FRESH YARN presents:

(Un)Becoming (of) a Grandfather
By Jack Burditt

My first thought upon hearing I was going to be a grandfather was, "Wait, I'm 43, I'm not ready to wear sweaters and whittle." I had made it pathetically clear to my kids that I had no desire of entering grandparenthood until I was at least 50. Perhaps they'd heard me groan and curse while doing yard work and just assumed I was 83 years old.

My oldest daughter was to blame. She went off to the U.S. Army and came homepregnant, proving once again our soldiers aren't being provided with enough body armor.

I immediately began to obsess about being a grandparent. Would I have to get a hobby? Or a cat? Are grandparents allowed to have sex? And what's the whole deal with wearing pants that don't fit?

Then I learned from other grandparents that it might be the greatest scam ever. They get respect. False respect, perhaps, but still an improvement over anything I've experienced. I began to embrace the idea of being a grandfather, standing in the maternity ward, dispensing butterscotch lifesavers and sage advice.

Sadly, that's not exactly how it went down. I missed the birth of my grandson because I was in bed with a woman who wasn't my wife.

Oh, and it was my wife's idea.

A few months earlier I had made an innocent remark that actors are crazy. The problem is my wife, Cyndee, is a talent agent, meaning her clients are actors. I'm a TV writer and producer, meaning I hire actors. And in that instant I became the enemy.

Cyndee decided I needed a taste of an actor's life, so she started submitting me for auditions. I went out on commercials and discovered what I already knew -- I had no desire to be an actor, and certain casting directors don't recognize greatness when it's staring them in the face.

Then Cyndee got a call from America's Most Wanted, the long-running, criminal-nabbing Fox show. Someone had seen my headshot and declared me perfect to play a date rapist.

Naturally, the morning of the shoot my daughter went into labor. So that was it then, my leading man career was over before it even began. Or so I thought.

Cyndee saw me sitting on the sofa and asked, "What are you doing?" I never know what I'm doing so I didn't understand the question. Then she said, "You still have to go to the shoot."

I couldn't believe it. My wife was telling me to miss the birth of my grandson. This is the sort of thing that has kept men in trouble, and florists in business, for centuries. Didn't she know this was my grandfather coming-out party?

She reminded me that it would reflect poorly on her agency if I were to bail out, and promised to call with labor updates. What could I say? Well, I could have said a lot of things, but I'm really frightened of Cyndee, so I decided to go.

I arrived at the America's Most Wanted, or AMW, production office. The first thing I noticed about Michele, the actress I was going to, well, you know, was that she was attractive. I know, how incredibly shallow of me, why should her looks even matter? It could only mean one thing -- I was beginning the transformation into actor.

Michelle has been featured on numerous episodes of AMW. Always a victim, she's been drugged, shot, kidnapped and the victim of some sort of fraud or identity theft, although I could tell she thought that last one was beneath her. "Just once I'd love to play the criminal," she laughed, in a way that made me contemplate whether that's how quickly and easily real criminals are born.

The first bit of business was ordering lunch. Michelle ordered a tuna wrap, then thought better of it. "I don't think it would be a good idea to get tuna if I'm going to be raped," she said, and I'm guessing it's the first time anyone has ever said that exact sentence.

I was pondering the menu when my wife called. "Don't order onions," Cyndee stressed, which is good advice from an agent, but just plain weird coming from my wife. Why was she looking out for the woman I would soon be on top of in bed? The only way I was going to have fun with any of this was by thinking I was at least getting away with something.

While waiting for lunch, one of the producers nonchalantly inquired, "So what kind of underwear are you wearing?" I wish I could say this is the first time a guy has asked me this. I told him boxers; he seemed pleased. Then he asked if I was okay without a shirt. I gave an enthusiastic "sure." What I was really thinking was whether I had time to run eight miles and do five hundred crunches.

The producer added, "I'm going to show you how to take off your shirt." Now I don't want to brag, but I've been taking off my shirt on my own since I was nine years old.

The producer sensed my confusion. "Trust me," he sighed, with a weariness that is all too familiar with producers, "you take off your shirt wrong and show too much armpit and the next thing you know you're hearing about it from some woman in Iowa."

It's not the first time I've heard this. During my years in television I've been told that I can't write this or can't have a character do that because I'll offend some woman in Iowa. It's always Iowa. What I want to know is who is this Iowan and why does she terrorize Hollywood so?

"There are a lot of things you can't show," the producer fretted. "In fact, I'm not sure about your boxers. I need to make a call."

What didn't he like about my boxers? If I had to lose my boxers, then Iowa women and everyone else might be seeing a lot more than my armpits.

My wife called from the hospital. Through lousy cell phone reception I heard, "Everything going… not… orange…" The connection went dead. I had no idea what was going on, whether a birth had taken place, if I should be elated or concerned. The best I could deduce from the cryptic message was if I had a grandson, his name was not Orange.

The producer returned from his phone call. "Okay, you can leave your shirt on." I felt a rush of exhilaration. "But no pants." Shirt but no pants? That's worse than anything. I might be playing a date rapist who drugs and films his victim, but I certainly didn't want to come off as too creepy.

We shot the scenes in a sweltering apartment. As the director sketched out the date rape scene, he too inquired about my underwear. When I answered "boxers," he made a face, then told me the boxers could be a problem.

"Some woman in Iowa will complain?" I offered. He nodded. I didn't like where this was going. But instead of asking me to lose them, or worse, having me swap underwear with one of the crew guys, he asked if I could scrunch up my boxers to make them look like briefs.

It didn't make sense. I was either going to look like I had one weird-ass pair of briefs or a serious wedgie problem. All I really knew at that moment was that I truly don't understand this nation.

In real life, the sleazy rapist waited until his drugged victim passed out in a chair, then he carried her to the bed. The director asked me if I was up to it.

"No problem," I replied. And I meant it. Because in my mind I'm still an athletic 20-year-old with a strong back and knees, not some aging bag of bones moments away from being a grandfather. Besides, Michelle looked light enough. Of course I wasn't figuring she would be playing passed out so convincingly, which automatically doubles one's body weight.

During the first rehearsal I almost lost my grip on Michelle. My knee buckled. My back threatened to explode. I quickly carried her to the bed then fell on top of her, which given the situation we were playing, I was able to get away with.

"You okay?" the director asked with concern.

I felt insulted. I'd like to see him do a better job. Poor actors, always exposed to an unforgiving world. People just don't understand our plight.

The director asked if I was ready to go again. Of course I wasn't ready. Quite frankly I never wanted to do that again. But I wasn't about to give him or anyone else the satisfaction. Unprompted, Michelle offered, "I think I can play it more passed out." I nodded, then turned away so she couldn't see the tears in my eyes.

We did seven takes in all. I had no idea I was working with the Stanley Kubrick of AMW directors. To my complete surprise nothing broke, tore or burst inside me. Except, perhaps, my pride. I felt a sense of relief thinking I had gotten through the toughest part. But I was wrong.

Next thing I knew I was on top of Michelle, my shirt on, my boxers bunched up, simulating a sexual assault, which I had no idea how to do. I wish I could say it was the first time I suffered performance anxiety in bed.

To make matters worse, there were dozens of voices screaming at me. It took a minute to realize they were all mine. My head was humming, "What are you doing? Am I supposed to be, I don't know, humping her? I'll just move this way and… Yikes, I accidentally touched her boob. Oh, good, she didn't notice. How could she not notice? That's right, she's playing passed out. Did she know it was an accident? Is she seething inside? Am I going to get sued? Good lord, now I touched the other boob. She thinks I'm a perv, I can tell. No I can't, I can't tell anything. I know she's acting, but when a guy's on top of you in bed he likes a little feedback. Jesus Christ, Jack will you shut up. Shut the fuck up. Oh my God, is it two hundred degrees in here? I'm sweating. Sweat's dripping on Michelle. She must think I'm a pig." Drip. "Don't sweat." Drip. "Stop it, think cool thoughts." Drip. "This is ridiculous. Can I call cut? It's no big deal; once, on a sitcom I wrote for, we had an actor call cut. Oh, that's right, he almost got fired. That guy was a dick." Drip.

"Cut."

Did I just call cut? No, phew, it was the director.

He called for a break so he could reset the camera and Michelle and I could cool off. The director pulled me aside. "I know this is tough," he said, "but you're being… you're not being…"

He was struggling to say something. I realized what was going on. I was screwing up and this poor guy was afraid of hurting my feelings because, that's right, he thought I was an actor.

I'd been on his side so often, trying to figure out how to finesse a criticism. As a writer-producer you learn early on never to tell an actor he's wrong. I should have just told the director that I wasn't a real actor and that he could tell me I was screwing up because I'm used to it. As a writer there is an endless stream of people who will eagerly go out of their way to let you know you suck.

Pitifully, I was enjoying the actor treatment too much. So I let him struggle. He finally said, "This isn't supposed to be nice. I need you to be more… rapey." I immediately felt horrible I had made him say it. There was only one way to make it up to him -- by being the rapiest I could possibly be.

I saw Michelle on the balcony trying to cool down. I grabbed my cell phone and joined her. I had a voicemail from my wife. I was officially a grandfather, some time in the last few minutes, which placed me squarely on top of Michelle at the time of the birth. Probably while I was accidentally touching her boob. I felt like scum.

I turned off the phone because I couldn't think off what else to do. Michelle smiled and shrugged, "Weird, huh?" I nodded. But I decided not to tell her about the grandfather thing because it was already beyond awkward. We made small talk, and then it was back to the bedroom. I'm not proud when I admit that I was a great deal more rapier.

The director offered, "Real good job." I lifted myself off Michelle and said, "Thank God that's over with." Michelle didn't look happy. Maybe that's not what a woman wants to hear after you've spent the past 15 minutes on top of her.

The next scene we shot was the early part of the date. We were supposed to act like two friends chatting it up, laughing and such, while I secretly drug her. We ad-libbed a conversation and they filmed it. The producer commented he liked the genuine casualness between the two of us. Of course I seemed casual, I had my pants back on. Besides, I was a grandfather now. Casual is all I have left to offer.

I didn't tell anyone that I filmed an episode of AMW, which led to serious confusion when it aired a few weeks later. I never knew so many of my friends and extended family watch the show. And I doubt even half of them truly understood that I was only playing the date rapist.

AMW has a long history of actors mistaken as actual criminals and then being chased down by the citizenry. I figured if that happened to me I was going to go down in style, shirt off, kicking out the back window of a police car, the whole thing being filmed for Cops.

Indeed, the day after the episode aired I got pulled over by the LAPD. I had my story ready, how I'm not actually some sleazy date rapist but instead a highly skilled thespian. It turned out I simply had a license plate problem.

The officer wrote me a ticket and I drove away feeling a little down. She didn't mistake me for a date rapist. Either she hadn't seen the show or, if she did, my performance made absolutely no impact. All I wanted was a little validation.

Later I realized how ridiculous I was being. Validation? That's something insecure actors need. I'm neither insecure nor an actor. Being a grandpa is all the validation I need. Hell, I'll even climb up a mountaintop and yell for all to hear, "I am a proud grandpa!" Because I want the whole world to know that that's all that really matters.

Of course if a casting director happens to hear it, well, I'd just like to make it clear that I can definitely play younger.

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