CHAPTER ONE

Frenchy La Mancha is Hollywood’s go-to guy with psychic skills in great demand by show folk desperate to have a future. Frenchy saw my future when the tarot cards turned up a pair of bizarre images—

I’m talking to a man wearing a crown.

A man falls in my arms and dies laughing.

When I asked Frenchy what it meant, he told me my time was up, swiped my MasterCard and signaled for the next in line.

An hour later, I’m focused on my lunchmate as she daintily extracts a fish bone from her teeth. Holly is a stunner—one of a billion beauties from the boonies responding to the sucking sound of Tinseltown. She’s not the brightest bulb, but any display of intellect would muck-up her quest.

You’ve meant an awful lot to my life, Mister McKay, she intensely declared as her hand brushed my thigh and my eyes switched sockets. "I grew up watching all your shows on TV, you’re historical, like something somebody would dig up."

How are your sand dabs, I asked, veering the conversation in a more ageless direction. So what if I’m a shade older than her? Maturity should never deter an open mind towards the feminine. To think otherwise would be discrimination. Besides, I didn’t hit on her at that party, she hit on me . . . So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s only interested because of what I could do for her career? . . . An alluring prospect, smacks of sleaze, I came clean. Look, Holly . . .

Yes, Springer, she said with come and get it in the liquid lava of her eyes.

Any actress who sleeps with a writer to get ahead is a prize candidate for dimwit, I explained, which means I can’t give you a part if a part is what you’re after.

She flashed me a stupefied look and exclaimed—"Is that why you think I’m here? You think I’m a common bloodsucker?!" With that, she burst into the phoniest set of tears I’ve ever believed. All eyes in the joint darted me repulsive looks . . . Geez, try to be a good guy and the world’s no oyster.

The sudden vibration of my cell phone afforded a welcome distraction. Urgent! A call for help! I plunked down a couple of bills and gave Holly the number of a director-friend who’s always casting. He hasn’t made any movies just actresses, but Holly will be a star if she’s boffing him when he makes it big.

*     *     *

The caller was Ruby Lewis. Her husband, Nat, is in bad shape. A couple of months ago he had a heart attack and caught the German measles from a peck on the cheek by a candy striper.

Nat Lewis, the dean of comedy writers, was fading fast and needed to see me.

I gunned Wolfgang, my ‘85 Beemer, out to Chatsworth which is about an hour or six north of L. A. depending on the snarl of the traffic. It used to be wild territory where they shot cowboy flicks, but nowadays Lash LaRue would tangle his whip in the golden arches.

The Lewis’s lived in a ranchy mansion completely away from everything except for the Walmart under construction behind them.

The door was answered by their housekeeper, Rosarita. Oh, Meester McKay, Senor Lewis ees waiting, she said, ushering me into an enormous bedroom.

Ruby sat at bedside reading to Nat from a joke book he wrote called This One’ll Killya. Nat says it’s in its fourth printing because the first three were all blurry.

I was looking at the obituaries the other day, Ruby read. Did you know everybody dies in alphabetical order?

Nat wheezed like Shemp being tickled by a Nazi spy. Ruby reached out to comfort him, caught a glimpse of me . . . Nat, dear, Springer’s here.

Nat sprung up, held out his arms: Bubula, sit, we’ll schmooze!

Ruby placed her hand on my shoulder. Keep up the laughter, she whispered, leaving us alone.

Great lady, my Ruby, Nat cracked. Nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I bought her a mink and she keeps the cage real clean! He broke himself up, schpritzing snot all over the Egyptian bedspread.

Funny, Nat, I said. Glad you’re in high spirits.

Hooked on Horny Goat Weed, he exclaimed. When I go, they’ll hafta club my schlong to death.

I got a joke, I offered.

Make me laugh, he countered.

There’s a knock at the door, I Irishly began. The guy says, are you the widow Murphy? The name’s Murphy says the woman, but I’m no widow. Oh, yeah, says the guy, wait’ll you see what they’re draggin’ up the stairs.

Nat let out a "Ha!" clutched his heart, collapsed on the pillow. I turned his face to mine. "Nat, are you all right? Say something!"

He snapped his eyes open and quipped: Okay, two Jews got off a camel and the first Jew says to the second Jew, ‘Next time we’re going by Greyhound’.

Nat snorted a guffaw, beckoned me close and murmured: Boychick, it’s been arranged . . . He needs you . . . The job is yours. He collapsed on the pillow again.

This time I was on to him. Okay, Nat, go ahead, milk the death bit. I know what you’re up to.

Nat sprung up and gasped—Tell my psychiatrist I can’t make it this week!

Then he fell in my arms and died laughing.

CHAPTER TWO

Working stiffs enjoy a little R&R on weekends. Writer stiffs are not allowed weekends when employed on a sitcom. Like this staff gig I have on Down Under In Hackensack, a fun-filled romp about twenty-somethings running a Malibu funeral home. It premiered last week and is threatened with cremation, so this inept producer is frantic for me to write a save-his-ass script which is why I’m at home breathing life into a corpse.

I was gratefully interrupted by a pounding at the door.

Towering over me—Men in Black.

Springer McKay, we’re from the United States government.

I didn’t know the IRS made house calls, I joked to no reaction.

I.D.s were flashed identifying Mark Archer and Wayne McClain of the U.S. Secret Service.

I was clutched with terror.

The president would like to see you, Archer informed me.

The president of what?

Don’t be coy, sir.

What would he want with me? I’m a comedy writer.

That’s what President Morgan wants to see you about.

*     *     *

Our nation’s Capitol provides an interesting take on humanity as you rove from ramshackle huts to mini-pleasure domes catering to self-promoting politicos of all nations. There’s no secret about the divide between the rich and the poor, which is no big deal unless you’re poor.

The limo pulled up to the white-pillared portico. Archer escorted me to the front door. Our job is done, Mister McKay. It’s you and the president now.

I couldn’t move, just stood there gawking. It’s the freaking White House!

The door swept open and I was greeted by this crispy-stiff guy who introduced himself, Chief Usher Kermit Mealey—the president is expecting you.

Mealey was joined by a woman who was a dead ringer for Eleanor Roosevelt when she was alive. Mister McKay, I am Mrs. Mangler, the president’s secretary. Come, we must hurry!

Trailing her lavender scent down the wide-carpeted hallway, I couldn’t help but imagine what Disney could do with this place. The Dopey Room, Grumpy Room, Sleepy Room, seven possibilities in all.

A Marine, in grim military mantra, stood guard at what I recognized as TV’s West Wing. Mrs. Mangler swung open the official door. President Morgan will see you now.

I entered the Oval Office, my eyes locking onto the president, who was smaller than I thought, but he was seated behind a giant desk so who knew?

One more veto and I’m yours, he said in a ratty-tat rhythm, signing with a flourish. He sprung up (still short) and nimbly darted over to me with a hearty handshake. King Morgan.

I paused for a second trying to remember who I was . . . Yeah, uh, Springer McKay.

How’d you ever get a name like Springer?

I was named after the family dog.

The president hooted—Humor! Love it!

It’s no joke, I explained. My parents loved that mutt.

Morgan hooted again, motioned for me to join him on the official couch. So, how goes it in Tinseltown, he asked.

The screwballs are winning.

Interesting place Hollywood, the president observed. Not much in the way of ethics, but they sure got a knack for raising funds. Can I get you anything? Got a fresh batch of grape Kool-Aid.

No thank you, sir.

He scooted over to the bar. I’m having me a hefty helping of this lip-smackin’ goodness. Sure you don’t want some?

Yes, sir.

Last call. Not too soon to change your mind, nobody likes a wimp-out.

Just a small glass, I muttered, convinced of the president’s persuasive powers because I hate grape Kool-Aid.

Morgan thrust a tumbler in my hand and offered a toast: Here’s to the man who’s wisest and best. Here’s to the man whose judgment is best. Here’s to the man who’s smart as can be. Here’s to the man who agrees with me. He gulped his drink, sleeved the purple mustache from his lip, sat beside me . . . It’s too bad about Nat.

He died laughing, I said, flashing back to Frenchy’s predictions: I’m talking to a man wearing a crown . . . A man falls in my arms and dies laughing.

Nat had a great fondness for you, Springer, Morgan said. He called you his heir apparent.

That’s nice to hear, I replied beginning to see what I was heir to.

The president drilled me a hangdog expression, looked like he was begging for a Milk Bone, even his nose looked wet. I need your help, son, he implored. Your president needs jokes.

You want jokes.

Yuks! Quips! Zingers!

Mister President, I don’t do jokes per se, I prefer to write about the humor in everyday life . . .

"Cork the crap, McKay, you write jokes, Morgan snapped as he grasped my arm: The job is yours if you want it. You’d hafta be a nut to pass it up."

I suppose I’d hafta be.

You got that right, he said, whacking me on the back. Welcome to the White House, wear a life jacket at all times.

He reached into his breast pocket. Here’s a copy of Nat’s contract—yucka-pucka lawyer shit, we’ll draft something for you to sign. Meantime, I’m speaking to a group of battered woman tomorrow. He snatched a folder off his desk, dropped it in my lap. Punch it up.

You want me to write battered women jokes . . . ?

Better believe it, son, you’re my Secretary of Schtick!

CHAPTER THREE

I checked into the Fleegler Hotel and was upgraded to a room with an unobstructed view of the alley. My complimentary copy of The Washington Guardian informed me that Down Under In Hackensack had been put to rest, so I arranged to sub-let my Hollywood apartment to a friend and am free to pursue my political destiny.

Perusing Nat’s contract, I deduced I was the literary assistant to the president for a stipend of four-grand a month, dissolvable by acts of God like death or impeachment. It wasn’t the money I was used to in show business, but you never get used to money in show business because there’s not always money to get used to.

I took a gander at the president’s battered women speech . . . Pretty dry, in need of levity, but how? I mean, sure, humor’s all about tragedy like getting fired, evicted or divorced, but women knocked around, where’s the joke in that?

Men . . . I’ll take a few jabs at men. I’ll have the president do a "roast" of the male species. He’ll open with—I’d like to begin by talking about how all men are created in God’s image, although I wouldn’t bet the farm on it . . . Take my friend, Herbie, not the most considerate husband. He won a trip for two to Paris and went twice by himself . . . Once, Herbie came home in the middle of the night and when he undressed his wife screamed, ‘Where’s your underwear’? And Herbie said: ‘Holy Cow, I’ve been robbed’!"

. . . Oh, yeah, I was rolling and finished in no time.

My impromptu happy dance was halted by a rap at the door. A kid in a dweeby bellhop outfit skittered inside, placing a fruit basket on the table. He thrust out his hand so I could show my appreciation and exited with a mumbled Cheapskate.

I was hungry enough to eat a horse—ripped open the basket—no horse. An apple, plum, pineapple, and Hershey kisses in a chipped coffee mug that said Morgan For President. Noshing a McIntosh, I noticed a card which read: Looking forward to the laughs . . . King Morgan.

There was a second card, an invitation to a White House reception this very evening. How about that? I’m hardly here and already hob-nobbing with the hob-nobbers.

*     *     *

My choice of what to wear presented no problem since I only own one suit. When I saw that bright green job in the window on Hollywood Boulevard I knew it was the perfect way for me to be a trendsetter.

I flashed my White House ID and was waved through like a recognized Washington personage. Gazing at the distinguished throng in the East Room, I noticed all the men wore black tuxedos making me feel a like