Chapter 5

The Payoff

INT. VERMONT-INN-DAY

LARRY

Then it hit him like a ton of sticks.

DICK

You mean “bricks.”

LARRY

A ton of anything is still a ton, Dick.

Newhart, “Get Dick” Writer’s First Draft, 1989

A PROFESSIONAL COMEDY WRITER’S JOB IS TO MAKE others laugh. Sometimes we write jokes and think, “Yes, that will work.” And sometimes we write jokes that crack ourselves up. When the sticks/bricks joke first popped into my head, it made me laugh. Re-reading it twenty-eight years later, it still does.

By June 1989, I had no idea where my TV career stood. In twelve months, I’d been hired on three different series, which seemed like a positive sign. But then none of those jobs had lasted longer than three months, which seemed like a negative sign. For all the encouragement I’d received, there’d been equal disappointment. To put it in dating terms: the guy seemed really into me, but I suspected he might be gay. Still, I wanted to make this new career work. Writing for TV made way more sense than writing for magazines. And by sense, I mean money.

After months of being twenty years younger than my Smothers Brothers colleagues, it was great to be back in NYC and reunite with friends my own age. Most Fridays, I attended Movie Night, which was founded by magician Penn Jillette and some friends. We’d all gather at the Howard Johnson’s in Times Square for brownie sundaes before heading to a midnight movie.

Movie Night rules include sitting in the front row and applauding whenever the name of the movie is mentioned. Any establishing skyline shot triggers a chorus of “Chicago!” Even if the Eiffel Tower or the Washington Monument appear in the shot, you still shout, “Chicago!”

I first met Penn and his partner Teller on assignment for Rolling Stone magazine to cover the release of their movie Penn & Teller Get Killed. The interview took place at their office in a sketchy Times Square apartment building. After I asked all my questions, Penn offered to walk me to the elevator and see me out safely. If the elevator had come right away, my life would’ve been very different. Instead, we waited and waited and ran out of small talk. I became self-conscious of the differential between Penn’s physical presence and my own. At 6-6 and 220 pounds, he was a foot-and-a-half taller and double my weight.

“You know,” I blurted out. “If a volcano erupted right now and covered us in lava, archaeologists would dig up our bones in a million years and assume I was your lunch.”

Penn let his jaw drop theatrically. He stared at me for a beat.

“Do you want to go see RUN-DMC at the Nassau Coliseum this weekend? A bunch of us are going and I’ve got an extra ticket.”

And that’s how I joined Penn’s merry band of misfits. Penn’s friends were a mix of magicians, artists, computer scientists, and comedy writers. We came from different fields, but all had certain things in common. We were all teetotalling, science-loving, sex-positive atheists. I started spending what Penn would call “stupid amounts of time” with him and his friends. Nothing made me happier than a voicemail in Penn’s unmistakable low growl: “Eddie and I are getting dinner—you comin’?”

Penn was a flawlessly generous friend and included me in all the activities. When the group decided to see a live sex show, Penn invited me to join. I had no idea what to expect walking into the seedy Show World, the last of the Times Square peep shows. We passed rows of near-naked women in stalls and I noted the place reeked of bleach.

“That’s not bleach,” Penn informed me. “That’s the base smell of cum. People think these places clean with bleach. They don’t.”

In the main showroom, a crowd of men stood in a circle watching two women who were really enjoying each other’s company. The next act was a solo artist who began by slipping a condom on a dildo.

“I hope she’s wearing a diaphragm in case the condom breaks,” I whispered to Penn.

When the next act started, I told Penn that I was taking off. He nodded and someone else from the group, who had also seen enough, walked me out. I appreciated my glimpse into this alien subculture. And I loved that Penn let me join this stereotypically male excursion and never insinuated that my presence would ruin anyone else’s fun. I didn’t feel pressured to go or pressured to stay. Penn trusted people to make their own decisions.

Penn also invited me on a weekend scouting mission to the desert when he and Teller started thinking about performing in Vegas. The duo had a successful run on Broadway and racked up dozens of memorable appearances on SNL. On Late Night with David Letterman, they famously released a top hat filled with cockroaches all over Dave’s desk, sending the host flying out of his chair. It was a rare instance of Dave losing his cool on-air. Moving to Vegas was a solid business decision for magicians. They’re really the only people you can say that about. In April 1987, about ten of us accompanied Penn to what he called a “city built on bad math.” The group included Billy West—the future voice of Fry on Futurama—and Spike Feresten, who later wrote “The Soup Nazi” episode of Seinfeld.

Around the table left to right: John Fortenberry, me, Tim Jenison, Marc Garland, Spike Feresten in sunglasses, Eddie Gorodetsky, Billy West, Penn Jillette, Brad Carvey, April 1987

Courtesy of the author

The group took in the classic Vegas revue “Jubilee” where we learned that the Titanic sank not because it struck an iceberg, but because the captain was distracted by topless dancers. This would explain why the band kept playing as the ship sank; the girls had to dance to something. I laughed so much during that trip, and I’ll always be grateful to Penn for helping me feel safe and funny after a rocky year.

For work, I picked up magazine assignments and was accepted into the Disney New Writers Program, which paid me to write my first pilot. I mined my own experience and wrote Funny Girls about a female writing team on a late-night talk show. Unlike Liz Lemon, my leads were low-level writers working for a vain host and a head writer whose character description read:

“HEAD WRITER: Sexist and overbearing, he makes life hell.”

Okay, so maybe I was still working out my issues with Stafford.

Funny Girls went nowhere. Next, I wrote a spec script for The Ellen Burstyn Show, which was the rare sitcom that shot in New York. Secretly, I was hoping for another quick sale like Shandling. My script found its way to the showrunner who kindly took the time to mark it up, scribbling notes in the margins. The remarks were not positive. The word “harsh” pops up next to a lot of my jokes. One line even got a “You don’t know this, but you could never make a joke like this on TV.” About three-quarters of the way through, the comments stopped. I flipped to the end to look for a final word of encouragement like “Good effort!” or “Keep trying!”

Nothing.

Even though the showrunner had impressive credits and I was a novice, I remember thinking, “He’s wrong.” Maybe my comedy wasn’t too harsh; maybe his comedy was too soft. Subjectivity works both ways. Just because you allow yourself to be judged doesn’t mean you have to accept that judgment.

In June, Gavin called to say the sitcom Newhart was looking for a couple of story editors (the lowest-level writers on staff). Bob Bendetson, the Supervising Producer, had enjoyed my Shandling script and wanted to meet. Conveniently, he and his wife, Heidi, were on their way to Italy with a layover at JFK airport. If I got myself to the gate, he could interview me for the job while waiting for his flight.

This was exciting. I’d watched Bob Newhart’s first series in the seventies where the legendary comedian played a psychologist who remains calm even when surrounded by lunatics. Newhart is the master of small moments, snatching laughs in the pauses, in the unsaid, and in the stare. As someone once put it: Newhart blinks funny. As a teenager, I was captivated by the way Bob and his TV wife, Emily, played by Suzanne Pleshette, interacted in their cool, modern marriage. She worked, he worked. She rolled her eyes when he expected dinner on the table. We even got to see them in their midcentury-decorated bedroom with the sophisticated bookshelf behind the headboard.

Then when I was in college, The Bob Newhart Show had a resurgence in syndication, spawning the first TV drinking game. Viewers had to down a shot every time a character said, “Hi Bob.”

The second Newhart series—the one I was up for—was set in rustic Vermont where he played an innkeeper named “Dick” who remains calm even when surrounded by lunatics. Created by Barry Kemp, the show had flashes of absurdity. Each week, three flannel-shirted, woodsy Vermont brothers would stride into Dick’s inn. Only one spoke and he routinely introduced his siblings, “This is my brother Darryl and this is my other brother Darryl.” By the final season, the audience would erupt into applause as soon as the woodsy brothers entered.

On the ride to the airport, I brainstormed topical jokes so I’d have something to say if the interview stalled. I was two-for-two at getting hired after meetings and I remember feeling confident as Bob B. and I sat down at the gate. Bob B. remembers our meeting differently.

“You were so freaked out,” Bob B. told me in 2017. “I was trying to calm you down, but you just kept pitching jokes. I kept saying, ‘We like your writing. You don’t have to keep pitching.’ You just kept trying to impress me.”

I do recall that after our meeting, I walked around the corner and kind of fell apart. But at least no one saw me.

“You know, after you left, Heidi walked by you,” Bob B. said. “She came back and said: ‘That girl is hyperventilating.’ ”

Despite my nervousness, Bob B. gave me a shot. Newhart had a 24-episode order and I was guaranteed to write on the first thirteen. If the producers were pleased with my work, they had an option to pick me up for the “back eleven.” Once again, I crossed the country. I took over the lease on Marcy’s West Hollywood apartment and bought my first car, a dark blue Honda Civic.

Newhart was shot at the MTM studios in Studio City. Each morning, I’d drive past the Roseanne stage and park across from the thirtysomething house. After lunch, the writers would sometimes stroll over to the northwestern corner, head down a sloping path, and arrive at the lagoon from Gilligan’s Island. One of the main sets of a popular sixties sitcom, the lagoon was nothing but a dirty, busted-up oversized tub. And that’s showbiz.

For the first time, I was part of a traditional sitcom writers’ room. There were seven of us: two Executive Producers, Supervising Producer Bob B., a mid-level male Producer, and a team of two women who were Story Editors like me. The bosses were both named Mark and we’d sit in “Mark and Mark’s” office to break (i.e., plot) stories.

Right away, I figured out that if I pitched a joke or plot point that got shot down, I shouldn’t dwell on the rejection. Some writers berate themselves internally: “Why did I say that? I shouldn’t have pitched it.” But if everyone else in the room is working on their next pitch, then fixating on the previous one puts you a step behind. This approach also applies to an overall career where it’s better to focus on the next opportunity rather than ruminate on missed chances and setbacks.

I also learned not to waste time with windups. There’s a tendency, especially with women, to kick off pitches with caveats, like: “I don’t quite have it, but I was thinking that it might be funny if maybe he said something like—and these may not be the exact words—but the gist is . . .” By then, who’s listening?

I tend to blurt out my jokes as quickly as possible. If they fly, great. If they thud, I don’t take it personally. Again, Bob B. remembers it differently.

“Every time Mark and Mark didn’t like what you did, you’d look a little destroyed,” Bob recalls. “I thought you were very insecure.”

Of course, I was insecure. And don’t forget the part about being petrified, too! I felt massive pressure to succeed. After so many false starts, I needed to last a full season and not get cut after thirteen episodes.

My first script assignment had a silly plot that involved Dick accidentally burning down his favorite French restaurant after sneaking a cigar in the men’s room. Feeling guilty, Dick invites the chef to stay at the inn. Monsieur Hubert is grateful until he discovers that Dick caused the fire and vows revenge. The episode was filled with jokes about poisoned omelets and Dick being mowed down by wheels of brie. It needed a name and we landed on “Get Dick,” so yes, my first script had a penis joke for its title.

I had a week to finish my “first writer’s draft” and I spent most of that time scribbling in Du-par’s coffee shop near the studio. Jack Kerouac fueled his work with Benzedrine. Truman Capote relied on gin. My drug of choice was a large fudge brownie topped with an inch of thick chocolate frosting. I estimate it takes a hundred calories for me to generate each page of a script. Give me a deadline and lots of carbs and I’ll get the job done.

The character voices on Newhart were well-established and I quickly discovered that sitcom writing was more satisfying to me than sketch writing. I turned in my draft late one afternoon, handing it directly to one of the Marks. He held it to his nose.

“Smells funny,” he said.

I smiled, but my stomach lurched. The nights after handing in a script are long and filled with anxiety. There’s a common fantasy about turning in a draft so brilliant that the boss calls you at home that night to let you know. That fantasy has only come true for me once and it wasn’t that night.

The next morning, I got into my office early and left my door open in case an Executive Producer wanted to stop by and flash a thumbs-up. Bob B. was the first to appear.

“Hey, Nell,” he said in a singsong-y pitch. “Great job. Really funny script.”

“Seriously?”

“What? You don’t believe me? Have you read it?”

I smiled. Bob B. praised a few specific jokes, including Larry pointing out to Dick that “a ton of sticks” weighs the same as “a ton of bricks.” He had some notes, but we’d go over those later. Bob B. headed to his office in the building next door.

A half hour later, Bob B. returned to my office, looking rattled. He fumbled, trying to find the right words, but there were no right words. Mark and Mark had not shared his enthusiasm for my draft. More precisely, they hated it.

“I have their notes,” Bob B. said. “And there are a lot of them.”

Bob B. pulled up a chair next to me behind my desk. We opened our scripts.

“The first big note is that they didn’t think you had enough jokes.”

Pathetically, I fished for a shred of positive feedback.

“Did they like the sticks and bricks joke?” I asked in a small voice.

“No,” he said bluntly. “They thought it required too much setup. Here’s what you need to do . . .”

Bob B. went down the first page, pointing at every line of dialogue and saying, “Joke. Joke. Joke. Joke. Joke.”

We walked through each page. Bob B. was professional and precise and made it as painless as rectal surgery can be. I saved the marked-up draft. Pretty much every page looks like this:

Newhart © 1989 Twentieth Century Fox Television. All rights reserved

This page amuses me because after giving specific criticism like “wordy” and “too jokey,” Bob B. clearly just gave up and delivered the global note: “ALL BETTER.” To this day when I’m editing my scripts, I’ll write “DB” in the margin next to a joke. It’s my shorthand for “Do Better.”

My friend Rob Bragin has the best description for how writers should accept notes. He graduated from Berkeley and adopts the advice of protestors being dragged off by the police.

“Go limp,” he advises. “Don’t stiffen up and don’t fight.”

I took the Marks’ notes with minimal defensiveness. Two things helped sustain me. First, it was kind of cool to be getting notes on a sitcom script. I hadn’t gotten that far on It’s Garry Shandling’s Show so in a way this was progress. And second, I was so grateful that Bob B. had stopped by my office that morning with praise. It was a perfect reminder that one person’s “great job” is another person’s “page one rewrite.”

The bones of the script didn’t change although most of the dialogue did. My second draft was better received. The room did a pass and the episode went into production.

Newhart’s shooting schedule began with a Monday morning full cast table read. (“Table read” is a highly technical term referring to the way actors sit around a table and read a script.) The read gives the writers a sense of whether the plot works, the jokes work, and the pacing works. More importantly, it gives writers free bagels.

At Newhart, the cast, the director, the network and studio execs, and the writer/producers sat at tables pushed together on the stage. An additional row of chairs for crew members, agents, and assistants ringed the perimeter. On the morning of the “Get Dick” table read, I walked onto the stage, grabbed a bagel and a freshly printed script, then beelined to the chairs on the periphery and sat down. My name was on the script but I wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. I was too scared to sit at the center table. I was also too scared to introduce myself to Bob Newhart. No one else bothered to introduce us, either.

The table read went smoothly. For all the Marks’ focus on “joke, joke, joke,” the biggest laugh in the script came after Newhart delivered these three words:

DICK

I feel . . . bad.

The line doesn’t look like a joke on the page, but it was tailored for Newhart’s deadpan delivery and stopped the table read as we all gasped for breath. A skilled comedic actor will give the impression that he’s pulling laughs out of thin air, but he’s working off a deep understanding of human nature. That’s the advantage of writing for a Bob Newhart—and especially the Bob Newhart.

After the read, the producers huddle with the network for notes. If the actors have any problems, they ideally express them at this point. The writers head back to the office to start the rewrite while the director starts blocking scenes. There are run-throughs on Tuesday and Wednesday, prompting additional adjustments. Thursday is camera blocking day and Friday is shoot night. Newhart used to warm up the crowd with one of his telephone standup routines. My favorite was the Englishman listening to Sir Walter Raleigh calling from Virginia to pitch him on the wonders of smoking tobacco. The listener responds warily, “I think we’re gonna have a rather tough time selling people on sticking burning leaves in their mouths.”

“Get Dick” (still a penis joke) turned out well and I was assigned another script. The other story editors were assigned a second script, too, but were handed a dog of a story. George, the handyman, meets a woman who he deems perfect except for one thing: she has a cartoonishly large ass and he just can’t get past it. (Get it?) The female story editors rightfully protested the plot and pitched less offensive possibilities. Mark and Mark dug in their heels. Bob B. went to the story editors and tried to broker a deal.

“I kept saying, ‘Just make the show about how shallow George is,’ ” he recalled. “I told them, ‘I get your point, but this is the stupid business and those two guys are in charge.’ ”

The story editors softened the physical insults as much as they could before the episode shot. Tensions remained high as we approached the thirteen-episode mark when the producers had to let the staff know if our options were picked up. A week earlier, the male Co-Producer was informed that his job was secure. All three female Story Editors were kept waiting until the last day of contractual notification.

Bob B. was dispatched to deliver the verdicts. He stopped first at the team’s office. Mark and Mark swung the axe. Then he stopped by my office. My neck was spared.

Yay! Or maybe, Yay? I felt awful about the other story editors and wasn’t looking forward to sitting in the room without them. I also suspected that Mark and Mark didn’t want me there, but Bob B. had argued my case. Twenty-six years later, I asked him pointblank if my suspicions were correct.

“Yeah,” he responded sheepishly.

Mark and Mark hired a new team of male story editors for the remaining episodes. Once again, I was the only female writer in the room. Staying on staff meant I got to be part of the series’ final episode, which TV Guide’s Matt Roush placed at #1 on the Top Ten Best Finales list. After a wacky episode where Dick sells the Vermont Inn to Japanese investors, he wakes up in bed and rouses the lump under the covers next to him. The lump rolls over, revealing he’s not with the woman who played his wife on Newhart. Instead, he’s with Suzanne Pleshette who played his wife on The Bob Newhart Show.

“You won’t believe the dream I just had,” he tells her.

The audience went nuts at the meta version of “and then I woke up.” It’s not often that you have eight seasons to set up a punchline.

Mark and Mark and Bob B. cowrote the finale, which was nominated for an Emmy. I had one joke in that episode. During the opening scene at a town meeting, a local proudly states: “We made the flying squirrel the town bird.”

Scott Buck, me, Bob Bendetson, in the Newhart offices.

Courtesy of the author. Newhart © 1989 Twentieth Century Fox Television. All rights reserved

On the evening of the finale, about an hour before the audience arrived, I slipped onto our soundstage. The crew was at dinner so I had the set to myself. I wanted to stand in the old Bob Newhart Show bedroom set that had been taken out of storage and reconstructed. It was the strangest feeling to be inside a room that I’d watched on TV as a kid. I ran a finger over the sophisticated bookshelf behind the headboard. I felt like Alice through the Looking Glass.

For all the ups and downs, I had survived the season and now had a “Written by” credit on five TV episodes. I was part of Newhart history—although I still hadn’t formally met the star. Countless times, I’d stood on set watching the legend rehearse and if he happened to look in my direction, I’d avert my eyes. If I was at the craft services table and he approached to grab a handful of popcorn, I’d scoot away. He played the most mild-mannered characters on TV and yet, for some reason, I was terrified of him.

After a few minutes in the bedroom set, I decided to head to dinner. I walked across the stage, opened the door and was startled to find myself face-to-face with the show’s star. There was no avoiding him, nowhere to scoot. There was only one thing for me to say.

“Hi, Bob.”

Amazingly, he responded, “Hi, Nell.”

He stepped inside and the heavy stage door shut behind him. I paused outside, blinking my eyes to adjust to the light. Our entire exchange had consisted of four words, but it felt deeply meaningful. In the joke about the four stages of a career, the first stage asks the question: Who is Nell Scovell?

Now I had an answer: Nell Scovell was a TV writer who just played the “Hi Bob” game—pro version.