Chương 49: Chapter 48: Bocce Balls! (03/16/1984)

(03/16/1984) DATE: Friday, March 16, 1984 LOCATION: Burbank, California | NBC Studios, Stage 1 LOCAL TIME: 08: 30 PM PST The green room air tasted of hairspray, cheap white wine, and the metallic tang of nervous sweat. On the monitor in the corner, the colorful NBC peacock fanned its feathers. The brassy, swing-tempo explosion of Doc Severinsen's trumpet section cut through the heavy air.

"Doo-doo-doo-DOOO! Da-da-da-da-DAAA!" Ed McMahon's voice, a sonic boom wrapped in velvet, rattled the speaker casing.

"From Hollywood! The Tonight Show! Starring Johnny Carson! This. Is. It!" I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my bow tie. I had spent the last week digesting the horrible realization from the movie theater. Tonight, I was going to broadcast my human suit to ten million people. Next to me, Doug Tillman was hyperventilating, his breaths shallow and rapid. He smoothed his suit, which pulled too tight across the shoulders—a physical consequence of the stress eating he'd done since the premiere.

"I'm gonna be sick," Doug whispered.

"Chad, that's Johnny Carson. That's the King."

"He's just a guy, Dad," I said, checking my reflection to ensure perfect facial symmetry.

"He puts his pants on one leg at a time. Then he tells jokes about the Burbank traffic. Just follow my lead." The stage manager opened the door, gesturing to the heavy, multicolored curtain.

"You're up." The Interview | 08: 45 PM The curtain parted. The shift in environment was instantaneous. The applause hit like a physical shockwave of displaced air, immediately followed by the blistering, baking heat of the 2K tungsten studio lights bearing down from the grid. We walked out. I climbed into the guest chair, my feet dangling six inches off the floor. Doug took the seat next to me, his pores already opening in the sudden heat. Johnny Carson sat behind the desk, looking sharp, tanned, and amused.

He leaned forward, tapping a pencil on his desk, his eyes darting between the two of us.

"Now, Doug, come on," Johnny started, his timing impeccable.

"You're a bond trader from San Diego. You expect me to believe that this little guy wrote the screenplay for the number one movie in America?" Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"He has an old soul, Johnny," Doug replied. His vocal cords tightened, causing a slight crack before he found his rhythm.

"I just help with the spelling." The audience laughed. Johnny's eyebrows went up. He turned his attention to me.

"So, Chad," Carson said, adopting his signature deadpan.

"A mermaid in New York. Where did a kid get an idea like that? Most boys your age are writing about frogs." I leaned forward, clasping my hands. I ran the algorithm in my head. Dial up the charm. Pitch the vocal register to maximum innocence. Strike on the upbeat.

"Well, it's a retelling of The Little Mermaid," I said smoothly.

"But I thought, what if she fell in love with a guy who was having a really hard time?" I looked directly into the lens of Camera 1 with wide, earnest eyes.

"See, my Uncle Bruce—he runs a shop back home—he was feeling a little down in the love department after a recent breakup. He was sad. So I wrote a story where a beautiful mermaid falls in love with him." The audience let out a collective "Aww." Perfect hit.

"But," I continued, pausing for a fraction of a second to build acoustic anticipation, "he needed help. He didn't know what to do with a fish-lady. So I wrote my Dad in as the best wingman in history." Doug beamed, sitting up straighter as his tension visibly dropped. The audience applauded the sentiment.

"That's sweet," Carson said, smiling.

"But let's talk about the scene at the Statue of Liberty. When she comes out of the water completely naked? That was a bold choice for an eight-year-old." I nodded solemnly. Wait for it. Deliver the punchline completely deadpan.

"Having Madison show up at Liberty Island was my idea," I said.

"It's symbolic. New life in a new world. The immigrant experience." I paused, letting the silence stretch, then grinned mischievously.

"But Dad picked her wardrobe choice." The audience roared. Blood rushed to Doug's face, turning him bright red as he buried his face in his hands.

"I see!" Carson laughed, wiping a tear from his eye.

"A collaborative effort! Doug creates the art, Chad creates the symbolism." Carson waited for the laughter to decay completely.

"But there's one line in the movie that everyone is quoting this week. My barber said it to me this morning.

'Bocce balls.' Did you write that?"

"I did," I nodded.

"I thought it sounded cool." Doug stopped laughing. He leaned in, giving me a suspicious look—a completely unscripted, organic reaction.

"Wait a minute. You told me you heard that on TV. Was it Hank or Larry?" I looked down at my shiny patent leather shoes, executing a flawless physical impression of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Actually, it was Uncle Larry," I mumbled into the microphone.

"We were at the beach in Carlsbad. And he saw a girl in a bikini walk by. He said it, and I thought... I just thought that was a guy thing." The crowd exploded. Ed McMahon let out a booming "HI-YO!" Carson slammed his hand on the desk, the impact echoing as he laughed so hard he had to lean back to catch his breath.

"Well, Doug," Carson wheezed, "I think you better watch who you let him hang out with at the beach!" Doug looked at the camera, shrugging helplessly.

"Larry is in construction, Johnny. What can I say?"

"I say keep him on the payroll!" Johnny announced.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the movie is Splash. Doug and Chad Tillman!" The applause sign flashed. The band struck up. We shook hands. Johnny leaned in close to me, shielded from the microphones.

"You're a funny kid," he whispered.

"Don't lose that timing."

"Thanks, Johnny," I said.

"Nice tie." The monster was safe behind the mask.