A Stranger in the Mirror By Sidney Sheldon

 

The meeting took place at the Twentieth Century-Fox studio on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles, where O’Hanlon and Rainger had their offices. Toby had expected something lavish, on the order of Clifton Lawrence’s suite, but the writers’ quarters were drab and dingy, located in a small wooden bungalow on the lot.

An untidy, middle-aged secretary in a cardigan ushered Toby into the inner office. The walls were a dirty apple-green, and the only adornment was a battered dart board and a “PLAN AHEAD” sign with the last three letters squeezed together. A broken venetian blind partially filtered out the sun’s rays that fell across a dirty brown carpet worn down to the canvas. There were two scarred desks, back to back, each littered with papers and pencils and half-empty cartons of cold coffee.

“Hi, Toby. Excuse the mess. It’s the maid’s day off,” O’Hanlon greeted him. “I’m O’Hanlon.” He indicated his partner. “This is—er—?”

“Rainger.”

“Ah, yes. This is Rainger.”

O’Hanlon was large and rotund and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Rainger was small and frail. Both men were in their early thirties and had been a successful writing team for ten years. In all the time that Toby was to work with them, he always referred to them as “the boys.”

Toby said, “I understand you fellas are going to write some jokes for me.”

O’Hanlon and Rainger exchanged a look. Rainger said, “Cliff Lawrence thinks you might be America’s new sex symbol. Let’s see what you can do. Have you got an act?”

“Sure,” Toby replied. He remembered what Clifton had said about it. Suddenly, he felt diffident.

The two writers sat down on the couch and crossed their arms.

“Entertain us,” O’Hanlon said.

Toby looked at them. “Just like that?”

“What would you like?” Rainger asked. “An introduction from a sixty-piece orchestra?” He turned to O’Hanlon “Get the music department on the phone.”

You prick, thought Toby. You’re on my shit list, both of you. He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to make him look bad so that they could go back to Clifton Lawrence and say, We can’t help him. He’s a stiff. Well, he was not going to let them get away with it. He put on a smile he did not feel, and went into his Abbott and Costello routine. “Hey Lou, ain’t you ashamed of yourself? You’re turnin’ into a bum. Why don’t you go out and get yourself a job?”

“I got a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Lookin’ for work.”

“You call that a job?”

“Certainly. It keeps me busy all day, I got regular hours, and I’m home in time for dinner every night.”

The two of them were studying Toby now, weighing him, analyzing him, and in the middle of his routine they began talking, as though Toby were not in the room.

“He doesn’t know how to stand.”

“He uses his hands like he’s chopping wood. Maybe we could write a woodchopper act for him.”

“He pushes too hard.”

“Jesus, with that material—wouldn’t you?”

Toby was getting more upset by the moment. He did not have to stay here and be insulted by these two maniacs. Their material was probably lousy anyway.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. He stopped, his voice trembling with rage. “I don’t need you bastards! Thanks for the hospitality.” He started for the door.

Rainger stood up in genuine amazement. “Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

Toby turned on him in fury. “What the fuck do you think is the matter? You—you—” He was so frustrated, he was on the verge of tears.

Rainger turned to look at O’Hanlon in bewilderment. “We must have hurt his feelings.”

“Golly.”

Toby took a deep breath. “Look, you two. I don’t care if you don’t like me, but—”

“We love you!” O’Hanlon exclaimed.

“We think you’re darling!” Rainger chimed in.

Toby looked from one to the other in complete bafflement. “What? You acted like—”

“You know your trouble, Toby? You’re insecure. Relax. Sure, you’ve got a lot to learn, but on the other hand, if you were Bob Hope, you wouldn’t be here.”

O’Hanlon added, “And do you know why? Because Bob’s up in Carmel today.”