FICTION
The Laff Box
1971
“But Mom, if I have to do the dishes, then who’s going to bake the cookies?” the small girl with blond pigtails said, her face expertly framed by the television screen.
“Oh — um — this was supposed to be baked?” a slightly older boy came into view, scooping spoonfuls of cookie dough into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s.
Preston pressed pause.
“See — we need something in there,” the producer said.
“Yeah, I see it,” Charley Douglass agreed, fingering a miniature rosary wedged in his pocket.
“I’m thinking a laugh that’s more on the childish side, but maybe there’s a big fat guy belly laugh thrown in there for good measure. Make it seem more like a family show — it’s so funny it makes old Dad laugh just as much as little Tina,” Preston leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on the plastic remote in his hand.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Charley said, snapping the fingers of his free hand. “You just let me take care of this, Preston.”
“I know, I know, Charley — you’re the Laff Master,” Preston smiled and stood up. “When can you get me the edited footage?”
“Less than a week, I reckon,” Charley said, standing up himself and pulling his hand from his pocket.
