The Mary Hartman Follies

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Norman Lear, the executive producer and absolute ruler behind "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," asked the poignant question, "What is this s---?" and tossed out a month of scripts.  The show was in big trouble.  I knew nothing about any of it until a friend of mine gave me a call.  He had recently become head writer amidst a swirl of unsubstantiated speculation that he and the star, Louise Lasser, were having an affair.

That's not why he called.  He wanted me to come in that night to help with scripts on an unofficial basis.  I pledged my best efforts.  Never having seen the show, however, I felt I had little to contribute beyond echoing Norman Lear's question.

When I arrived at the KTLA studios on Sunset Boulevard, Dennis Klein greeted me.  He was always prolific and would go on to write, produce and create successful series, including "The Larry Sanders Show," but at that moment he appeared pale, fatigued, and virtually nonfunctional.  I worried that he wasn't getting enough sleep.

"I'll sleep on vacation," he assured me.

Eugenie Ross-Leming, the brash, funny, and stunningly beautiful producer, was on the phone, also making jokes about sleeping, when Dennis and I entered her office.

Eugenie's jokes were somewhat more provocative than Dennis', but the dim lighting concealed my embarrassment as the blood rushed to my face.  The other producer, Brad Buckner, Eugenie's considerably more subdued writing partner, joined us to give me brief descriptions of scenes that needed "fleshing out."

Dennis led me to an office where I could get to work.  Except Louise Lasser was there.  She too was on the phone, complaining bitterly about something.  Or nothing.  Or everything.  Life wasn't easy for Louise, and my instinct was to feel sorry for her.

When she hung up, Dennis introduced us.  But did she notice I was there?  I didn't think so.  She seemed too withdrawn to process the activity around her.  Dennis solicitously--as was his way--led her out.

I was busy writing when Dennis returned.  He looked uncomfortable but obviously felt obligated to ask me something.

"Could you take Louise home with you?"

It was a bit unexpected.  What could I say?  "What?" in fact, was all I could say.  Dennis explained that Louise lived in Malibu and was too tired to drive.  She had asked if I could put her up for the night.  "A couch would do."

I stuttered numerous mindless excuses and apologizes which culminated in the words, "Uh, no.  Sorry."

Dennis understood.  He always understood.  And when he arranged for me to be hired as a staff writer on "Mary Hartman," it became the most weirdly rewarding, happily unforgettable working experience of my life.