The Comedy Writer (35 page)

Bowman showed up a half hour late and immediately started reciting a kind of company riot act to me.

“If you want to work for me, the first thing you gotta do is get rid of any literary aspirations. You don't have any literary aspirations, do you?”

…No way.”

When Bowman gazed at me cockeyed, I raised my right hand. “I swear on the soul of Jackie Collins.”

“I didn't think so. I read a little of
How to Get Her Back
last night.”

“How I Won Her Back.”

“Mixed reviews. When you're good, you're great, but when you're bad, you're grating.”

'That's a first draft. I'm rewriting it.”

“Point is, this ain't the fucking great American novel, it's just plain ol' movies and nothing else—that's rule number one. The second thing you gotta do is get rid of every selfish bone in your body. You're not gonna get your way around here, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”

Bowman picked his nose while he said this, but I didn't look away.

“Nothing makes sense in Hollywood,” he said, “so if you're right, you're wrong, and if you try to win, you lose, and if you've got talent, you better hope I don't notice.” Someone caught Bowman's eye and he waved the booger at him. “Because I'm not looking for talent, I'm looking for
craft
—there's a big difference. Just do what I say, give me what I want, and you'll be okay.”

“Talent's not going to be a problem,” I said, but he didn't smile.

“Let me tell you something. Guys without an ounce of talent can work for thirty years in this town, while the talented ones who want to do their own thing never find a job. It's true. Look it up.”

“I believe you. Hemingway and Faulkner, right?”

Bowman had a perpetual stuffed-up nose, so he chewed with his mouth open—it sounded as if he was chomping on shaved ice. I wondered if this was part of his act, this piggish fuck-you-I'll-pick-my-nose-and-eat-like-Belushi-anytime-I-want stuff. Maybe the clogged schnoz was from too much blow. Maybe he didn't even know he was doing it. Maybe he knew but was ingenuously carefree about it—it was just him, he was a nose picker, maybe his ancestors were nose pickers.

We talked about
Ice Cream Man
some, and I told him how inspired I was and it was going way better than I could've imagined, and could he possibly lean on the business affairs people so I might get paid soon.

“You strapped for cash?”

“No, I'm fine. Just … if you could hurry them along.”

“If you're in trouble, tell me. I'll have them cut you an advance today.”

“No, it's nothing like that, but thank you, that's very nice.”

“By the way, they were trying to pork you, but I took care of it.”

“Thanks.” Then: “Hm?”

“Business affairs—they were going to stick it to you.”

“How? How so?”

“The little pricks were talking WGA minimum, but I got you a C-note.”

I tilted my head imperceptibly.

“Hundred grand,” he said.

I was floundering in a crosscurrent of emotions when Bowman said, “You know, I've got to fight this fucker who clobbered me the other day.”

“You … you got me a hun … ? Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You see, the guy's fucking lying and I need you to back me up.”

“Ah, the whole thing was stupid,” I said. “But what can you do?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Fucking idiot.”

I gestured obliquely.

“So you're gonna help me out, right? Tell my guys what you saw?”

“Tell who?”

“My lawyers. Tell them what happened.”

I positioned myself for an end around.

“You know how many accidents I've had in my life?” I said. “I can't count them all.”

The man who had arranged for a low-life hamburg flipper to receive a tenth of a million dollars for two months' work looked at me with his drippy, been-there-and-back eyes and I so wanted to please him.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” I said. “It's no big deal.”

“It
is
a big deal—but luckily I have you.”

“What's the guy gonna do? He's probably not even legal.”

“He
is
fucking legal, and the lying fuck says it was my fault, and he had five fucking witnesses in the car with him, and I ain't fucking paying.”

This profusion of “fucks” threw me and, being a weakling around aggression, I wanted to placate him. I started calculating how much the repairs would cost, plus the personal damages, and I considered having him deduct it from my check, but of course I wasn't considering it too seriously.

“Well, you shouldn't have to pay,” I said. “That's why you have an insurance company.”

“You're not reading me. I'm not letting this go on my record, especially since I have you as my witness.”

“I don't think it'll affect your insurance or your record either way. They let you have an accident now and then.”

His eyes told me to shut up.

“You might lose the deductible,” I conceded.

“Henry, I'm a millionaire many times over. This isn't about money, it's about right and wrong. I'm right, and you're going to help me prove it.”

When I didn't respond in a gung-ho manner, he said, “Right?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“What the hell does that mean?
'Sure, whatever.'
You sound like a
90210
pansy. Come on, you're with me or you're not. Which one is it?”

“I'm with you, I'm with you.”

“Good.”

“But, uh, to be honest, Ted, I'm not exactly sure what I saw.”

Bowman raised his chin as if recognizing something unpleasant in my character.

'There were cars in front of me and I had the radio on and then I heard a crash and … I got out of my car to make sure everyone was okay.”

“So you're
not
with me.”

“No, no. I'm just saying …”

“What? You're saying what?”

“Well, you know, the whole thing was so fast …”

“You mean you didn't see nothing?”

“Not really.”

He poured a glass of mineral water, drank it slowly.

“Why did you tell me you were going to be my witness?”

“Uh, I think I said—”

“Don't tell me what you said. Right after the accident, you came running over and you said, and I quote, saw everything, Ted, I'll be your fucking witness,' and now you're screwing me. What is wrong with you? Are you a fucking stoner or something?”

“I mean, I saw you pass—I didn't know it was you, of course— and I saw that you were hanging a right and then …”

“And then … ?”

“And then I heard the accident.”

“And then he hit me from behind.”

I shrugged.

“And then he hit me from behind.”

I nodded.

“And then he hit me from behind.
I want to hear you say it.”

“Then he hit you from behind.”

“So what didn't you see?”

“No … I guess, you know …”

“Good. Now come to my office Monday at ten and tell my lawyer that exact story' “Ten o'clock.” “And I'll make sure they have your check waiting, too.”

when I walked into the apartment. A moment later Doheny marched out and said, “I'm sorry, Monkey. Fm sorry I made fun of your little story last night.”

“Forget about it.”

“No, I shouldn't have made fun. No matter what I felt, it was important to you—not telling the girl that you liked her—and I should've respected that.”

“It's okay.”

I threw my hat on the table, saw the two empty wine bottles.

She hooked her finger in her mouth. “You're not mad?”

“No. No big deal.”

“Good.”

“I see you found my little stash.”

“Yeah.”

“Dusted 'em both?”

Doheny approached me smiling,
leering
actually.

“Mm-mm.”

I shot past her into the kitchenette. I opened the fridge and then she was behind me—right behind me.

“Henry …”

I wanted space between us, but she had me blocked in.

“Yeah?”

“Let's fuck.”

“Oh, I don't think now … I have work … and everything. How about later? Yeah”

She put her arms around my neck, rested her forehead on my chin; her hair smelled like hair, not shampoo. I was frozen for a moment and then she looked at me with those big, brown, lopsided doe eyes, her breath reeking like a bar towel on St. Paddy's Day, and she said, 'Til suck you off if you want.”

“You don't have to.”

“Yes, I do,” and she went for the zipper.

I slithered away.

“What?”
she whined.

“What what?”

“S'matter?”

“Nothing's the matter. What's the matter with you?”

I picked up a few newspapers, stretched out some dirty socks, anything to keep from looking her way.

“I want to blow you.”

Never could I imagine those five words upsetting me so.

“Nah, uh-uh, my neck.”

“Oh, but you could play b-ball with
Cheers'

“I also have a bladder infection.”

“What?”

“It hurts when I piss.”

“Henry, the infection you have is called fear of being close to someone.”

She tried to kiss me; again I moved away. My stomach was suddenly churning, so I sat on the toilet for an hour, editing. I was done dumping in five minutes, but I was comfortable and cherished the isolation and when I finally stood up, both my feet were asleep. I took a shower, shaved, flossed, brushed my teeth,
clipped my nails and nose hairs, plunged out my ears. When I finally returned, she was waiting for me in her panties, and that's all.

“S'matter?” she whined with her little Bardot finger hooked in her soup coolers.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “but I have to work.”

I sat at my desk, opened a notebook. Doheny came up behind me, licked my neck.

“Come on,” I said.

“Where we going?”

“Good one.”

I brushed her away.

“S'matter?”

“I can't work when I'm being touched.”

She flopped back on the bed, making as much commotion as possible, as if she were covered with bugs. She rambled on in a stream of unconciousness, but I kept editing, refusing to listen. She opened a bag of potato chips, pulled a chair up beside me.

“Are you gay, Henry?”

“Yes, I'm gay.”

“Yeah, right. That's why you got all the pictures of your so-called girlfriend.”

“She was a guy.”

When Doheny started to speak again, I cut her off. “Look, I'm not into volleying with you today. Now, it has nothing to do with you, Colleen—
Ooheny
—but I just don't want to fool around right now, okay? It'll put me to sleep and I won't work.”

She sneered. “Not too cocky, are we?”

She stuck her index finger between her cheek and gums and carved out a wedge of potato chip gunk.

“But you'd like to fuck me, other than that?”

“Other than what?”

“Other than you just wanting to write and all that hullabaloo?”

I poured a glass of tap water out of the bathroom faucet; it tasted like a pencil.

“Yes,” I said. “Sure. I guess. And the bladder infection.”

“Can I at least tell you what we'd do if we did have sex?”

“That's okay. I have a pretty good idea.”

“No, it'd be different this time. You know what I want?”

“No,” I said and I sat back down.

“I want you to fuck me in the ass.”

“Oh, no, I don't think so.”

“Don't be a priss.”

“Uh-uh. I'm not … that's not … I have to be …”

“Come on, Henry, I love it up the ass, it turns me on. I've always been really anal, remember?”

“Why don't you just scrub the kitchen floors a couple times and fold all our underwear.”

“I know you want it, Catholic boy. I know you want to fuck me up the pooper. You'd probably like to do it with that crucifix, wouldn't you?”

I prayed to God to forgive her for saying it and forgive me for imagining it.

“You'd like to do that, wouldn't you?” she said.

“Cut it out. I don't want to hear this shit.”

“When I first met Honus, he used to stick pepperonis in condoms and jam 'em up my ass.”

“What a delightful courtship.”

“I'm a dirty girl, aren't I?”

“Yes, you are. Excuse me.”

I walked across the street to Silverman's place. He was lifting weights in his living room. I filled him in on the last two days. The deal, the accident, Woody and Cliff and Norm, the threats, my nympho roommate with the big muff.

“She wanted you to plant one in her can?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you, a fag?
Do it.”

“Let's take a road trip.”

“I don't get you sometimes.”

“I'm disgusted by her.”

“It can't be that bad. You fucked her before, didn't you?”

“She's got pussy hair on her back.”

“That's called
back hair”

“Not with her, it ain't. It's all pussy.”

“I'd like to see that.”

“You would, huh? A treasure trail that goes above her belly button?”

“You never heard of a razor?”

“You don't clear the rain forest with a Weedwacker. Come on, what are you doing this weekend?”

“No plans.”

And we were on our way.

to drive to Palm Springs. I told Silverman I'd pay for the gas and hotel room; we'd call our debt even. The first sixty miles was knotted with overpasses and commerce: Dennys, Carl Jr.s, 7-Eleven, In-and-Out Burger, a long stretch of auto dealers in “The Car Buying Town of West Covina.”