The Comedy Writer (33 page)

For five days I'd managed to avoid a reprise of our tryst by whining about my stiff neck each time Doheny smiled my way. This excuse was growing thin and my neck was really starting to feel funny for holding it so stiffly, and Doheny was antsy as hell. She'd become very possessive and, each time I left the premises, begged to come along. She said she'd learn the writing business better if she could sit in on a couple meetings, but there was no way. Business was business, it wasn't philanthropy, which was the heading she fell under. However, on the day of my twelve-thirty Bowman meeting, I was starved, so I made an exception and brought her along, so she could pick up food while I met with him.

On the way there, we passed a fat man on a bicycle and Doheny called out, “Nice butt, pork boy!”

I shot her a look and she giggled.

“Did you ever think that we could be soul mates?”

“Nope,” I said.

“I think we are. I think this is all meant to be. I think we really are soul mates.”

She sat up and hooted at two bikers parked on Melrose.

I said, “That's really, really annoying.”

“Oh, Monkey, lighten up. Just because I'm on a diet—”

“You're not on a diet. You can eat whatever the hell you want.”

She took my hand.

“Would you relax? I wish you could hear yourself sometimes, you sound like a guinea, getting all worked up. I don't even like bikers.”

I gave her twenty bucks, dropped her off at Astro Burger. I asked her to order me a veggie burger, a large Sprite, rice pudding, and whatever she wanted for herself. She was then to walk
a block to the studio and wait for me at my car. She asked why she couldn't just keep the car and pick me up and I kind of chuckled and she got out.

“So what have you got for me? You crack this thing?”

I'd just been served my Pellegrino and Sony a was heading out of the room.

“You stay!” Bowman snapped and she slid onto the fat arm of a leather chair without missing a beat.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “but first I'm going to run something else by you.”

“Another story? I don't want to hear another story. That
Planet of the Apes
thing you told me shit the house.”

I laughed good-naturedly. “This one's better. In fact, there's already a couple places that want to do it, but I want to do it with you.”

“Not interested. Give me your take on my story.”

“Think of all the movies they've done about Vietnam:
Platoon; Full Metal Jacket; Born on the Fourth of July; Good Morning, Vietnam;
on and on, and practically every one a success. But what about the guys who didn't go to 'Nam? What about the guys who went to Canada?”

“I don't want to do a war movie. I'm more Middle America than that.”

“A lot of Middle Americans went to Canada, Ted. Kent State was in Middle America.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, this isn't a war movie, it's an
Ottawa
movie. It's about the guys who
ran
from the war.”

“No.”

“Some of them had legitimate reasons for running, some not— either way they ended up in a country that looked down on them as cowards and losers.”

“No.”

“It's a comedy about stoners and hippies and conscientious objectors who clash with a bunch of straight-ass, hockey-playin', lumberjackin' moose hunters.”

No.”

“They're in their own little war up there. They get to the point where they're like, Throw me in a rice paddy, this is hell.' And what happens, of course, is that something happens and these guys end up bonding with the Canadians and fighting a battle
up there.
I don't know, maybe it's a battle with a lumber company or the acid rain people—whatever it is, it's a battle they believe in—”

“Look, forget it. I'm not interested in a war comedy. Let the other studios buy it. Make a fool out of me.”

“Don't forget, was a war comedy—”

“NO!
Now tell me the truth, have you figured out who my serial killer is or not?”

Suddenly my back started itching. He was pissed and I had nothing. I was facing Roger Clemens with a Wiffle ball bat and no helmet.

“What do you mean, who he is?” I said. “You mean, what actor?”

“I mean,
who is he?
What the hell is he like? How would a serial killer act on a first date?”

“Right,” Sonya said.

“What do you mean, 'Right'? I'm not looking for 'right.' I'm looking for the answer.” He glared at her and in a high voice mimicked,
‘“Right.”’

I scratched my face, prayed for inspiration,
“How would this man behave?”
he said. “Would he be shy? Aggressive? Would he be outgoing or uptight? Would he take her to a play or a strip club? Would he bang her in his car or leave her at her front door with a handshake?”

I took a deep breath and said, “Well, it matters who he is. Not all serial killers are the same. Look at Charlie Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer—same profession, complete opposites.”

“But a serial killer who could fall in love—what would
he
be like?”

More face-scratching. “Let me write you a treatment on the Ottawa movie. It's called
Canada Goose
, because the whole experience kind of gooses these guys into—”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

Bowman stood and pointed at the door like we were in a
Lucy
episode and he was Mr. Mooney.

“All right, all right, forget it.”

“IVe had it with you. You're wasting my time. You're a fucking bullshitter, you know that? I don't know what I'm doing here with you.

“Okay, okay, all right. I gather you're just interested in the serial killer story.”

“A piercing analysis of the obvious.”

“Okay. It's not all worked out, but I'll tell you what I got.”

“Right now. No more horseshit.
Now.
You got thirty seconds.”

“Your serial killer …”I said, and right then it popped into my head “… is an ice cream man.”

Ted Bowman didn't move a muscle, but I could see the wheels turning.

“You see, ice cream men are lovable and trusted by all and that's how he can kill so easily yet get some girl to fall in love with him.”

The producer sat down, then started up again, but he got only halfway and froze in an awkward crouch. I almost had him again, I knew, he was right there, I just had to nudge him over the edge.

“We'll call it
Ice Cream Man'
I said, “and the tag line is … 'No More Mr. Softee.' “

while Sonya was calling business affairs, I stopped to thank each of Bowman's employees for their invaluable assistance. The glass of water, the parking pass at the gate, the nod toward the waiting room sofa; each had played a small part in my triumph. I shook their hands, asked their names, then remembered them a minute later when I departed a room full of bemused faces. Out in the hall, I wanted to scream out my happiness, but that would be too theatrical, relegating my life to a beer commercial, so I just walked at a jaunty clip, emitting a giggly hum and throwing each soul I passed an exuberant “Hello!”, along with a glimpse of my wisdom teeth. I was beaming, ecstatic, walking on air, any happy cliche you can think of. I felt the presence of God, a goodness in the world, a confirmation that hard work and dedication eventually pays off.

With tears in my eyes and a crack in my voice, I phoned home. It was the first time I'd told my father I'd become a writer, but of course he knew, which was funny and embarrassing, and he repeated everything I told him verbatim to my mother. They were
thrilled and wanted to know who would be in this ice cream movie. It was too early for that, way too early, which confused them and tempered their joy.

Levine was next and was reluctant to get too excited, but I could hear the pride in his voice, like a dad watching his kid nail a two-wheeler for the first time. I was happy to live up to his faith in me, and I felt love for Levine, my lone supporter, and I vowed right then to never ankle his little agency, no matter how big and famous I became. Furthermore, when I started my own production company, he would run it!

Doheny was waiting in the parking lot with a Big Mac and three McCookies (“Astro Burger was all black people, so I got scared and left”) but even she couldn't bring me down. I saw her suddenly as my godsend, my little distraction, the good karma girl. I smiled and calmly told her what had happened and as I walked around the car she blindsided me and the momentum sent me spinning with her on my back and the two of us were suddenly laughing and anyone watching would've thought we were young newlyweds and I'd just gotten the big break that would afford us to start working on the small fries we so wanted.

I wasn't ready to leave the studio lot just yet; this was
my
lot now, I wanted to get aquainted, to be part of it, to feel the magic. As we strolled past an enormous matte of blue sky in the parking lot, Doheny took my hand, which I shook off once and then surrendered to. I wondered what great movies this heavenly board had shined down upon. Farther on, we discovered a playground tucked inside a row of hedges and a giant soundstage with flashing red lights outside. We passed the
Entertainment Tonight
offices and
The Arsenio Hall Show
and
Wings.
A female page in a blue NBC blazer led a small group of starry-eyed tourists past us. I gave them another
grand “Hello!” and they watched us walk away, probably wondering who we were to be so comfortable in such a setting.

We came around a corner and Raquel Welch was doing a scene. Wow, I thought, a big movie star, though for the life of me I couldn't remember one film she'd been in. We watched her do her stuff, and after each take a team of makeup people would descend upon her like a pit crew at Indy. A Porsche drove past with Henry Winkler at the wheel and I gave him a big Fonzee “Yo!” with the thumbs up and then some punk kid carrying a walkie-talkie asked us to move away from Raquel's set.

A ways down we entered a vacant soundstage and walked among the lumber, marveling at the tons of lighting equipment high on the ceiling. I felt nervous about being there and then I remembered I was an employee of Paramount Pictures. No more parking at Taco Bells, no slinking past security guards. They would come to know my name, these security people. I'd learn their names, too, treat them as friends, give them a bottle each holiday season. Maybe I'd even ask a couple of them up to the golf course. Bel Air—that would be my club. And if the stuffed shirts who run that hallowed track gave me any guff about bringing these blue-collar cronies who wore shorts, sneakers, and shirts without collars, well, I'd quit the damn place and go over to the Riv.

I rounded a corner and—what was this?—half the
Cheers
cast shooting hoops in an alley. I stood for a moment and savored it. What a sight: Woody, Norm, and Cliff, three icons from the premiere American sitcom of the eighties, playing a pickup game like a bunch of normal Joes, and me privy to it. George Wendt put his hands on his knees, glanced my way. We'd been nabbed, we had to go, he looked pissed, he said, “You wanna be our fourth?” A flash of terror—my heart, I could die out there, Pete Maravich city, on
the day of my big break. The hell with it, I thought, I couldn't pass this up. I threw down my pad and got in the game. It was only half-court, I reasoned, and even if I did expire, what a story it would make for my friends and family. What a wake!

We played for about twenty minutes while Doheny rooted us on, and my defense was pathetic—my back, I told them—but I was dogging it to save my life. I nailed a couple twenty-five-footers, however, and George Wendt and I were high-fiving. And there was George spinning to the hoop (he was very smooth for a guy so big) and Woody and John Ratzenberger talking trash. We beat them best of three and as these famous men headed back to work, they all nodded at me and I was certain my life had changed forever because now I was a real Hollywood screenwriter. I had a development deal at a major studio! I was
in!

At the entrance to Paramount Pictures there is a gate and beyond that a traffic light. I was waiting behind a couple cars, just inside the gate, about to go home, daydreaming about my good fortune, almost oblivious to the new song every five seconds as Doheny held her finger on the scan button. Gradually I became aware of an insistent horn a few vehicles back. A Rolls-Royce. The impatient honker expected the lead car to go right on red, but I could see that our leader had his left blinker on. Suddenly the Rolls sped by on the left and hung a right around the front car without ever hitting his brakes and there was a tremendous crash as a Dodge Dart spanked into the left side of his trunk.

It was obvious who the asshole was and I'd seen the whole thing, so I climbed out my car window to serve as a witness for the Dodge Dart. As I ran to the accident scene, the other vehicles drove
off with little more than a rubber neck and so I was left standing there by myself, the lone witness, as an irate Ted Bowman climbed out of the brown British sedan swearing to himself. He stormed past me to the driver's side of the Dart and said, “You fuck! Do you have any idea what you just did?!”