A/N: Takes place some years after the movie "My Favorite Year".

Utterly Alan

Of all the years I've managed to accumulate in my life, I still hold that 1954 was my favorite year. I was working as a junior writer on the Comedy Cavalcade TV show, I started dating K.C. Downing, and I met my all-time movie hero Alan Swann.

Met him, went out to dinner and helped him steal somebody's girl, got drunk with him, threw up in the park with him (although truth be told I was the one voiding my stomach, not him) and eventually joined him in the highest-ever rated episode of King Kaiser's career. He became a friend, a mentor and a guide into the mysterious world of women. Not only those wonderful accomplishments, but I also became the only man alive that knows his birth name of Clarence Duffy.

How can you top a year like that?

Now don't get me wrong; even the worst years have some good parts in them as life moves you down the road from what was the moment to what is the moment. I changed jobs; K.C. and I broke up, made up, broke up and made up again before we finally got married. If some guy ever figures out how to keep the make-up parts and skip the break-up parts then he's either a genius or insane. Sometimes either one sounds like a pretty good explanation.

I had moved with K.C. out to Hollywood in 1957 in pursuit of fame, fortune, more fame and maybe a little fortune thrown in. Thanks to a few connections from my New York days I didn't have to start at the bottom, but I was definitely below the belt line if you know what I mean. It kept me busy, and as a few more years passed I came to realize that K.C. and I had pretty much lost touch with all of the people we knew back east, exchanging them for new people that had either the misfortune or good fortune of living in California as well. K.C. had become my not only a wife and mother, but was a writing partner with me on several different projects. At this point my name was back to Steinberg; strange, but such a name that to me seemed so plain and bland back east was now considered distinctive out west; as if having a Jewish name made me an expert on comedy instead of just guilt. It pleased my mom, who finally got to see my real name on the screen before she passed away and eventually died, as she would have put it.

By the time 1963 had rolled around we were pretty comfortable; it's funny how once you finally establish yourself in the business, you get the opportunity to work even harder simply because you have more offers. A smart man starts to pick and choose his projects, carefully selecting those that will provide both challenge and reward.

An even smarter man will do like I did, and have his much more intelligent wife take care of the process. K.C. would dump some paper in my lap, tell me "You can do this" and sure enough I'd find it catered to my strengths as a writer and off I'd go cranking out another winner. God I love that woman; still do as a matter of fact.

But back to 1963. Through circumstances that remain murky but include an auto accident, an elopement and a heart attack (not to the same person) I found myself the top candidate to be sent by a producer to New Haven to meet some potential investors along with a junior executive from the studio. One of us was supposed to know what we were talking about, so we flipped a coin to see who it would be. Thankfully I won and picked him. But while it meant he did most of the talking during the meeting, it also meant that he was the one that was invited for dinner afterward. I ended up taking a drive down the coastline and enjoying the scenery.

That's another thing that I picked up in California. Out there everybody drives. By the time a child reaches two he already has his learner's permit, and dead people still renew their licenses "just in case"; so K.C. and I both learned to drive as much out of necessity as it was to feel part of the crowd.

While driving along the Connecticut coast, I stopped to eat at a restaurant in the town of Milford. As I ate my chicken pot pie I idly read a bulletin board near my table. Moving sales, babysitting services and business cards all jostled for position. Stuck in one corner by a Kirby sales pitch was a flyer for a theater group called "All the King's Players" putting on a production in town, and as I read the list of featured actors I dropped my loaded fork.

Alan Swann was in it.

THE Alan Swann; there couldn't be another, no way on God's green Earth I thought as I jumped up and pulled the paper off the board. It listed the performance as being tomorrow, in the evening after I was already scheduled to fly out. But there was a chance I could still see him today…

I asked where the address on the flyer could be found, and drove to a small community theater. A small marquee on the front announced the production of "Rolling with the Punches" as I parked my car. Seeing the front door open, I snuck inside hoping for the best.

I was rewarded with what I had hoped. The company was going through a full dress rehearsal in preparation of the performance the following night. As I settled into the dark back row, I figured out that I had missed most of the first act. But there was no doubt; it was Alan.

I hadn't actually seen him in over seven years, since I saw him shortly before he returned to England. He was on close terms with his daughter Tess, and had even gotten along with her mother Frances. I lost his address and after I moved out to the west coast never did manage to communicate with him again.

The play seemed to be about an old, broken-down boxer who was dealing with life's problems with a stiff upper lip and a wry sense of humor. I smiled to myself when I discovered his character's name was 'Mookie Karaoke', an obvious homage to my stepfather. His character was also confined to a wheelchair, but he moved with ease around the stage as he interacted with the other characters, some of whom had to hurry to keep up with him. He was in turn angry, sad, joyful and introspective.

And most gratifying of all, he was funny.

Always thin when I knew him, he had changed little in that regard. His hair was thinner and grayer, but his voice was unchanged from the dignified tone that I remembered. He even sang in the same off-key way during the third act as I had witnessed so many years ago. At the conclusion the director called all the actors to center stage and I saw that Frances was heading up the production. She thanked everyone and excused them, saying they were going to have fun the next day. As a few people lingered, I left my seat and walked down the aisle, applauding.

"My God Frances, it's the ghost of that poor chap…what was his name…Stoneberg or something?"

"I can't keep track, you just can't trust anyone who changes their last name" she replied with a smile.

"I agree, my dear Mrs. Frances Swann, I agree. Benjy, like the phoenix you arise once again…although not from the ashes of obscurity. You've been busy if those credits I read are any indication."

"I've been busy? What do you call this?"

"Oh, just a little something we threw together. You remember my wife?"

"Of course, Mrs. Swann" I said, emphasizing the point. I'm sure I would have remembered if they had been married.

"Ah, so pleased you remember. Then you also remember how we originally met?" she asked.

"The story goes" I recited "that you two met during World War II. Alan was doing some war bond work and you were in the USO as a performer. He wooed you, swept you off your feet and moved on leaving you a lovely daughter as a parting gift."

"I was hardly a parting gift" a young woman said as she stepped down off the stage. "Hi Uncle Ben" she added as she gave me a squeeze. Tess was no longer the beautiful young girl I last saw, she was now a stunner and taller than me which isn't really saying much. I saw her in a minor part in the play, but didn't realize who she was.

"When we last left our hero" Alan continued "he was bound for England and home. Well, as it turns out the tax system there isn't as easy to work with as the I.R.S…"

"…who previously had agreed to only take half your earnings to let you stay in America…" I added.

"…so I came back to America and ended up becoming official by marrying the fair Frances, thereby making an honest woman out of her."

"I was already honest" she pretended to pout. "But with Swann you forgive a lot."

"Then to make an honest man out of me" Alan corrected. "I still had some residuals, and with a few personal appearances we managed. Then one day a man showed up with a check."

"A check?" I asked.

"A rather large check, with strings attached it seems. As part of King Kaiser's will, a large amount was set aside and made available if I ever wanted to open a repertory or community acting group."

"King did that?" Stan 'King' Kaiser, my former boss and star of Comedy Cavalcade and the only man that had stood up against organized crime boss Karl Rojeck, had died in his sleep some years before. His wife had been awakened by laughter, and looked over to see her husband lying dead with a smile on his face. He went out doing what he loved best, she later said.

"He most certainly did. When he told me he was a big fan, I took it as simple flattery. I suppose he really meant it" Alan reminisced.

"He meant it all right" I assured him. "He still talked about that show for years afterward. You really impressed the hell out of him."

"And he, I" Alan said. "To make a long story short, we set up shop and put on these occasional productions to amuse the locals. 'Connecticut's best kept secret' some have said, but it keeps us off the streets and out of the rain."

"I'm sorry I haven't contacted you before, but I lost your number and…"

"Silence, scallywag!" he yelled before laughing. "No need to apologize; I could have found you too if I had put some effort in it, but life keeps popping up. Speaking of life and some of the enjoyable things contained therein, I could do with a bit of dinner. Care to join me?"

"I've already shoved something down my throat, but I'll gladly join you."

"Splendid" he approved from the stage. "Meet me backstage and we'll go to a nearby restaurant I know about where I can, as you so eloquently put it, shove something down my throat." I walked around the front of the stage and through the side door, where Alan rolled up to me. "Care to push?" he asked.

He must have seen the look on my face. "Yes, I have to use this mechanical contrivance to get around now…but I'm not an invalid so don't look like you're stuck with one."

"It's not that," I explained "it's just that...when I last saw you, you could walk" as I began to push him.

"Oh, I can walk for a few feet, but then I find myself tasting the floor. No, I'm afraid that all the booze I was drinking was covering up a bigger problem with my back. I didn't know how much it hurt until I was off the stuff for over a year. Down this way, stay on the left" he motioned. "I saved my liver in time to be betrayed by my back. Pity," he smiled "I've enjoyed some good times on it in my younger days." He adjusted a cane he had tucked in beside him on the seat.

We passed by a park and several young boys waved; Alan waved back.

"Fans?" I asked.

"God no, they have no idea who I am. The people are just friendly here is all; in some parts of the country you just say hello because it's polite" he explained. Maybe I had been living in Hollywood too long, I thought.

I told him about my life out in California, about K.C. and how much things were changing in the industry as we arrived at a nearby hole in the wall. I sometimes think Alan was on a first-name basis with every maître d' in the world; he certainly seemed to know his share and Sam was no exception at the Milford Table. Alan exchanged greetings with several of the patrons while we moved to a table set for two but with only one chair. Alan wheeled into the open spot and looked at me like I didn't know what to do, which made perfect sense because I didn't.

"I don't insist you eat with me, but I really must ask that you either sit or put on an apron."

I sat.

Later as he ate he mused about life and career. I asked him if he would do something differently.

"What, redo one moment? Oh, I'm sure everyone has at least one time in their lives that could be improved. But, my good friend, think of it like a TV show. You told me that TV is becoming much more like films all the time, and if they have a problem they just shoot another take. But life isn't like that; we're live, all the time, no commercial breaks and you play it until you're written out of the show and this world."

"Yes," I prompted "but for the sake of argument if you could?"

Alan thought for a bit. "No Benjy I wouldn't. My life is good right now, it really is. If I were to change something in the past I could lose what I have right now. For instance, if I had straightened my life out earlier I never would have been on King's show in the first place."

That was a terrible thought. Not him having his life straight, but me losing the best part of my favorite year; call me selfish.

He went on. "Things change. Your industry has changed, and it continues to do so no matter how much you try to hold it back. Your writing has changed too; I've noticed as much on some of your shows I've seen lately. Your humor is less physical and more mature, and I have no doubt that wonderful K.C. has something to do with it."

"You can say that again. She's my best critic and inspiration."

"As it should be, dear fellow. Women tell us where we go wrong, and nine times out of ten they're right. Quite frankly I don't know what I'd do without Frances, but I certainly appreciate her more now than when we first met back when the world was in black and white. Speaking of her, I think it best we start our way back before she sends out another search party."

"Another?"

"What, you didn't notice when Tess stuck her head against the window to check on us?"

I spun around looking. I was so absorbed in our conversation I didn't even notice the restaurant had windows."

"Don't worry; she left about twenty minutes ago to report back to base. But let me get Sam's attention and we'll be on our way."

A brief disagreement followed about who was going to pay, but I won when I insisted he'd have to push himself back unless I got to use my expense account. Happily, we hit the sidewalk and headed back toward the theater. The day was starting to turn to twilight in the summer sky, and Alan reflected that it wasn't unlike his life.

"Don't be so morose Benjy, the sky is its most beautiful at sunset. We're born too young to enjoy the sunrise of our lives, but who could ask for more than to be aware and able to enjoy the last part?" He glanced ahead and lowered his voice. "Speed up a little and get around this guy, would you old boy?"

Ahead on the sidewalk, another citizen was being pushed down the sidewalk in a wheelchair in the same direction. I quickened my pace slightly and went around, nodding to the pusher as I did so. Alan was just starting to describe how the play came about when the other chair passed us by at a slightly quicker pace.

"I do believe that was a challenge, don't you?" whispered Alan over his shoulder, not wanting to lose the element of surprise. It took me a moment to realize what he meant, and then we were off.

As we pulled alongside the other chair at an even quicker pace, they sped up and matched our pace until we were all flying down the sidewalk. Breathing hard with the effort, I looked over and saw my counterpart doing the same. Our eyes locked for a moment, two engine room workmen being given orders by our respective captains as our ships plowed through a narrow channel.

When my attention turned forward again, I saw that the two riders where exchanging jabs and thrusts with their canes as the chairs came perilously close. The other rider attempted to poke me and I barely avoided it.

"Foul!" cried Alan as he parried the strike. "Benjy, emergency flank speed!" he yelled as I looked farther ahead and saw the sidewalk narrowed to the width of one chair. Somehow, somewhere I found it in me for just enough of a burst to pull ahead in time as we squeezed in ahead for the victory. Alan laughed loudly as I attempted to keep my feet and slow our juggernaut. Before I could slow us down to something less than breakneck, I stumbled on a crack in the pavement and tripped. The last thing I heard before going down was a shout of "Avanti!"

I hit the cement and tumbled for what seemed like a decade before coming to rest in a crumpled heap. The pusher from the other chair ran up wheezing and asked if I was all right. I counted appendages and took stock of my condition. Pants ripped, one sleeve torn, a fat lip and a finger that hopefully was only dislocated. I managed to gulp some air and pass on my joy at surviving the maneuver when my blood froze. Alan!

I looked down the walk which made a sharp 90 degree turn ahead. Alan was not to be seen; however, a pair of wheel tracks in the grass led straight from the turn to the top of a small hill. I tried to remember what I had seen on the other side when we walked to toward the restaurant and the image of a small lake appeared in my mind.

"Oh my God, I've drowned Alan Swann!" I sputtered as I scrambled to my feet and stumbled down the walk, following the trail in the grass. At the top of the small hill I looked down the other side and saw his body lying beside the overturned chair. I dashed down, and as I neared I saw him shaking. "I didn't drown Alan Swann…I broke Alan Swann!"

As I got to his body though, I found that the shaking was from laughter. The man was consumed as the spasms of laughs washed over him; relieved, my knees gave out and I fell to the ground beside him and began to chuckle too, followed by deep guffaws. The other chair pusher, having determined we were physically fine and just overtaken with the early stages of madness, shook his head and walked back to his charge.

"I might have made it to the water, but I hit a hole and overturned" he finally said after catching his breath.

"I told you to use a 7-iron" I said, inducing more laughter.

"Oh Steinberg, I haven't laughed like that in ages" he continued, after the laughter subsided enough to talk normally again. "Intentional or not, you have the gift of mirth; and as much as I'd like to just lie here and enjoy it, a few minutes more and it's going to begin to get really dark. Let's get back before Frances sends Alfredo out after us."

I helped him back into his chair, and barely managed to get him pushed over the grassy hill back to the sidewalk. "Alfie hangs around now?" I asked. Alfredo "Alfie" Dumbacelli was a trusted driver and friend who had worked off and on for Alan for the better part of two decades.

"The term 'hangs around' might be a little inaccurate; he's our road manager and handles all the transportation responsibilities for the group and our equipment. He still drives on the side when we've got large gaps in our schedule, but I wouldn't trade him for ten drivers."

We rolled and limped back into the theater, me with my ripped up clothes and bloody lip and Alan covered in grass and dirt. Frances took one look and stormed over. "What have you two hooligans been doing? Is the restaurant still standing?"

I looked at Alan and winked. "It started out innocently enough," I began "we had an enjoyable evening. Then it came time to pay the bill…"

"…and he insisted on paying" Alan continued. "I couldn't let that happen and I demanded…"

"…demanded is a bit strong…" I suggested.

"…requested vigorously that I should pay" Alan corrected himself. "Then a glass of water got knocked over on a customer…"

"…he shouldn't have been sitting that closely to us when he had such a beautiful wife…" I offered.

"…which I complimented him on, and then I accidentally ran over his foot and I'm afraid things got out of hand" Alan finished. I nodded vigorously, and then rubbed my neck for effect. My finger stuck out like a sore thumb, if you'll pardon the pun.

Frances immediately grabbed my hand. "Let me see that" she said as she looked it over. "Tess!" she yelled. Tess hurried over from where she was backstage. "Look at his finger."

"He's married; nice ring."

"No, his other hand."

"Oh my…let me see that." She moved it a bit, feeling the various parts. "Dislocated alright." With a twist she pushed on the finger, and after a brief shot of pain I was able to move it again albeit with some soreness. "Now don't bowl for a month."

I had never bowled in my life, but vowed to follow her orders. "She's going to school to be a nurse next year" Frances bragged. "Finally someone in the family with gainful employment. Benjy, are you coming to the performance tomorrow?"

"Yes" I answered meekly.

"Good. Go back to wherever you're staying and clean up. Alan, I'm throwing you in the bath."

"I'm in trouble now" Alan grinned as he was wheeled away.

I drove back to New Haven late and almost fell asleep in the bath before going to bed. I called the next morning and changed my flight to the following day. I was not going to miss my chance to see Alan perform. I drove back to Milford in time to meet everyone backstage before the play, and then found my seat in a balcony with a program lying on the cushion, signed by the entire group. A man brought out a huge title card and set it on an easel; it read:

Rolling with the Punches
A play in three acts
Dedicated to Benjamin Steinberg

I barely had time to react when the music started and the play began. As expected, it was even better than the rehearsal as the actors gave their all, and the audience reacted. I'm sure there must have been a few empty seats down below, but I couldn't see any from my vantage in the darkened room. I quit looking when Alan took the stage.

As I watched, it dawned on me that this wasn't a play about a broken-down boxer named Mookie Karaoke at all; Alan was really playing Alan Swann, washed-up actor and of course he played it like he had lived it because it was utterly Alan. The man was magnetic, and when the crowd gave him a standing ovation at the end he actually rose from his chair and gave a slight bow to the crowd. He then turned to my box and repeated the bow, with hand over heart. There may have been more, but I had some trouble with my eyes after that. I've kept that signed program ever since; it hangs on the wall in a place of honor in my writing room.

I once told Alan Swann that I needed heroes like him, as big as I could get them. That night, he was the biggest.

The End

A/N: an absolutely wonderful movie, and a perfect take on television back in the 1950s. It had a great ending but left a few dangling threads that I wanted to tie up. Although the story is told from the perspective of Benjamin Steinberg, the true focal point is Alan Swann.