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CAREER MEMORIES - "Outside the Box"
by Bill Blinn
It was a good time and this looked to be a good day within that time.
I was Head Writer on a well received series, young, surely insufferable, and enjoying every moment of it. My bosses were pleasant and professional and I felt I had established myself to the point where my suggestions were well received and I was an established member of the creative team. A sidebar plus was that I got along well with all our actors and one of them, Duffy, was a pal from New York days, when we both had memorized the menu at Grey's Drugs on 53rd and Broadway. We could not only occasionally catch lunch together, Duffy and I, but we could also talk about old times in between making smartass comments about the powers that be who were running the show. It was good to be young and know all the answers without going to the trouble of knowing the questions.
My 'to-do' list on this particular day was simple. First, rewrite the saloon scene and the subsequent chase. 11:00 meeting in the Producer's office to talk over projected storylines and script changes. Following that, I was to meet Duffy for lunch, after which I'd head for dailies, and fill out the day with pro-forma production rewrites. An ape could do it.
The only potential speed bump in the day was the timing of the lunch with Duffy. He played the Assistant Deputy on our horse driven drama, working on every second or third episode for a couple of days, not a great gig, though a steady check, and a stead check for a young actor pretty much defines a great gig on some level. Mainly the level that concerns itself with the rent on the two story stucco wart in Van Nuys, payment on the Country Squire Ford station wagon, and new roller skates for little Deidre. However, when I checked with the Production Office I was informed we were, as usual, right on schedule and that Duffy, otherwise call sheet ID'd as Assistant Deputy Campbell, would be available for our lunch.
The 11:00 o'clock meeting was as enjoyable as they usually were. Five guys in power positions making decisions about a smooth running operation, salting in a few smarmy jokes, bitch remarks about other series and how awful they all were, followed by a coda of closing smarmy jokes. A number of my suggestions were greeted with approval, so the world continued to spin as I had ordered earlier in the day. We chortled a time or two, then the meeting was over and we headed for the door.
"Oh. One thing." It was the Producer's voice and we halted like the Grambling drill tram, turning back in his direction. "We're getting in a rut a little," he said. "So I was doing a little thinking outside the box driving in this morning. We need to shake it up a little. What do you say we kill off Deputy Campbell in the 'Bloody Thunder' episode?" Apparently our looks invited further explanation. "Kid's a good actor and all, but he's oatmeal on the screen. We kill him off; it gives Bob a helluva scene with the dying kid in his arms and we recast, maybe get a funny fat guy to be the new deputy. Just thinking outside the box." He shrugged, smiled, moved back toward his fortress desk. "Just a thought. Think about it over lunch. We'll talk about it at dailies."
With murmurs and mumbles we moved out into the hall, most of the others untroubled by the Producer's thought and my tentative thoughts relating to audience expectations and the family of a fictional TC cast igniting no torch of rebellion. Soon I was alone in the hallway. Soon I would be seated across the table from Duffy. Secrets are heavy and harshly barbed.
When I got to the restaurant, Duffy was in the booth, smiling, waving me over. His eyes were bright and energized. That happens to actors when they're working. I slalomed between tables to the booth, nodding to all the coworkers there, very much the image of ease and assurance, very much dying inside. As I started to slip into the booth, I suddenly was struck by the thought that Duffy might want to talk about his part, about opening it up, about adding nuance. What would I, could I, say? Did this charade have any shelf life at all?
The bullet whizzed past me. Duffy wanted to talk about a trade the Los Angeles Rams football team had made that morning. Duffy knew I was addicted to the team and that the topic would serve to prime the conversation pump enough to fill the luncheon hour, and he was right. I went into a kind of guy-overdrive, citing stats and insider rumors, referencing Merlin Olsen and Carver Shannon and Eddie Meador, probably sounding as if I might actually bring some expertise to the topic, while all I truly brought was verbiage and the ability to plow through a Cobb salad like a wolverine with attitude. And through it all, as I heard my own voice from a far off place, I gazed at Duffy, registering the inherent kindness in his smiling eyes, the soft Appalachian melody in his tone. Duffy and his wife and little Deidre sometimes came t our place for holiday cookouts. A few scotches into the night, Duffy and I would often sing, rather well, I thought, and the sunsets were wrapped in ribbons, every one of them. My wife liked little Deidre a lot.
Then Duffy had to get back to the set and we left the restaurant. I said I would try to stop down there later on in the afternoon. He made a joke about the Rams and I heard myself laugh louder than the joke deserved and lunch was done with.
The lights were out when I slipped into my seat at the dailies. The scenes onscreen rolled by with predictable patterns, familiar tempos, the usual faces and line readings. Then came a scene in our jail, with the Sheriff throwing the heavies into one of the cells. Assistant Deputy Campbell dutifully doing the lock-work, then speaking his one line about the arrival of the circuit Judge. One of the producers asked El Jefe if he's done any further thinking about the fate of our Assistant Deputy. "Yeah," came the reply. "I think the guy's history. We blow him away in 'Bloody Thunder'." Somebody clicked on a clipboard light to make a note.
"Is that okay with everybody?"
The only sounds were those of the actors' voices from the screen.
I went through the afternoon doing the standard things in an acceptably standard manner. The route I took driving home was the route I always took, therefore I pulled into the Studio City driveway at essentially the standard time. The standard scotch was followed by a generous bonus and I was just starting to watch the news when the phone rang. My wife answered it and recognized the voice on the other end, responding with a pleasant tone. She held out the receiver toward me. "It's for you," she said. "It's Duffy."
I drained the scotch and went to the phone. When my hand went around the receiver, it felt like every other time I had ever taken a phone receiver into my grasp. "Hello," I said.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"I just talked to my agent a little while ago." His breathing was deep, slow. His enunciation was frayed.
"Yeah..."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Did you fight for me at all?"
"You bet," I said, and that's when I knew I might end up a producer.
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