Tom and Sandra Bullock on the set in Working Girl

Finally, there was a taping of the new Working Girl show that Tom invited me to attend. I had never attended a live taping in LA before. But Tom had done tons of live tapings for many, many episodic shows since we'd moved west, so he was quite familiar with the process.

I arrived early, of course, met Tom outside the studio and got a chance to meet Sandra Bullock as she crossed to the dressing rooms. She was incredibly slim, very pretty, smiling, and very composed, a real pro, even though she was very young and just starting her career.

Then I entered the humongous studio taping area. The place was cavernous, as big as an airplane hangar for a couple of Boeing 747's and about as warm and friendly. The sets were arranged sort of boxcar style in front of steeply raked seating benches that ran the length of the sets. There were cameras moving silently around the floor below seat level, so they didn't block our view of the action; but they did create a wide gulf between the audience and the stage.

Tom had directed me to sit at the far end where the office set was and where he would play most of his scenes. For a dedicated and serious New York theater person, this set up was jarring. I'd been to a lot of different types of theaters: theater in the round, Shakespeare in the park, street theater, etc. But this set up demoted the audience to the lowly position of an afterthought, which, in Hollywood, I guess they are.

Then the taping began. They did the first scene, got some big laughs, which will be used as guidelines when they sweeten the taped and edited show with canned laughter. Then they started doing pick up shots. It was ten minutes or more before they moved on to the second scene. Same deal. We got a quick taste, then they stopped to do close-ups and retakes, fix props that didn't work right, get lines right, and get people in focus who'd missed their marks. Now, again, they stopped to move to another set. The actors disappeared to change costumes. Stop, start, stop start. It was infuriating.

After about two hours of this process for twenty-one minutes of show, I was ready to jump over the bleachers and sock somebody in the nose. As someone whose husband was in the hot seat, well, I could have wept with frustration. The rest of the audience was still laughing here and there, as they had throughout the taping. But the essence of comedy is timing and the subtle chemistry that happens between the actors and the audience.

By the time they were done, I was convinced there were no laughs at all in the show, and that we were doomed. I no longer saw myself living in Beverly Glen. Now I see us raising our son in a trailer in the high desert. I was numb, catatonic with despair. This was it, the end.

Finally, the torture was over. Tom was offstage, getting out of make-up and into street clothes. I waited with a hundred-pound barbell on my chest in the bleachers wondering how to break it to him that it was hopeless. I was approached by a tall, lanky, intellectual looking man with an impish grin who introduced himself as Tom Patchett. He had guessed who I was and come over on his own to meet me. Thank God he didn't notice the deer in headlights look in my eyes. He didn't ask what I thought. Good, because I was totally tongue tied. I couldn't even tell him that Bob Newhart, a man he'd worked closely with for many years as a writer on The Bob Newhart Show, was one of my favorite comedians.

But a miracle happened. This new Tom started praising my Tom. I was all agog with wonder. The man was full of confidence and thrilled. He told me with delight that my Tom was one of those rare comedy actors who got laughs the writers didn't know were there. The immensity of this compliment coming from a veteran comedy writer struck me forcibly. An actor who can get a laugh the writers didn't write was a comedy writer's version of playing on a Stradivarius. I was floored. And this compliment comes from a writer whose work was famously successful in Hollywood and had been for years. I was completely verklempt. It was a moment and a compliment that I treasured and will treasure till I die. Yes, I think, I always knew that about my Tom…. Well …. that is until five minutes ago, when I was going to tell him to quit show biz.

From an opening show card to my Tom from Tom Patchett, "Tom, I don't like it - you're starting to protect your own character. As soon as you realize how funny you are, you won't need me."

Daily Variety review of Tom O'Rourke, "One of the cast members with the most potential appears to be Tom O'Rourke as a powerhouse Donald Trump like character who gets to deliver some of the funniest lines. (When O'Rourke is told that an angry Merv Griffin is waiting in his office, he grumbles that Griffin is probably trying to "unload those casinos again.")"

I was so proud of Tom. Oh, my foolish heart. But I have always felt that Tom’s success on this show vindicated all my faith in his talent. He could have delighted millions with his charm, wit, and gentle humor, if only things had been different.

They did thirteen shows, which went on the air and did quite well. The network, after making us wait forever, decided not to order any more shows. We were cancelled. They had the young, super-talented actress Sandra Bullock signed on to a seven-year contract and they dropped her, too. They passed up a literal gold mine of talent when they cancelled that show.

That show was the biggest thing that happened for Tom in Hollywood. When Working Girl wasn't picked up, we were both devastated. But we told ourselves, you've been featured on a nighttime TV series. Now people will pay more attention to you, you'll get to read for better parts on television and be considered for good roles in films. We were confident that surely now Tom would be able to earn a steady living as an actor. But we were wrong. No interesting or uninteresting movie roles came his way, no more nighttime TV series principal actor jobs, not even a bump in his episodic auditions or a decent television commercial. We were stunned and back on our butts trying to pay bills.