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air.
    At first J.T. predicted what his neighbors might be saying be-
    hind his back. He’d write country dialogue in his head, like “That retarded liberal Hollywood Jew. He’s why America’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket, bless his heart .” Once he allowed himself to get to know his neighbors, though, J.T. learned that they were more substantial than any he’d ever had. Their knee-jerk kindness and generosity always caught J.T. off guard. He realized he’d had
    stereotypical thoughts because he’d been directing stereotypical shows for over a decade.
    On this Sunday afternoon in late summer, J.T., Natasha, and their nine-year-old son Jeremy were all midwives to Lola, a miniature Jersey cow that had become a family pet. Lola was having a rough go of it, trying to force her little calf out of her swollen body.
    At first, J.T.’s mind wandered to a comic-book place, where he
    imagined that all of the world’s troubles were inside Lola: oppression, tyranny, cruelty. All the world’s problems were about to come out of a cow’s vagina.
    Then the cow’s scream-moos finally registered. If J.T. was go-
    R o b b y
    B e n s o n
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    ing to save the world, he would have to purge the pregnant cow of the Fox Channel !
    Natasha nodded to J.T. He took a deep breath and plunged his
    hands into the bovine mama.
    “J.T., how’s she feel?” Natasha had spoken to the vet about
    problems that might come up with the birth, and what it would
    feel like if the calf were breech.
    “Not nearly as good as you, but she’ll do.”
    “Daaaad!”
    “J.T.?”
    He got a good grip and pulled . The wet calf came out so fast J.T. had to use every remnant of his athletic ability to catch it before it flew past Natasha and Jeremy. It was slippery, and lighter than he’d expected. If I were filming this right now, I wouldn’t use a filter because that would make it too sentimental, J.T. thought as he gently laid the calf next to its mother. He fell back in the straw and laughed. Even in that moment, show business had intruded.
    And he was amazed all over again that there was life outside Hollywood.
    “Good catch, Dad,” Jeremy said.
    “Thanks, big guy. Next time, you call for it.” He winced as he
    stood up.
    J.T. had bad knees. Bad ankles. A bad back. J.T. was a poster
    boy-man for over-the-hill jocks. All of the stunts he’d done as an actor were kicking him back. He could’ve really used the hazard pay now. Or the meds.
    The lightbulb above the barn door started to flutter. It was
    connected to the phone in the house, pulsing when it rang.
    “Should we run and get it?” Jeremy asked. “It could be Lola’s
    husband, wanting to know if he’s the real father.”
    “Funny. But if it’s Lola’s husband, he’s calling from McDon-
    ald’s,” J.T replied.
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    W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?
    “Not funny, Dad.”
    “Sorry . . . pain. Knee. Hurt.”
    “No excuse for bad jokes, Dad. You’ve said it a million times,”
    Jeremy pointed out.
    “You’re right, big guy, one of the worst sins on this planet Earth is . . .”
    “NO FUNNY,” they all flatly said in sync, making it teeny - tiny funny.
    “Funny is good,” J.T. lectured for the million-and-first time as they all walked back to the house. “BAD FUNNY is bad, ALMOST
    FUNNY is okay—but NO FUNNY is a sin against all humanity.”
    The sun was starting to set behind the Smoky Mountains.
    They stopped and watched it disappear. “Breathtaking, huh?” J.T.
    whispered.
    “Yeah. My asthma’s kickin’ in, Dad.”
    “Infinitesimal FUNNY.”
    “No. Dad. My asthma is kicking in.”
    “Oh. Shit.”
    Tasha ran ahead to get Jeremy’s inhaler and J.T. picked his boy up, cradling him in his arms and running into the house. Jeremy recognized the funny in how pitiful he must look, but Tasha and J.T. had a hard time with that brand of funny.
    Green Acres it wasn’t. Lisa’s trust fund had probably paid for Oliver’s rural idyll. The Bakers had no such reserves.