The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler

beloved queen, Katrina, who was decked out in a sleeveless leopard-skin leotard, hot pink tights, and gold-colored spiked heels. Her hair was done up in a rather severe bun and she wore a pair of heavy black-framed glasses. All of which made her look a little like Mamie Van Doren showing up for her first day of law school.
    “I meant for Rob,” Chad said doggedly, barely noticing their entrance. “His hobby is rock climbing. It might give him that inner calm those guys have. Guys who stare death in the face. I once played a test pilot on The Love Boat, and he was like that. Calm. A climber’d have those strong hands, too. And wear the boots and stuff. What do you think, Hoagy?” He worked the dimp. “Want to talk about it over sushi today?”
    “I’m afraid Hoagy can’t,” Lyle replied for me. He’d worked his way over to us, and was clearly peeved. “He’ll be in rewrites. Would you excuse us a moment, Chad?”
    “Sure, sure,” said Chad pleasantly. “Say, Lyle, I still have some questions about my character.”
    “Later,” Lyle blustered. “We’ll talk about it later.”
    “But that’s what you said on the phone last—”
    “We’ll talk about it later!” he roared.
    “Okay, Lyle,” said Chad, backing off. “Later.” Mercifully, he moved away.
    “You don’t wanna talk to that guy,” Lyle growled at me through his mask.
    “Hey, tell me something I don’t already know.”
    “I’m serious, pal,” he insisted. “I don’t want you talking to him. I want him speaking to me and me only. Got it?”
    “No, I’m afraid not, Lyle. I speak to whomever I want to. Last I heard there was still a Constitution, and this was still American soil.”
    “You’re not on American soil. You’re on my soil.”
    “I may have to quote you on that one.”
    “Help yourself,” he snapped.
    “I generally do.” I couldn’t believe it—I was actually standing there fighting for my inalienable right to speak with Chad Roe.
    Lyle’s chest rose and fell. “Look, I want you involved. I do. I just want your input filtered through me, that’s all. So he gets one clear signal.” Lyle glanced around at the others, then edged in closer to me. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to get close to me that morning. “What do you think about my sweater, huh?” he asked, his voice hushed.
    “Gwen figures one of the crew took it. Big collector’s item.”
    Lyle shook his huge, round head. “Don’t kid yourself, man. That was no robbery.”
    “What was it then?”
    “A warning,” he replied, with total certainty. “I’m right and this proves it.”
    “Proves what, Lyle?”
    “Somebody in this fucking room wants me off the air. And they aren’t giving up.” He stabbed himself in the chest with a fat, gloved thumb. “Well, neither am I, Hoagy. They aren’t gonna win. I won’t let ’em, ya hear me? I won’t give ’em the satisfaction. They’ll never, ever—”
    “I need you, Lyle,” Leo broke in gruffly. “I have a problem—with Chad.”
    Lyle rolled his eyes. “Now what?”
    “It’s about the john in his dressing room,” she replied.
    Lyle stared at her. “He hasn’t got a john in his dressing room.”
    “Exactly,” she responded wearily. “He has to use the same men’s room out by the stairs that the crew uses. He says it’s filthy. Actually, the word he used was revolting. Plus all of the extras dress in there on tape day and he’s really uncomfortable about that, because he’ll be spending a lot of time in there.” She lowered her voice. “It seems the man has a … nervous colon.”
    “Why is Chad Roe’s colon my problem?”
    “He claims it’ll affect his performance,” she said. “He needs privacy to collect himself before he goes on. If he has to share a bathroom with everyone he won’t get it.”
    Lyle ran a gloved hand through his red curls, exasperated. “I can’t do anything about that. No one has their own john.”
    “Fiona has her own,” Leo pointed