As You Hang the Pictures, Be Ready to Pack Up

In 1981 Rod Amateau and I sold to ABC an action-comedy hourlong pilot we had created. It was called “Border Pals,” about fun and nonsense on the U.S.-Canadian border at Lake Canusa.

The plot was about a dysfunctional American sheriff and deputies on one side of the border and the always clueless Royal Canadian Mounted Police on the other as they attempted to corral a crazed poacher while dealing with dangerous mobsters from Detroit. Their weapons of choice were horses, a high-speed boat, helicopter and car chases, crashes, furniture fighting and other mayhem.

Rod had many series and motion pictures to his credit, but this was the first time I had a pilot actually filmed. The budget was more than $1 million. Those were heady days: meetings with series development execs (who have a life span about as long as a scooter rider in a biker bar), working on rewrites, casting, hiring the crew, scouting locations, designing the production, filming, even overseeing the catering and working with the program practices people to determine how many swear words, gunshots and dead bodies we could have per episode. Warner Bros. was the production company, and the honchos there gave us a nice little bungalow on the lot and even tossed in access to the executive dining room. The weeks went by, filled with excitement and jolly people working together.

Then came the day when our pilot was ready to go to New York, along with all the others, where the network Big Shots would decide if it would make the fall schedule. I was optimistic; “Border Pals” had been penciled into an 8 p.m. Tuesday time slot.

Rod went to New York, and I stayed behind to stare at the telephone. Finally, as time crawled slowly past, I called the secretary to the development executive, who until that day had acted like the brother I never had. The secretary snarled, “It tanked,” before slamming down the phone.

A few minutes later, I picked up the phone to tell my wife and found that the line was dead. I took my resume to the photocopy machine and found that my electronic key had been deactivated. Another piece of show biz advice--always make sure your resume is up-to-date, for those times you really need it. I returned to the bungalow to find two Warner employees loading leftover office supplies into cardboard boxes. “The guys will be over for the furniture in about an hour. Better get your stuff out of the desk.”

I quickly loaded my briefcase and went to my car. At the gate, the guard leaned in the window and removed my hanging gate pass from the mirror. (They don’t issue stickers at major studios--it would take too long to scrape them off.) As I drove off I waved at the guard. He did not wave back. And I never, ever heard from that development guy again. Even a kind review of our pilot in Daily Variety (“ABC better take another look; either the barrage of reruns at TV Gulch make it look good, or Rod Amateau and Gary Hudson have scripted a funny sitcom blessed with genuine antic characters”) did little to ease the sting of that ignominious exit.

Now, years and dozens of gigs later, I always work from my briefcase, making sure that when the time comes, I can close it and go.