The Comedy Writer (11 page)

I was suddenly itchy. “Look, I'm trying to be a nice guy letting you stay here, but if you'd prefer, you can go to the motel up the street and there'll be no hard feelings, okay?”

“Well, maybe I will!,” and she started packing like she was on
one of her game shows where she got to keep everything she could stuff in her bag in thirty seconds.

I was going to let the melodrama pass without saying anything, but then she started crying. I didn't want a crying woman storming out of my apartment. Besides, I knew she didn't have any dough. “Calm down,” I said, and I closed her suitcase. She continued throwing bras and panties and little white cosmetic cases at the bag, and when I sat on it, she threw stuff at me, too. “Just take it easy,” I said. When Colleen had finally exhausted herself to the point of blowing a white bubble of snot onto her upper lip, she charged into the bathroom and slammed the door.

I poured us each a vodka and sat on the bed. After a few minutes, I said, “Come on out, I made you a drink.”

She didn't open the door, and I could hear her in there, still on the crying jag, as if someone had died, and I kept thinking, Man, what a nut, and then I remembered, well, someone
had
died, and it was only for one night, she'd be gone tomorrow, and at least I'd have done the decent thing.

“You can have the bed,” I said, but still she didn't respond.

After I finished both drinks, I walked out back in the sweet air and relieved myself under a sycamore. It was a cloudless night, but there were no stars visible and the moon was a mushy blur. I thought about that: stars everywhere, except in the sky, and I pictured Amanda again, but this time it was winter and her tan had faded and so had everything else.

Colleen had already packed up and left. On the bathroom mirror I found a surprisingly sweet
note written on a napkin, which was doubly nice, seeing as I was out of toilet paper. In my mailbox, along with some junk mail, I discovered a sample packet of Kellogg's Mueslix. This was going to be a good day. After eating the powdery oats and raisins mixed with tap water, I worked for a few hours, then decided to drive downtown to the
LA. Times
offices and pick up my check. I was down to thirty-seven bucks and a quarter tank of gas, so I couldn't wait for them to mail it to me.

As I was getting into my car, I heard someone yell, “Hey, fucky!” and spotted Herb Silverman laying in a chaise across the street, his oiled body glowing like a mirror while he swigged a beer. The actor waved me over and I considered ignoring this, but I didn't.

“I been thinking about what you told me,” he said. “You should've lied, you know.”

“When?”

“When your old girlfriend caught you doing whatever she caught you doing, you should've just lied.”

I heard a distant bell ringing and kids started appearing out of nowhere. I felt a burst of dizziness and my neck tightened; I wondered if there was a connection between the two. Maybe I'd dislodged a vertebrae and it was pressing against the part of the spinal cord that controlled the inner ear and equilibrium. Last night on the floor had probably made it worse.

“Give me one of those,” I said.

Silverman pulled a can of Bud out of a little red-and-white cooler and tossed it to me.

“When a girl's in love, she'll believe anything,” Silverman said. “It's like that Richard Pryor joke where the chick catches him fucking around, and he goes, 'Who you gonna believe, me or your lying
eyes?' “ Herb rubbed more baby oil onto his stomach and said, “So what's the scoop? You jammed Tiff yet?”

“No.”

The ice cream man pulled up and the little tykes were sitting ducks with their paper money and innocent expectations.

“What is wrong with you? Start paying her a visit every night before bed. Believe me, you'll forget all about old what's-her-name.”

“I have forgotten about what's-her-name.”

“Then what's she doing on your wall?”

“Look, I've got too much work to do to be visiting Tiffany every night.”

“Right. Presidents of the United States are fucking starlets during missile crises, but Mr. Waiter-Slash-Unemployed-Writer can't find time to walk across the hall to get his dick sucked. Jesus, it's not like you gotta romance her. You know the ten minutes every night you spend jerking off? Well, instead, open your door, knock on hers, glue her eyes shut, then go home. First night I met her that's what I did.”

“First night?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes and she was rocking on top of me, playing with those big toddies.”

After the last child had been served her ice cream, I made a head count and, satisfied, hit the road.

At Times Mirror Square I was told that my editor was in a meeting, but that the assistant I'd dealt with—she of the cousin Kristen bitch-iness—would be right out to see me. Even though she'd played a major role in getting the story published, I wasn't crazy about the prospect of meeting her, so I told the receptionist I'd come back in an hour.

I was still at the elevator when a young woman came searching for me. She was dressed in a nice suit and was a nick heavy, or maybe just big-boned, with what I imagined “proud breasts” to look like, and she had an odd, attractive face. Her manner hinted at an education—someplace like Wellesley—and she was holding an envelope.

The receptionist told her that Fd left, but as she turned away, I called out, “Urn, hello.”

She looked at me, emotionless really, but at the time it felt like annoyance.

“I'm Henry Halloran. I was going to come back later when I might get a chance to meet Arnold.”

“Fine.”

She started back toward her office.

“But on the other hand, I might as well take the check now, just in case.”

She pivoted on her heel. “Just in case what?”

“Well, you know, just in case I can't get back … today.”

A nod, and she handed me the envelope. Then she walked away.

I left the building with a thousand-dollar check in my pocket and an empty feeling in my gut. I popped into the minimart next door for a pack of Tums, briefly considered purchasing a three-pack of back-issue porno mags with the titles torn off, but was too depressed and decided against it. When I got to my car, the proud-bosomed assistant was striding out of the
Times
building lugging a wooden chair over her shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I called, and I caught up to her. “Are you aware that you have a chair hanging from your back?”

She glanced at the chair, then straight-faced said, “Oh, man.”

“Must've gotten snagged when you left the office,” I said.

The woman permitted herself a smile.

“I liked your story,” she said.

“Thanks. Look, I'm sorry about our run-in on the phone. I was kind of frustrated.”

“I've gotten over it.”

“Prove it by having dinner with me tonight.”

The young woman flinched. “I don't think so.”

“Come on, I'll cook.”

“I don't even know you.”

“Sure you do. At least as well as you can know anybody in this town.”

“Oh, Jesus. Was that supposed to be deep?”

“I don't know what it was supposed to be. I couldn't think of anything else.”

She glanced around, searching for someone to bail her out.

“Please,” I said. “I don't know anybody in this town, and I'm sick of eating alone.”

“Don't I feel special.”

“I said I'd cook you dinner. That's special, isn't it?”

“Or cheap. Depending on how you look at it.”

That kind of stuff I liked.

“Hey, Henry, get real here. You don't even know my name and the only thing I know about you is that you have extraordinarily bad luck with women.”

“It's just dinner. I'm not asking you to go up the coast with me.

She didn't say no.

“For all you know, I could have a boyfriend.”

“Bring him.”

When she still didn't cave, I said, “Okay, let me put it another way. Do you realize that if you go out with me tonight, and we hit it off, and then if you go out with me again, and we start having a real good time, and then if maybe in a few weeks we do take a trip up the coast or to the mountains or someplace, and somehow, incredibly, we fall in love—” She started to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “And then if somewhere down the line we actually got married and ended up having kids and grandchildren and a wonderful life together, do you realize that right now will have been one of the greatest moments of our lives?”

“Sounds as if somebody's been doing a little writing.”

“That was spontaneous, I swear.”

Then she tilted her head, and I could see she was considering it.

“What do you say?”

She waved at someone in a car, then she looked me in the eyes and I knew I had her.

I thought about the fact that I'd passed on the porno mags and ended up with a hot date. Maybe that brief stretch of high road had earned me some karmic mileage. Maybe it was true. If I'd chosen to buy the porn, I probably would have been back at the cash register or staring down at some stranger's air-brushed beaver when the
L.A. Times
girl walked out of the building. Jesus, I'd forgotten to ask her name.

I cashed the check at a check-cashing store downtown, then hurried back to a supermarket in the Swish Alps section of West Hollywood and spent twenty-eight dollars on shells, broccoli, margarine, kielbasa, and two bottles of wine. The place was raging with
clean-cut, preppy-looking guys. A muscleman with bleached-blond hair, shredded jeans, no shirt, and a white silk scarf was talking to any fey prepster who would listen while carrying around a bleached-blond poodle wearing a matching scarf.

Back at the Blue Terrace, I made my bed, showered, scraped the stubble from my face. From Mount Tiffany I borrowed a couple pots, silverware, a screwdriver in lieu of a corkscrew. I was setting the table when I noticed the light on my phone machine blinking. Two messages. My heart sank. She was canceling. I pushed the button and held my breath. A man's voice I didn't recognize. He sounded unsure of himself.

“Um, I hope I have the right number. If this is the Henry Halloran who wrote the story in the
Los Angeles Times Magazine
, I'd appreciate it very much if you would call me. My name is Gus Anders … I thought it was very well written … Um … anyway … please call me …”

He went on to leave his phone number twice because he was afraid he'd said it wrong the first time, which he hadn't. I had mixed feelings about this message—another psycho calling?—but at least it wasn't my date canceling. The next message was from Levine's assistant Meegan. He was pushing up tomorrow's meeting. Instead of four o'clock, we'd do lunch. I was on a roll!

There was still an hour before my young Lois Lane was due to arrive, so I decided to flip on the clock radio, mix a stiff one, get in the mood. Unfortunately, there was only a centimeter of vodka left in the freezer. I had the wine, but I didn't really like wine. That was for her. I thought about running out for a fifth, but decided against it. It was Monday night, I just wouldn't drink, that's what people did on Monday night. There was a knock at the door.

Colleen Driscoll was standing in the hallway, a suitcase in each
hand, her face bloated and covered with zigzags of barely clotted cuts.

“Jesus' I said.

She burst into tears, dropped her bags, and rushed into my arms, except my arms weren't open, so she just knocked me back a couple feet.

“Puffy's dead,” she sobbed.

“Who?”

“My kitty. He killed her.”

“Who did?”

“Caesar, that bastard. We were moving out and he attacked her.”

“Who's Caesar?”

“The stupid dog!”

I put my arm on hers and she began hiccuping as she sobbed.

“He's a pit bull … She was just a kitty … Didn't stand … chance.”

I wanted to help, but all I could manage right then was “Oh” with a downward lilt. She came in and sat on my bed, but I kept her bags out in the hall. Colleen racked her head back and forth in abject mourning, as if it wasn't a pet she'd lost but a child.

“What happened to your face?” I asked and handed her a clean undershirt to press against the scratches.

“Puffy,” she said. “Honus just stood there, so I tried to break it up and Puffy freaked out.” Colleen let out another gut-wrenching wail. “She was all I had …”