Backstage at The Loud House
By George Glass
A newly drawn Lincoln Loud meets his fellow cast members and learns about the realities of being a cartoon character.
Lincoln walked onto the set, trying to smooth down his white hair as he looked around at what seemed to be the front yard of a somewhat dilapidated house. On the faux sidewalk, he spied a smallish, dark-skinned boy with glasses, who waved at him. Lincoln approached him.
"Um, hey," Lincoln said. "Is this the set for The Loud House?"
"Yup, this is the place," the curly-headed young man replied.
"Great! I'm Lincoln."
"Good to meet you," the boy said, shaking Lincoln's hand. "I'm Clyde. I'm going to be playing your BBF."
"My what now?"
"Your black best friend."
"Why do I need a black best friend, specifically?"
"Well, the main cast is you and ten white girls. If they don't make every major supporting character a minority, this show will look like sour cream in a snowstorm. And we don't need a bunch of liberals with nothing better to do accusing the network of not showing enough diversity."
"Why does it matter what they think?"
"'Cause they'll be the only ones who'll still let their kids watch the show after my two dads are introduced. So you get a BBF and a Latina girlfriend."
"Girlfriend? Aren't we, like, eleven?"
"Don't worry, it's totally a cartoon relationship. She starts off picking on you, and then you guys hook up after she gives you a black eye."
"I'm going to be dating someone who physically abuses me?"
"No, no, she only hits you after you kiss her without permission."
"So…our relationship starts with me sexually harassing her. What kind of message does that send?"
"Lincoln, it's a cartoon. Don't overthink it, or you'll drive yourself nuts."
Going inside, Lincoln entered the set for the living room of the Loud House, which was already crowded with female characters who appeared to range in age from toddler to late-teen. He had only just passed through the doorway when he heard a thump from behind him.
"Ow!" a gravelly girl-voice exclaimed.
Lincoln turned and saw a pale girl with jug ears and ink-black hair that covered most of her face. It appeared that she had just walked into the doorframe.
"I can't see anything with this stupid hair," the girl muttered.
"We're not shooting, Lucy," said a tall blonde girl who appeared to be the oldest. "You can put it in a clip or something."
"I wish," Lucy replied. "My hair doesn't move, because they've never drawn the top half of my face."
"Jeez," Lincoln said. "That's rough."
"Seriously," Lucy responded glumly. "The only thing scarier than me is being me."
"Playing the family dunce is no picnic, either," said another tall blonde girl, who wore sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead. "Have you read any of my lines? My character's dumber than a lobotomized houseplant. I can't believe I turned down the part of Milo Murphy's sister for this."
"At least you get to have boobs," said a brunette girl in a purple top with a stylized skull on it. "I'm supposed to be fifteen, and they drew me like this!" She moved her hands up and down in two straight lines. "How can I not have hit puberty by now?"
"It's probably malnourishment," said a ponytailed girl in a red-and-white sports jersey. "Every one of us is freakishly skinny. I guess our parents spend all their disposable income on amps and tiaras instead of food."
A man entered, holding a box of kitchen props in front of his face. Only the end of his long, pointed nose was visible.
"Hey, don't blame us," the man said. "We- ow!" he shouted as he banged his shin against the coffee table. "We can barely even see what you guys look like, since we have to have something in front of our faces at all times. Not that anybody will tell me why."
A blonde woman, her face concealed by a bag of groceries, stumbled in behind the man. "It's just a quirk of the show, dear."
"Riiiiight," the man replied cynically. "We both know what this is: the old 'marginalize the adult characters' routine. I wasn't drawn yesterday, you know."
"No, it was last week," the woman said. "By a Canadian gentleman, I think."
Lincoln blinked. "Is that why I have this weird craving for French fries with cheese and gravy?"
"It was that or pickled cabbage," said a little blonde girl in a tiara.
"Fun with outsourcing," sighed another little blonde girl, this one in overalls and a red ball cap.
"I suppose," the man continued, still talking to the woman, "we should count ourselves lucky that we're not just standing off screen saying 'wah wah WAH wah' while the kids look at us like we're from another planet."
A very short girl with thick glasses cut in, "'Wah wah wah' might be preferable to the way my character speaks." She read from an open script. "'Being the reshident geniush ish both a blesshing and a cursh.' I guess the writers don't think my coke-bottle glasses and tumbleweed haircut make it clear enough that my character is a huge nerd."
"Um, speaking of hair," Lincoln said, "does anyone know why mine is white, even though I'm eleven?"
"Probably stress," said Leni.
"Or a thyroid problem," added Luna.
"Or a stress-induced thyroid problem," concluded Lynn.
"C'mon guys, it's not anything like that," said Lori. "It's just one of those cartoon things. There's no logic to it." Then she whispered to Lincoln, "I know from experience. I used to be Judy Jetson."
"But you look so young," Lincoln whispered back.
"I've had a lot of airbrushing done," the girl replied.
The next morning, Lincoln returned to the set. The first day had been mostly about meeting the rest of the cast and crew, getting oriented, and table-reading the script of the first episode. Since then, Lincoln had read several more scripts on his own, which was why he had sought out Clyde this morning.
"In this episode where Lynn moves into my room," Lincoln said, "there's a joke about my balls."
Clyde chuckled. "Oh, yeah, that's a good one. Although technically, the joke is about your not having any balls."
"And the writers think that's okay for a kids' show?"
"Don't worry, Lincoln. Only the grownups will get it."
"Wait, grownups watch this show?"
"Look, for every parent who plops their kid in front of the TV and lets them watch whatever garbage is on while they defrost the green beans and tater tots, there's another parent who will sit there and monitor every second of what their kids view. So we have to throw in something for them, because we can't just have Mom and Dad sitting there silently praying for the sweet release of death. We learned that lesson with SpongeBob."
"Wow."
"And then there's the other audience of grownups," Clyde went on. "The one we usually don't talk about."
"What grownups are those?"
"The ones who actually choose to watch cartoons even though they don't have kids."
"Really? That's a thing?"
"Yup. They run the gamut from dope-smoking college kids who are all like, 'Dude, a little kid with white hair!' to childless twenty- to fifty-somethings who write fan fiction about the show to escape the drudgery of their daily lives."
"Wow. That's creepy."
"Kinda," Clyde replied. "On the other hand, which kind of adult would you rather hang out with: the kind that watches kids' shows, or the kind that's into the softcore torture porn that passes for the last hour of prime time these days?"
"Fair point, I guess. Um, speaking of porn, Lori said something about…I think she called it fan art."
"You didn't know about fan art?"
"I don't even know what it is."
"Basically, it's people drawing pictures of you without the studio's knowledge or permission. And because we're cartoon characters, we don't have the legal right to tell people to knock it off. Only the studio does, and most of the time they don't bother."
"So, what do those people draw?"
"Lincoln, I'm gonna tell you right now: Don't go looking for it. Ever."
"Why not?"
"I'm not saying some of it isn't cute, or sweet, or funny. But the rest…You don't want to go down that rabbit hole."
"Now I'm kind of curious."
"Lincoln, do not go there!" Clyde shouted, grabbing the startled Lincoln by the lapels. "You want to know what kind of pictures they're going to draw of you? They will draw you doing things you didn't even know were things! And not just with your girlfriend—with your sisters, your mom, anybody they can think of. You'll see yourself doing stuff that'll make your skin crawl and your stomach turn upside down in your gut. That's the world of fan art, Lincoln. Do. Not. Go there."
Lincoln looked a bit green. "Why…why would people want to draw stuff like that?"
Clyde shook his head. "The human mind is a mystery, Lincoln."
Then he clapped Lincoln on the shoulder. "But don't let it get you down. We're going to have a lot of fun making this show."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"Just do what they're doing," Clyde said, pointing past Lincoln. "Get into character, and don't overthink it."
Lincoln looked where Clyde was pointing: the front yard of the house, where all ten of Lincoln's new "sisters" were warming up for rehearsals. Lana had made a mud pie and was chasing a screaming Lola around with it, Luan was holding a real pie and also seemed to be looking for someone to hit with it, Leni and Lynn were tossing a Frisbee back and forth, and the other girls were all doing their own things, too. He noticed Lisa sitting on the front porch, intently folding a piece of paper.
"Hey, Lisa," Lincoln said. "What are you doing?"
"I am endeavoring," the girl answered, "to create a paper airplane with the proper aerodynamic characterishtics for hypershonic flight."
Lincoln smiled. She was definitely in character.
"Hey Lincoln, think fast!"
He turned around just in time to see Lynn throw her Frisbee at him. He managed to catch it just before it could hit him in the nose.
"Good catch!" Lynn shouted.
"Thanks," Lincoln replied. Then, pulling his arm back, he shouted, "Go long!"
He hurled the Frisbee back at Lynn, angling it above her head so that she would have to chase after it to catch it. She sprinted just ahead of the flying disc, then leaped into the air, twisted around, and caught it—right before she went crashing through the window of the garage.
"Oh my gosh!" Lincoln shouted.
He started to run toward the garage. Then he saw a hand rise up from below the sill of the broken window and give a thumbs-up.
"I'm okay!" Lynn called from below the window.
Lincoln froze. Was she really okay, or was she just trying to be tough? Maybe he should go get help. Or a first aid kit. Or something.
Then he remembered Clyde's words: Don't overthink it.
"Right," Lincoln said to himself. "It's just a cartoon."
He jogged over to the garage. He could hear the clattering sounds of Lynn attempting to extricate herself from the stack of paint cans she had knocked over after she went through the window. He guessed that the tops of some of the cans had been loose, because the place reeked of paint.
"Hey Lynn," Lincoln said, "can I borrow that Frisbee?"
"No prob," the paint-splattered girl grunted as she sat up, looking like a Jackson Pollack painting. With one messy hand, she held out the disc. "I've gotta hit the showers anyway."
Not caring about the wet paint on the Frisbee, Lincoln accepted it. "Thanks!"
He turned back toward the house and saw Luan sneaking up on Luna, coconut cream pie in hand.
"Hey Luan, think fast!" Lincoln shouted, and threw the Frisbee at her.
In the mere second she had to react, Luan was forced to drop the pie so that she could catch the Frisbee—which the sudden stop caused to spatter her face with red paint.
"Boy, is my face red!" Luan quipped.
Several of the girls laughed, and Lincoln laughed with them. Then he looked over at Clyde, who gave him a nod.
His BBF was right. This was going to be a lot of fun.