Read Online Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerrilyn Farmer
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Filming Warner Brothers! My friend Wesley and I love to stump each other with such trivia about the old days.
Since the sixties and seventies, these soundstages have been used to film television series, as well. In early 1961, an immense set was built on three of these stages to accommodate Gunsmoke, while the production’s horses were stabled on yet another soundstage. It must have been terrific to spend those years filminghere, driving your car through the studio gates and then changing into costume to live in the Old West.
I turned the corner, expecting to see Miss Kitty hanging around. Instead, down the block, I saw Kenny, one of the assistant PAs, exiting the door on this side of soundstage 9, balancing a stack of scripts. He waved.
“Hi, Madeline.”
“Hi, Kenny,” I said. “Say, did you know that Donny and Marie was taped here?”
“Excuse me?”
“And Jeopardy! ” I continued. I was on a jag now. “And The Dating Game. And Supermarket Sweep. ”
“No kidding.”
“Bet you thought they shot that in a real market, but no, they built a perfect replica of a supermarket in soundstage two, the better for its contestants to go racing down the aisles, looking for expensive groceries.”
Kenny looked at me for a beat before he offered, “Cool.”
Alas, not everyone is a history buff.
“I’m on my way back to the office,” he said. “Susan told me to collect all the scripts.”
“Right.”
“Um,” Kenny said, checking me out a little more closely. “You lost?”
“No,” I said, quickly. “Not really. Well, I’m looking for Chef Howie. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“He’s still in his trailer,” Kenny said. “He wouldn’t give me back his copy of the script.”
“Oh?”
“It’s just around the next corner,” Kenny said, pointing back the way he’d come.
“Thanks.”
Kenny continued toward his office and I turned back to my quest, following his directions, eventually rounding the corner and discovering the white, twenty-five-by-eight-foot motor home that doubled as Chef Howie’s dressing room.
I stepped up to the door and heard an argument coming from inside the trailer. A male voice was saying, “I disagree totally. This is perfect for Chef Howie.” I tapped lightly on the white door, but got no response. I knocked harder and waited.
I could make out the sound of Fate Finkelberg’s cigarette-hoarse voice inside as she yelled, “Who the hell is that, now?”
The door opened a crack and I was surprised to see Quentin Shore’s squinting brown eye. An awkward moment passed as he neither opened the door any wider nor shut it in my face. I suspected he wished to do the latter.
“Open the door, for God’s sake,” Fate’s voice ordered from inside.
“Hi,” I said, walking into the overly air-conditioned main cabin. On the far side, a makeup station and professional clothes racks filled the corner. In the larger area, four white leather captain’s chairs surrounded a white marble table. Fate was sitting at the table while Howie and his makeup artist occupied the dressingroom corner.
“What do you want?” Fate asked.
“Greta asked me to go over the material for today’s taping with Chef Howie,” I improvised, ever the ingratiating one when I wanted to be.
“Waste of time!” Fate said.
“There is really no need,” Quentin whispered, stillstanding close to me by the entrance. “I’m on the job here. Chef Howie wants me.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you know—” Okay. Just a quick word of advice. If you should ever be in the presence of a game-show question writer, never, ever begin a sentence implying that there might be something they do not know. Quentin looked like he had swallowed a lemon, whole.
“Look,” I said, acutely aware of how “not well” this was going. “Greta wants me to take over for Tim. I’m the acting head writer and—”
Quentin Shore’s shiny face turned red. “That’s…that’s not fair.” He turned
Since the sixties and seventies, these soundstages have been used to film television series, as well. In early 1961, an immense set was built on three of these stages to accommodate Gunsmoke, while the production’s horses were stabled on yet another soundstage. It must have been terrific to spend those years filminghere, driving your car through the studio gates and then changing into costume to live in the Old West.
I turned the corner, expecting to see Miss Kitty hanging around. Instead, down the block, I saw Kenny, one of the assistant PAs, exiting the door on this side of soundstage 9, balancing a stack of scripts. He waved.
“Hi, Madeline.”
“Hi, Kenny,” I said. “Say, did you know that Donny and Marie was taped here?”
“Excuse me?”
“And Jeopardy! ” I continued. I was on a jag now. “And The Dating Game. And Supermarket Sweep. ”
“No kidding.”
“Bet you thought they shot that in a real market, but no, they built a perfect replica of a supermarket in soundstage two, the better for its contestants to go racing down the aisles, looking for expensive groceries.”
Kenny looked at me for a beat before he offered, “Cool.”
Alas, not everyone is a history buff.
“I’m on my way back to the office,” he said. “Susan told me to collect all the scripts.”
“Right.”
“Um,” Kenny said, checking me out a little more closely. “You lost?”
“No,” I said, quickly. “Not really. Well, I’m looking for Chef Howie. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“He’s still in his trailer,” Kenny said. “He wouldn’t give me back his copy of the script.”
“Oh?”
“It’s just around the next corner,” Kenny said, pointing back the way he’d come.
“Thanks.”
Kenny continued toward his office and I turned back to my quest, following his directions, eventually rounding the corner and discovering the white, twenty-five-by-eight-foot motor home that doubled as Chef Howie’s dressing room.
I stepped up to the door and heard an argument coming from inside the trailer. A male voice was saying, “I disagree totally. This is perfect for Chef Howie.” I tapped lightly on the white door, but got no response. I knocked harder and waited.
I could make out the sound of Fate Finkelberg’s cigarette-hoarse voice inside as she yelled, “Who the hell is that, now?”
The door opened a crack and I was surprised to see Quentin Shore’s squinting brown eye. An awkward moment passed as he neither opened the door any wider nor shut it in my face. I suspected he wished to do the latter.
“Open the door, for God’s sake,” Fate’s voice ordered from inside.
“Hi,” I said, walking into the overly air-conditioned main cabin. On the far side, a makeup station and professional clothes racks filled the corner. In the larger area, four white leather captain’s chairs surrounded a white marble table. Fate was sitting at the table while Howie and his makeup artist occupied the dressingroom corner.
“What do you want?” Fate asked.
“Greta asked me to go over the material for today’s taping with Chef Howie,” I improvised, ever the ingratiating one when I wanted to be.
“Waste of time!” Fate said.
“There is really no need,” Quentin whispered, stillstanding close to me by the entrance. “I’m on the job here. Chef Howie wants me.”
“Yes, but I don’t think you know—” Okay. Just a quick word of advice. If you should ever be in the presence of a game-show question writer, never, ever begin a sentence implying that there might be something they do not know. Quentin looked like he had swallowed a lemon, whole.
“Look,” I said, acutely aware of how “not well” this was going. “Greta wants me to take over for Tim. I’m the acting head writer and—”
Quentin Shore’s shiny face turned red. “That’s…that’s not fair.” He turned
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