AN: Honestly this might a little too long. Just a warning. Enjoy :D
---
Recognition in the Neighborhood
Local news ran the clip again.Neil, soaked, deadpan.Reporter, flustered.Hailey, juice-box missile.
VHS tapes copied. Mailed. Played at PTA bake sales. The whole of America that came home for Christmas not only saw Neil's defeat in the match; but also, him destroying the poor reporter who was just doing his job; albeit aggressively.
Mrs. Kapoor at the dry cleaner: "Say something funny, swimmer boy!"
Paperboy: "Sign my route sheet?"
Bakery clerk: "First scones on me. For the star."
Claire noticed the attention the way you notice something sticky on your shoe: annoying and unavoidable.
"He's four," she kept saying to herself at night. "He should be making pasta necklaces and squishing Play-Doh.
He shouldn't… be a viral moment." It wasn't that she hated the attention. It was that attention had teeth. It liked to chew.
Claire (interview): I know what happens to all the kid stars who peak too early. They get into all sorts of drugs and rave parties; and the next moment you don't realize but you wake up and find yourself half-naked on the porch of football team captain's home.
Phil: oddly specific.
Jay liked attention; but for different reasons: it was opportunity with a spotlight. "We channel it," he said once, sounding like a man who had turned my life's things into a checklist. "We don't let it run us."
He was already visualizing a swimming meets and lessons at the Pritchett Swimming Club — "Neil Dunphy Swim & Learn: Two hours, $99" — because if the world wanted to stare; they got to pay for it.
Neil (inner): I was worried at first; that the family won't take lightly to the sudden attention. But they seem to be adapting quite well to it. I guess that's LA for you.
---
Grandpa's House
Whole family was having lunch at Jay's house (except Mitchel) when the call came. Jay had called the Council of Dunchett in order to discuss the future course of action for my life. The table was divided into two camps:
Claire: "We should wait until he is older; before he participates in any higher competition. He can start at 9-10; that's when most young swimmer start training anyway."
Jay: "No. He already has shown that he can participate in professional tournaments. Even if the other participant were lacking any skills. Niel was more than suitable for the league. He has both the presence and the skills. It is just a waste to wait until he is 10. That's six years away."
Neil: "Although I agree to grandpa's reasons. It is also true that there is no point in competing with untrained eight years old with my current strength. I can't exert the same power as them; no matter how hard I try. It will only bring more pressure; I should first get training from a professional for couple of years and then start participating in the matches at 7 years old."
Neil clearly had his own plans. Although, he wasn't crazy about swimming. In his long-deliberated plan, swimming was a crucial part. Without it, the physical training that he can get at this stage would be limited. And that is unacceptable.
Then the phone call came.
"Hello, this is Conan O'Brien's office — we saw the clip that ran on Channel 7. We'd like to invite Neil Dunphy to the show for next week."
The living room turned into chaos in about three seconds.
Phil stood up so fast he almost dropped his coffee. Claire said "Conan?" as if the question itself could be a spell that would undo the rest of the world. Jay grunted and looked at the ceiling as if to consult a ledger of "capitalization on grandchildren."
Mitchell, who'd already decamped to New York, fired off a text: Get him a blazer. Not Phil's tie. Do not make him wear anything called "festive."
DeDe volunteered to watch Alex. "I'll take the baby," she said, which in Dunphy meant she would take the baby, the cats, half of grandpa's property, and his car.
Neil's stomach did the small turning exercise it always did before a big dive. Conan.
A Redhair, lanky man of late-night show: sarcasm, long jokes, the kind of stage that made grown-ups feel like kids again. He felt a bite of nerves, then the same mechanical calm he used before races: observe, plan, execute.
Neil (inner): It is soon, but not something I can avoid. I had re-watched all the clips of Conan in my last life. It feels surreal to suddenly hear the invite to be on that stage.
Dunphy x Pritchett—TO NEW YORK!
---
New York, Broadway
Backstage at NBC smelled of coffee, carpet, and a hundred nerves.
The Dunphys were a moving cartoon of preparation: Phil fussed with a tie that looked like a sunrise gone wrong, Claire pressed her palms together in a silent litany, Jay practiced a look that meant "predegraded into stoicism."
Mitchell sent more texts from his brownstone: Be funny. Be short. Don't mention mortgage-backed something on live television. Kthx.
Neil waited in the green room, legs kicking the air like a small engine. Posters of past guests loomed like museum aliens. He tried to breathe as if the breath were a lap to be taken, not anxiety to be swallowed.
He reminded himself: Don't be weird. Be honest. And if you can roast someone gently, do it with love.
---
The Late-Night Show only started in the September 1993. Currently it is January 1996. A little more than two years. Doesn't have the same prestige as it had back then in his past life. Still somewhat overshadowed by David Letterman. But it is national TV.
It was a stage that was unnerving for Neil. To meet that lanky six-foot-four tall man in front of him. It's awesome.
---
Conan came out with his long-legged, matchstick-voice strut and that very wide grin. The band played something that sounded like a chorus of polite teeth.
He introduced Neil like a magician revealing a rabbit: "Our next guest is four years old and already edgier than my acting coach." The applause hit like a wave, and Neil took it like he took the first breath before a dive.
"So please welcome. The young and very talented—Neil Dunphy". Applause ran the mile like tide. As Neil entered the stage, he could notice that the auditorium wasn't full. Surely the popularity was farther from peak, but he didn't care.
---
Conan leaned forward. "So, Neil, are you actually only four?"
Neil's eyes were steady. "Just over four. Do you want to see? I've been carrying my birth certificate these days; as supper was a little inappropriate with the suit."
The audience exploded. This was the callback that had been doing the rounds on the local news; it landed again, harder because now the lights were bigger, and the crowd was wider.
Conan delighted in the absurd. "Wow! Certification. That's a first. Now, are you actually—how do you know these things then? You threw the word 'mortgage' backstage too like it was one of the Backstreet Boys."
"What are Backstreet Boys?" I quipped.
"You don't know the Backstreet Boys?"
"I don't know. Mom always told me to stay away from the alleys?"
Conan Laughed hard. "Hahaha. You are a real one. *high five*"
"... But who taught you? I don't believe the American education system is teaching mortgage to kindergarten kids. I hope not!"
Conan. Classic stare at the camera.
"Oh. Why not? I think they should even teach how to file taxes. Much more useful than the square root—I tell ya'." Neil's mouth curled the smallest bit into a grin.
"Oh god. Beware, someone will come up to you for doing a Private School commercial at this rate."
I smirked—stare. "Neil Dunphy. Contact my manager. Asap, I've got mortgages to pay."
Canon. Stumped. Crowd. Dumbfounded. And then it came, the explosion of laughter and claps.
Neil (inner): All those moments that I fantasized about going to one of these Late-Night Shows. They weren't wasted after all.
Neil felt like a first-level citizen. The stage lets him be himself without having to fit in a box. That's the beauty of comedy—there is no right way to do it.
"So, Neil. Tell me, do you go to school? I might even send my kid there." Conan also jumped into the joke.
"My mom teaches me the normal school curriculum. I don't go to any pre-school"
"Was she the one to teach you about Mortgage and Taxes too?"
"Nah. Dad talks about houses all the time, maybe I picked it up there." Neil said.
"What did he tell you?"
"He says every house is a story. Sometimes the last chapter is: can you pay for it?" There was a proud glow in the audience; Phil puffed up as if someone had handed him a medal.
Conan raised an eyebrow. "That's… surprisingly mature."
Neil nodded. "Mom explains accounts and balance sheet. She says it's like pancakes: ingredients on one side, mess on the other. Flip it wrong and everyone cries." The crowd laughed. Claire ducked her head, half mortified, half triumphant.
"Seems like you have interesting teachers. Are there anymore?"
"Uncle Mitchell teaches me law sometimes. About Justice and Freedom." Neil continued, warming to the pattern. "He makes me sort the recycling and tells me which box is acceptable. So now my Lego towers have zoning permits." Conan dissolved in laughter; this was the kind of line late-night shows salivated over: tiny human logic applied to adult nonsense.
"And Grandpa?" Conan prompted.
Neil's face grew a touch solemn. "Grandpa tells me about the army. The country. He says 'Brave is not he, who calculates the consequences before doing the right thing. But the one who knows nothing and still does what is right'. He told we have to remember people for their deeds; and not their stories."
Jay, who was usually a one-liner machine, didn't say anything for a moment. His face softened like an old photograph someone had just warmed.
Conan clapped. "So that's where your PhD came from—family studies. Finance from Dad, pancakes from Mom, law from Uncle, and military appreciation from Grandpa. Together you're… curated."
"An educated comedy," Neil supplied, deadpan. The crowd loved the phrase like it was a punchline plus a thesis.
---
Conan played the viral tape for context — the microphone shove, the reporter straining for drama, Neil's perfect, unflappable tempo, Hailey's small face and the juice box's heroic throw hitting flat on Neil's face.
That throw was the clip's meteor: people rewound it on tapes. A few producers in late-night rooms had laughed and sent it along like a favor.
"By the way, we got some more videos of you. Let's take a look"
They rolled-in the home videos next.
---
CLIP 1:
A cartoon cow for reasons someone in the Dunphy house understood as "funny" was in front of a 20-month-old Neil.
"What do we call this?" the person asked, with a slight lisp in his tone.
"Steak," Neil answered. Deadpan. Perfect.
---
Conan howled. The audience followed.
---
Clip 02:
"The red-jumper clip." Conan smiled conspiratorially.
A toddler wearing a red jumper with white patches picked up the camera from the ground. A glorious angle of his snot filled under-nose and words spoken on a lisp: "Poo-chic".
---
"Now, this is adorable. But tell me, how does it feel for your family home videos to be seen nationwide?"
Neil sighed theatrically. "This is a gross violation of my privacy. I'll sue my dad for releasing this without asking my stylist. Red isn't my color." Conan nearly broke a rib laughing.
Conan cackled, "But it was your mom who sent us this, right?"
Neil softened, immediately; almost reverent. "Mothers are a gift of Heaven. She gave me life. So, she can take as many videos as she wants; and distribute as she likes."
The audience gave a normal laugh-loud applause; it was the kind of moment that felt like a hug and a wink.
"... Also, she is the stylist."
ROAR!! APPLAUSE!!
Neil squeezed out every last bit of his humor. Remembering his lessons from last life at that comedy workshop. Premise. Setup—Punchline—Joke. Tag. Tag. Tag. The rule of 3. The key is to flow like water and hold like a dam.
---
The show flowed into more fun.
Conan asked the grown-up question: "What toys do you really like?"
Neil talked about Monopoly — how he'd gotten one for Christmas and how that game was where he learned to think about houses and mortgages in practice.
"Dad always loses," Neil said, with solemn cruelty, "Always."
Phil objected.
Conan gamely asked about cartoons. Neil said he watched them but found them predictably annoying: "Scooby-Doo is always the guy in the mask."
Conan's face did that perfect adult-realization look: the world had been casually explained and ruined by a child.
Then the future: Conan leaned in, mock-romantic. "So, Neil, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Neil held the small mic like a microphone and said with the gravity of a tiny philosopher, "First convince people of my right age, probably. And then win an Oscar."
He shrugged, then added, "Or fix computers. Whichever has better catering."
The audience loved the humility of hedging dreams with practicality. Andy Richter, Conan's sidekick, chirped: "That's the most honest plan I've ever heard."
The gags tumbled:
Conan asked about Conan's hair (which Neil described as "an orange traffic cone in a suit"), about Phil's apparent fetish for marketing (Phil tried to sell a few more tie designs to a stunned band leader in the wings).
Throughout it all, the family sat in the audience and became a study in nuanced parental reaction. Claire was a taut wire between pride and worry. "He's four and he just joked about mortgages on national late-night," she whispered to Phil in a tone that meant an avalanche of follow-up topics.
Phil was vibrantly impossible. He whistled and clapped the second the audience did.
Jay sat with a face like a bank vault.
After the segment, the family milled backstage. Conan gave Neil a little behind-the-scenes sticker and told Phil, "Keep him fed and out of trouble."
Phil took that as a commission and started listing cereal endorsements he could pitch.
Claire hugged Neil so tightly his shoulders squeaked. "You were perfect," she said like someone closing a deal and a prayer at once.
Jay clapped him on the back. "You handled it," he said. "You didn't choke. Good."
Phil tried to get a post-show photo with Neil and the drummer.
Neil walked through the luggage of applause like a child walking through a dense grocery store of praise. He liked being noticed but he felt careful.
Attention, he knew, had a weight—he'd felt that in his old life when people looked at his success and wanted more of him than he felt comfortable giving.
He didn't want to be a performance. He wanted to be a person who sometimes performed.
---
AN: I wanted to write so much more. Few jokes about endorsement of "Pritchett's Closets & Binds" on his suit. Few jokes about stock market and computers. But the original draft became more than 3500 words. Finally reduce it to under 2500 and published it. Even this felt long but should be okay once in a while.