What's in a Name?

It's been awhile since we last looked in on our adventurous and amorous trio...Ah, there they are, in a dimly-lighted corner booth at Sing Lo Fat's Chinese restaurant, a little-known bistro in the wilds of West Hollywood.

They have nearly finished their meal. Tim is toying moodily with an egg roll. Dix and Rowan exchange glances.

Dix [to Tim:] Still brooding about that nasty column? I've already taken steps to show the writer the error of his ways...

Rowan: You'll get over it. I did. So did Baldrick, actually.

Tim: I know. I shouldn't have broken my rule about never reading reviews [he drives the end of his chopstick into the helpless egg roll and twists it savagely].

Rowan: ...If you don't want that egg roll, Tim...

A plump housewifely woman peers around the corner of the booth.

Woman: Oh,--it's YOU!! I don't want to intrude, but could you please sign my menu?

Tim [flustered, but not displeased:] I'd be happy to...but I don't have a pen.

Woman [shoving the menu in front of him:] Just dip your chopstick in that soy sauce.

He does so and scrawls his signature. The woman looks at it and then crumples up the menu and drops it on the table in annoyance.

Woman [indignantly:] You're *not* Tim Allen!! (She stalks away.)

Tim: This happens all the time lately -- and I'm getting bloody tired of it! There are too many "Tims" in this industry.

Dix: Well, look on the bright side,--you might have been named "Kevin."

Rowan: And one can't throw a stone in Hollywood without crippling half a score of Kevins nowadays...

Tim: Here -- (handing Rowan his egg roll) I've lost my appetite. You have an unusual name, Rowan. I'll wager that you never have that identity problem.

Rowan: Ah, yes. My parents wanted...an ornamental shrub, I believe. Imagine their disappointment when I made my appearance. And you, Dix, I suppose your parents were Southerners?

Dix: No, northern Minnesotans. MY mother wanted a river boat...

Tim and Rowan look blank.

Dix: "Dixie Lee." You know, like the "Lulu Belle," the "Cotton Blossom,"...oh, never mind.

Rowan: Well, Tim, if you think that your name might be holding you back, why not change it? After all, John Wayne would have been a bit less convincing fighting Red Indians if he had opted to retain his original cognomen, "Marion Morrison."

Dix: My favourite name-change is Robert Taylor's...he started life as "Spangler Arlington Brough."

Tim: With that name on the marquee, there wouldn't have been room for the title of the film.

Rowan: Shall we help you with suggestions?

Tim: Well...

At this juncture, Baldrick returns from the loo in time to hear the last part of the conversation.

Baldrick: You could call yourself "Tim Baldrick." Our family goes back to the time of the Black Death.

Rowan: And that's just what you'll be getting if you don't make yourself scarce. Did you wash your hands this time?

Baldrick: It's not February, is it?

Rowan crowns him with a platter and he subsides onto the floor.

Dix: Let's go back to the hotel and discuss this project in peace and quiet.

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Our friends have returned to their hotel suite at the beautiful Hollywood Palm Court. Dix is seated on the sofa sipping a mai tai. Rowan is beside her, leafing through the current issue of Variety.

Tim, wearing his favorite black silk robe, is pacing the floor in irritation.

Dix: Settle down, Tim. We'll figure out a new identity for you and you can revitalize your career.

Tim: Bruce Willis!! Harrison Ford!! Demi Moore!!

Dix: Uh, *those* names are already taken...

Tim: No, no,--it's the roles they get to play! Why am *I* never offered a script in which I get to save the world singlehandedly while wearing a soiled t-shirt??!! With an AK-47 in my hands, a smile on my lips and an unbelievably gorgeous woman clinging to my arm and begging me to be careful??

Dix:...Be careful.

Rowan [glancing up from his Variety:] *Very* careful.

Dix: It's image you're after.

Rowan: Now if you were called something like Smash Grabber or Rip Gouge...

Tim: I don't think that's quite the image I'm looking for. Something with a more dignified ring, a hint of power with sensitivity...

Rowan: How about "Royal Payne?"

Dix: We'll go through the telephone book -- there are lots of possibities. In the meantime, that beard and moustache have to go.

Tim [fingering his beard protectively:] Do you really think so?

Dix: I'm certain. Not only is it very ticklish, but every other actor in town is wearing that same style since you popularized it. Except Drew Carey, and he's beyond help anyway.

Rowan: You said that you liked it when I wore it in Blackadder II.

Dix: It was absolutely adorable. But we're doing a makeover on Tim right now...I'll work you over later.

Tim goes into the bathroom to shave.

Dix [to Rowan:] And the nice part of my cunning plan is that once we finish giving Tim a new look and a new name it should throw the other Timbos off the track...

Rowan [looking dubious:] I don't know...some of them seem to have the hunting prowess of a pack of starving bloodhounds...

Dix: Yes. That's why I also have a cunning *reserve* plan. Now help me find Tim a new name. (She begins to page through the telephone book.)

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When we left off, Tim had retired to the bathroom to shave while Dix and Rowan busily scanned the phone book in search of a new stage name for our Hero...

Dix: "Prentice, Randolph, Stanislaus..." Oh, this isn't getting us anywhere. (She has a sudden thought:) Oh, Tim!!

Tim [popping his head around the doorway:] Yes? And by the way, I just nicked myself. It's been awhile since I was clean-shaven, you know.

Dix: Sorry. But let's not be too hasty here.

Tim looks at her in disbelief: half of his beard is already gone.

Rowan: Yes, that's quite an interesting new look. You may start another trend.

Dix: I meant instead of shaving off the moustache, just trim it. I'm thinking of the Clark Gable or William Powell style.

Rowan: Why not call him Nick Charles? If the copyright protection has run out.

Dix: "Nick." That's not bad. How about "Nick Marlowe?"

Tim [thinking it over:] As in Christopher Marlowe?

Dix: No -- "Phillip Marlowe," Chandler's detective. Tough but tender.

Rowan: Sounds like a rare sirloin.

SFX: The phone on the end table rings. Dix is nearest so she picks it up.

Dix: Mr. Marlowe's suite...Yes, Mr. Curry is here too. Just a moment.

She hands the phone to Tim.

Tim [into the phone:] Speaking...Excuse me? How...umm, regrettable, I suppose... But I don't see why you thought it necessary to call me, Marty...Oh. Well. I suppose I'd better start working on my alibi then...[laughing] Goodbye...

Rowan: Past catching up with you, is it?

Dix: Isn't Marty your agent,--the one who keeps changing his phone number?

Tim: Yes, that's him. He wanted to warn me that the police may be here soon, to question me about the bizarre and sudden demise of a certain newspaper critic...

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While engaged in giving Tim a makeover in hopes of expanding his career choices, our friends received the unexpected news that LA Clarion-Aggravator columnist, the annoying and frequently unwashed Pansome Knockmore, had been found dead under suspicious circumstances...

Tim: I don't see why the police should want to interview *me* -- the list of suspects must cover the entire LA Basin.

Dix: Mmmm. That moustache looks great; let me test it out...(she gives him a long kiss while Rowan ostentatiously consults his wristwatch).

Rowan: Time out. Let's consider our options here.

Dix: Sorry, got distracted for a minute.

Rowan [under his breath:] More like five.

Baldrick wanders in, having spent the night on the fire escape. He scratches himself and yawns, but otherwise contributes nothing to the conversation. (Even when he speaks.)

Tim: Perhaps we'd better do a little investigating of our own before things start getting complicated. (He takes a pair of horn-rimmed glasses out of his pocket and puts them on, then rubs some pomade into his hair and parts it on the left side.)

Dix: Now you're catching on...all you need is a fedora to be Bogart in "The Big Sleep."

SFX: A knock at the door.

Rowan opens it and finds himself confronted by two large plainclothes detectives, O'Malley and Moran.

O'Malley: Which one of you is Tim Curry?

Dix: Why, this is Mr. Atkinson -- and Mr. Marlowe...

Moran: "Marlowe," huh?

Tim: Oh, very well. I'm Tim Curry. What can I do for you?

O'Malley: You and your friends can come down to the newspaper office and answer a couple of questions for us, if you will be so kind.

Dix: Not the police station?

Moran: Do you think we're barbarians? In a studio town like this we should risk our proletarian pensions by antagonizing our bread and butter?

Rowan: How civilized. Ungrammatical, but civilized.

Forty-five minutes later (due to heavy downtown traffic) Tim, Dix and Rowan, with Baldrick tagging along behind, are escorted into the office of the late columnist. It is rather a mess, not much improved by the prone body of Mr. Knockmore lying facedown on the floor behind his desk. What is visible of his face is an unattractive shade of purple.

Tim: I still don't understand how my name came up in your investigation.

Moran: This -- (pointing to a huge pile of letters on the desk). Every last one of them threatens Mr. Knockmore with unpleasant bodily harm because of that column he wrote knocking your new TV show. (Picking up a letter:) This one sounds pretty serious: "...and hang you by the goolies from a Rutland tree..."

O'Malley: Um, "goolies?"

Rowan: You don't want to know, trust me.

O'Malley: The cleaning woman found him at 6:00 a.m. Now what I'd like to know is what you three were doing during the hours of midnight and 6:00 this morning?

Tim, Dix and Rowan look at each other, blush deeply and remain silent.

O'Malley: Now, come on,--that shouldn't be so hard to figure out...

Rowan: "As the bishop said to the actress."

Tim thrusts his jaw forward and snarls: You got nothin' on me, copper!! Bring on the rubber hoses!! I won't talk!!

Moran: Say, that's pretty good. Cagney?

O'Malley: Naaah,--Bogart.

The office door suddenly opens and a uniformed officer sticks his head around the door.

Officer: Hey, O'Malley,--guess what? *Madonna's* in the building! She's giving an interview about saving the rain forest whales or somethin'. (He exits.)

O'Malley: Gosh. My, umm,-nephew,--will kill me if I don't get her autograph. Stay here with the suspects, Moran. (He hurries out the door.)

Moran: I like that!! He thinks he's the only one with a nephew!! You three,--ah, *four*, I guess,-- if that's human,-- (indicating Baldrick) stay put. Sit down and don't move till I get back!! (He follows O'Malley, leaving our friends alone with the late unlamented Mr. Knockmore.)

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We left our friends in the newspaper office of the suddenly-deceased drama and television critic, Pansome Knockmore.

Tim [glancing at the body behind the desk:] Wonder what killed him?

Dix: Well, he was a critic...he could have been stabbed, strangled, shot, poisoned...

Rowan: In other words, natural causes. For a critic.

Tim: We may as well make ourselves comfortable until our investigators return.

He pulls out a chair for Dix and seats himself in the other of the two facing the desk. Rowan, casually pushing the body's feet aside, takes the swivel chair behind the desk.

Baldrick, left chairless, finds himself a seat -- on the body of the late Mr. Knockmore.

Suddenly the "body" jerks convulsively and starts to choke and cough, expelling a large wad of paper from its mouth...

Dix and Tim jump up and go over to examine it as Baldrick stands up nervously.

Dix [picking up the paper gingerly:] It's...his column about "Over the Top."

Rowan: Even HE couldn't swallow it.

Knockmore [hoarsely:] What happened?...

Dix notices the Sunday section of Currents & Arts on the floor near Mr. Knockmore; she picks it up and quickly leafs through it.

Dix: I see that you didn't print our letters...

Mr. Knockmore [defensively:] It wasn't *my* fault -- the editor tore out most of the page to make room for that spread on drive-in movies!

Rowan: Baldrick...

Mr. Knockmore: No!--No!--Don't sic your animal on me again!! I've retired,--I'm going to start a little chinchilla farm in Petaluma!! (He gets to his knees and crawls to the door.)

After the sound of Mr. Knockmore's whimpering has died away down the hall, Rowan turns to Baldrick.

Rowan: Baldrick. Is there something you want to tell us?

Baldrick: No, my lord.

Rowan picks up a large marble paperweight off the desk, in the shape of John Travolta's left bicep, and parts Baldrick's unkempt hair with it.

Baldrick: Yes, my lord. Last night I heard you saying that someday soon someone was going to make that critic eat his words...

Rowan: So you hurried over here and implemented the suggestion?

Baldrick: ???

Rowan: You stuffed his column down his throat, then?

Baldrick nods and smiles.

Dix hears something going on in the street outside and beckons them to the window.

They look out to see a good-looking man running up the block, closely pursued by some fifty screaming and cheering people...As the man passes in front of the building, they can see his face clearly, neatly-shaped beard and moustache, curly hair, sensuous lips, eyes rolled up in terror...

Tim: Good lord!! It's Derek Kingston -- my double!!

Rowan: And isn't that LindaF closing in on his left flank?

Dix: Yup. And there's Betty B, Linda E, Martha, Cuz Carol, Mariah, Cindra, Dina,--in fact it looks as if the Timbos are all here...

Tim [turning pale:] Is there a back way out of this building?

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No sooner had they been freed from the onus of a possible murder rap than our intrepid trio found themselves once more in perilous proximity to -- a scourge of ravening locusts?--a flock of undernourished vultures?--a school of slavering killer sharks???

Unfortunately, no. Outside the newspaper offices and drawing ever nearer was a large disorderly group of highly-inflammatory Timbos...

Tim, Dix and Rowan have just reached the safety of their hotel after skulking down numerous back alleys and side streets.

Dix [out of breath:] That...was a close one. Poor Derek -- now he'll have to double for Bruce Willis until his hair grows back...

Tim [unlocking the door to their suite:] Or Demi Moore. I suppose he'll be expecting combat pay, too.

Rowan: That clever little Timbo called Shonie,--amazing how much she accomplished with that tiny pair of nail scissors.

They troup wearily into the living room. Something in the atmosphere is subtly different.

Tim [sniffing the air:] I smell perfume.

Dix: Oh, don't wrinkle up your nose like that...I'm much too tired to take advantage of you.

From behind the sofas, the chairs, the draperies --

Dix: Oh, no!!! It's the Invasion of the Tim-Snatchers!!!

Christine Z [taking a lampshade off her head; she has been impersonating a standing lamp:] Silly rabbit,--Tim is for Timbos!!!!!

Betty T: You didn't really think we'd be fooled for long by poor dear Derek, did you? His eyes are *blue* and he's at least 1/4 inch shorter than Tim. (She whips out a measuring tape and steps up to Tim:) Five feet, nine inches.

The Timbos begin to encircle their prey, much like a pride of lions closing in on a plump antelope. Tim raises a hand commandingly and they halt.

Tim [to Rowan:] Quick--take Dix into the bedroom and barricade the door!

Rowan: What a very good idea. (He maneuvers Dix around the edge of the crowd.)

Dix [as the door closes behind them:] Some people just have termites...why do we always get Timbos...?

Several hours later:

The living room is a shambles, but Tim is sitting on the couch yawning. His hair is mussed and his clothing is rumpled, but he is alone and in one piece.

The bedroom door opens cautiously and Rowan looks into the room. His hair is tousled too.

Rowan: Have they...gone?

Tim: Oh, yes.

Dix slips past Rowan, planting a kiss on his cheek in passing.

Dix: My protector. [to Tim:] Well, my little sacrificial lamb, how did it go?

Tim [can't resist:] Not baa-aad. (He holds up a scrap of black silk and sighs.) I gave each of them a souvenir -- a bit of my robe.

Rowan: Shonie and Her Magic Scissors, hmm?

Tim: Linda F wanted something more personal, so I gave her a firm handshake...

Dix [taking his hand:] One, two, three, four, five...it's okay, you still have all your fingers. But *what* happened to that sweet little mole you had on your neck???

Tim [innocently:] Mole? Um, what mole?...


The End For Now

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