The Comedy Writer (26 page)

“So how's California treating you?” she asked.

“Good. Not bad. Fine. You know, I joined a gang.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I'm a Crip.”

“That's great, Henry.”

“It's okay. I looked into the Bloods, read all their literature, but the Crips had a better dental plan, so I went with them.”

She giggled. It reminded me of the old days. She'd played a big part in my decision to become a writer. So many nights, parties, bars, concerts, she'd followed me around sounding like a mini-laugh track. Even at the end, she was tickled by my efforts, my pathetic pleas, the clown trying to walk up a wall on roller skates. She didn't want it to be over; she was on my side, sort of. It had irritated me, at the end, her amusement, because I wasn't trying to amuse anyone. I felt like Dick Shawn, putting on a show, entertaining, anything for a laugh, then crashing to the floor and dying of a heart attack to a standing O.

“So have you seen any big stars?”

“Met with Jerry Seinfeld today,” I said.

“Great.”

She didn't ask any follow-up questions, which made me think she didn't believe it.

“I'm not kidding.”

“I believe you, Henry. If anyone could meet him, it's you. What's he like?”

“He's okay. Kind of quiet actually.”

“But he's nice, huh?”

“Well, you know, he's not exactly like you and me, but he's a star, what do you expect?”

“Huh. Yeah.”

“So how've you been, Maura?”

“I've been good. You know, lot of work.”

I sighed. “And how's she doing?”

“Okay, Henry. She's doing okay.”

“Mm.”

“But she's not here.”

I could see Amanda back there, waving her hands, forcing Maura to lie.

“Okay … well … do you expect her back soon?”

“Well, no, not real soon.”

“She out for the night already?”

“Actually, she's out of town.”

“Work?”

“Vacay.”

“Oh, I didn't know. I guess I wouldn't.”

I tried to make this sound somehow humorous, which it wasn't.

“So I'll tell her you called.”

“Wait a second. When's she getting back? Where is she?”

“She'll be back in about a week.”

“Where'd she go?”

“Took off somewhere. She's all over the place.”

More bullshit.

“Look, Maura, you're my friend. Tell me the truth. Is she standing right behind you?”

“What?”

“Is she dodging my call?”

“Jesus, Henry, no! What do you think I am? What do you think … ?”

“I'm sorry, it just sounds fishy.”

“I
am
your friend, Henry. How long have you known me? Why would I lie to you? Jesus, I'm not like that. Give me a little credit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's just … This isn't a war. I don't take sides. I wish you guys had stayed together. I loved you guys together.”

“I know. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“And I'll tell you something else. Mandy would never ask me to lie to you.
She
would never lie to you.”

This was true. What was wrong with me? She'd broken my heart, but she'd done it in a very up-front way. As honest as a bullet, as cold as a refrigerator. I'd called her “Amana” at the end.

“I know, I know, I'm just … the whole thing … I'm just confused. You seemed to … I don't know …”

“She's in California.”

Mixed emotions. Great! No, wait.
Horrible.
What? You mean? Why did … n't she … ?

“Since when?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday? This was Wednesday, meaning four days. What? Maybe she didn't have my number, maybe it wasn't listed. Of course it was listed, a fucking figure skater from New Jersey had tracked me down, why couldn't she?

“She's in California,” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

Maura sounded like I felt, which was nice of her.

I sucked it up and said, “Is she in L.A.?”

“No, she hasn't been in Los Angeles, that I know.” She delivered this firmly, trying to protect me or Amanda, I couldn't tell which. Then she said, “She's in Malibu.”

“What?
Where the fuck do you think Malibu is? Malibu
is
L.A.”

Maura stumbled for a moment and said, “Maybe it's not Malibu. It's up the West Coast Highway somewhere.”

“Pacific
Coast Highway—that's where Malibu is!”

I don't know why I was blaming Maura and I could hear her having a hard time with all this, so I calmed myself and said, “Where is she staying? I'll see if she wants to have lunch with me at the studio.”

This studio reference was shameful and we both knew it.

“There's no way to reach her. She's camping out.”

“She's what?”

“Camping.”

“Camping?
What, is she having a nervous breakdown? She doesn't
camp.
And why the hell does she have to camp out in California? She couldn't camp out in fucking Florida? She couldn't go to New Hampshire and camp out? What, is she trying to make me crazy? I knew she was here. I could sense it, that must be why I called.”

“She didn't want to go to California, Henry. She knew it would hurt you if you knew, but that's where … he wanted to go.”

“He?”

“Yeah. Um … yeah.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

“She just started going out with him. They met on St. Paddy's Day.”

“And already they take trips?”

“I don't know. I guess they just … clicked.” Ten seconds of dead air. Felt like ten minutes. 'That's funny. I met someone on St. Paddy's Day.” “Really? Well, that's good. Look, I just didn't want you to think she lied to you.”

“Yeah, well … Is he, um … Does he live in Malibu?”

“No, no, he went to grad school there. He lives here.”

“So I guess we won't be having lunch.”

“Mm. Yeah. No.”

I made a tick-tock sound with my tongue.

“Hey, do me a favor, huh?” I said. “Don't tell her I called.”

Maura started to say something, but I was gone.

I was awakened many spring and summer mornings by a neighbor's lawnmower or a barking dog or the distant echo of hammering, backhoes, and electric saws as one of our plat's new homes was being constructed plank by plank. Although it was very early and I was tired, an anxious, lonely feeling would chase me outdoors without stopping to brush my teeth, or flip on cartoons, or fill my stomach with sugary cereal. The sensation was of the world passing me by, of life and fun going on without me, and, even though I knew that my family and friends and most of the town were fast asleep, it was a feeling of being left out.

This sensation had long ago been dealt with and conquered.

Which recalls one of life's ironies. As a kid, you get up before your parents and they beg you to go back to bed, then as a teenager you want to sleep until two and you've got your old lady banging your feet with a flyswatter or vacuuming against your door. Mom
and Dad, they'd be bursting with pride today. Here I was, on the brink of middle age, one eye stuffed into my pillow, the other staring at the bluish-white universe, my dick cemented to my underwear and a crisp wad of tissue on the nightstand next to a clock that read 3:20 in the afternoon. From my bed I could hear cars whizzing by, an occasional horn, a radio down the hall, somebody's voice trailing off in a passing vehicle. A lot of people had been at it for eight or nine hours. Somebody was having the best day of their life. When my father was my age, he had a wife, five kids, two homes, a successful medical practice, and a seven handicap. Where the hell did he find the time for a seven handicap?

I got up at four and, though it was twelve and a half hours since I'd gone to sleep, I was still tired. I didn't exactly want to go back to bed, but I had to sit down. This was a deep, unprecedented fatigue; a fog around my every organ. From the toilet seat I worked on my teeth, then leaned over and washed my face. I didn't shower. A half hour later—after aimlessly opening cupboards, staring at the floor, scratching different parts of myself—I started to read. At six o'clock I started writing. Somewhere in there I downed a couple bowls of Cracklin' Oat Bran. Now it was dark and I was starved. Cracklin' Oat Bran lasts about ten minutes with me: the Chinese food of breakfast cereals.

At ten o'clock I went outdoors for the first time. Carl's Market was closed and Hughes was too imposing. I wanted in-and-out, ready-to-eat food, few decisions. Everything good and cheap was closed, so I resorted to bad and overpriced. A garishly lit 7-Eleven on La Cienega. I nuked an orange hot dog, poured fake orange cheese on round orange nachos, grabbed a lukewarm soda out of the cooler, and now I waited in line beside a stack of Styrofoam ice chests, staring at the linoleum floor. I was having a hard time looking
the 7-Eleven guy in the eye. He was an achiever. Suddenly Death was standing beside me. He was holding a pack of Evereadys, clicking his skates, and humming a song, or maybe singing, I wasn't sure, and in the middle of it he asked how I was doing without missing a beat. I broke out in a sweat, felt irrationally embarrassed.

“Good.”

This was the first word I'd uttered in more than a day, and it sounded like it. The clerk was in slow motion. I felt like dropping everything and running. I looked down, felt the dark skater's gaze on me.

“I'm fine, too,” he said.

Now he had me. I was forced to peek into the cowl, look him in the eye. His face was thin and white with a scruffy reddish beard covering a Muskovy duck complexion.

“Good,” I said again, this time with a smile.

The clerk was really picking his ass now. When he finally got to me, I gave him five dollars on four ninety-one and told him to keep the change, which made me feel creepy on several levels, and I scurried outside to my car. The clerk was an insidious motherfucker and he rang up Darth Vader in about three seconds and before I could back out of the parking lot he was skating around my car, blocking me in, rejoicing in the reprimand he'd just served me. I waited it out and he eventually lost interest, allowing me to peel away.

After all the orange food, I felt a little better. It was unbelievable that she was here. Camping. I pictured her with a Mountain Dew guy in bike shorts with muscular tanned thighs and an extreme-sport attitude—a Dartmouth guy—jumping out of fucking airplanes with surfboards strapped to his feet, riding his mountain bike in the Santa Monica Mountains, bungeeing off magnificent
cliffs. The California they knew was spectacular, twenty miles and a million light-years from the loveless shithole I was brooding in. Maura said they had
clicked.
What a mean thing to say. It reeked of laughter. Time would tell if they'd really clicked, I knew that. It's a lot easier to slip into oversized shoes than ones that fit just right, but let her try walking around in them for a while.

An ad on the radio: “Are you feeling strange?” a man asked somberly. “Does your heart palpitate?” I sat up. “Do your palms get inordinately sweaty? Do you sometimes feel faint or light-headed?”

It was me he was describing, it was me to the T. I turned up the volume.

“If you have two or more of these symptoms, you have …
Del Mar fever!
Come to the track this Saturday and watch the horses run!

I wrote until five in the morning, then forced myself into bed. I watched the sky lighten, heard a few doors slam out in the hallway, footsteps, car engines turning over. I tried to sleep, but my whole body itched and my legs ached like a kid with growing pains. I wondered what that was all about.

every day of your life? I do. Which puts a damper on things. The problem is, Fve seen death in action, I know how it works. It's a sneaky motherfucker. It shows up at the company softball game, at the beach on a sunny day, when you're making love to your wife. My girlfriend Grace was coming home from a Christmas party in her new red dress when it came for her. This girl had more life in her than anyone I ever knew, and the
driver cracked a joke, she clapped her hands and leaned back, the door swung open, and she literally died laughing.

Aside from expecting to die any minute, I'd always considered myself a pretty normal guy. I liked animals and had lots of friends growing up. I liked girls. Sports, too. High school had been fun, and I lost my virginity pleasantly, if not memorably. I'd never been a loner or a security guard. Suicide had never occurred to me. I'd never chopped up a rabbit with my babysitter or sucked off a scout leader.