her. In seconds they were smooching and groping with wild abandon. If the action heated up any more, they’d have to continue in Elsie’s dressing room.

“Who’s the guy?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him on the show.”

With one hand Harv lifted his purple-and-gold Lakers cap and scratched his bald spot. “Don’t you recognize him? He’s in all the tabloids. That’s her boyfriend, Troy Rawlins.”

Troy and Elsie gave each other one last smoldering look of affection before he left through the back exit door. Meanwhile, Carl had returned and informed me that my things were in the trailer; he’d show me the location after the table read.

Then a familiar but unwelcome voice cut through the chatter. “All right, people, we’re running late. Let’s get started.”

At the far end of the table stood a man in a red polo shirt; he was pushing forty-five years as hard as he could. He set a briefcase atop the table, opened it and removed a script and a set of store-bought reading glasses. He put the glasses on his face and flipped through the pages. His hairline had receded from when I’d last seen him. His face had the leathery, wrinkled look of someone who had spent too many days in the SoCal sun with too little sunscreen. If he ever tried to smile—little chance of that happening—he’d crack his face.

I almost fainted from disbelief. “Carl, is that who I think it is?”

“That’s Royce Jobbe, the director. He told me that the two of you had work together on your show.”

More like we’d fought together. Back in the day, Royce was a young buck who had arrived in L.A. with dreams of directing gritty, award-winning movies. Instead he was stuck on "Buddy Brave," babysitting an out-of-control teen star. I complained to Royce about the bad scripts, his ham-fisted approach and the lack of safety procedures for the stunts. He, in turn, yelled about the way I strayed from the script (can I help it my improvised lines were better?) and my lack of acting talent. Royce also groped the female guest stars and threw his ego around so much he could have tried out for the Olympic shot put team.

Our shouting matches were legendary. When we started fighting, the crewmembers had a good ten-to twenty-minute break before we wound down. During our last show together, Royce was so obnoxious I punched him. He cancelled the rest of the day’s shooting while he went home with a bloody nose. Next day he showed up with a bandaged beak and a lawyer who tried to sue me for battery. I called in my lawyer and the legal eagles duked it out while we finished shooting. After we wrapped, I told Royce I never wanted to work with him again.

So here we were.

Royce glared at me over the half-moon lenses of his glasses as if challenging me to step over the line first. As much as I dreaded the task, I might as well say hello and get it over with. I walked over like a man approaching a firing squad and extended my hand.

“Good morning, Royce.”

“Fairfax. How nice to see you again.” He spoke these lines with all the enthusiasm of a patient about to undergo a colonoscopy. Then he gave my hand such a limp handshake I was ready to check him for vital signs. “I want you to know you were not my first choice for a guest star. Or even my second or third choice.”

I gave him a sly smile. “Royce, I’m likewise excited about working with you again and have full confidence in your ability to turn out a spectacular show.”

“Cut the crap, Fairfax.” He nodded toward the table. “Take a seat anywhere.” He turned his attention to the script. He wasn’t reading, just ignoring me so I’d go away.

Before I had a chance to sit, Elsie screamed. “What are you doing? Are you trying to kill me?”


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