The Comedy Writer (38 page)

A few vehicles whizzed by. Then: “So when an opportunity comes, well … yeah … they can suck my dick.” He turned away and leaned against the car. “But I'm not … what you think.”

I saw the wrecker approaching with his blinker on, and I said, “Herb, you're missing the point. I never thought you were gay.” I
picked up a rock, fired it at a paper bag. “I wouldn't be so bothered if you were”

there were no palm trees. It was and is a desert, but white men stuck full-grown palms in the sand like flags declaring that this was their country, a place of limitless hope, a land without winter, and it was these palm trees, this promise of warmth and fun and sex, that had swayed in my and millions of other minds as we trekked happily westward toward our ruination. I passed a lot of palms on the drive from Palm Springs to Paramount, but they were listless, shark-colored nothings with razor-sharp mop-tops sagging down like a row of dead Beatles. The infatuation was over; reality had set in like a 7 A.M. pussy fart. I knew the truth now: Rats lived in the palm trees.

“Ted, with all due respect, I'm not a good witness for your insurance thing.”

It was quarter of ten. I'd showed up early, before the lawyers.

“Why not?”

“Because … well, honestly, I saw it a little different than you.”

“How so?”

“I thought I saw you run the red light.”

“Yeah?”

“Well … that wouldn't be a good thing for me to tell them.”

“I went right on red, that's legal. If the fuck hadn't been speeding, he wouldn't have clipped me.”

I wanted to believe this, it was an out.

“Halloran, Jesus, you're a writer, come on. It's jusw about putting the right spin on what happened. You saw me go right on red, no?”

“Uh, yeah.”

'Then that's what you say. I do the rest. Man, you gotta know how to shine a positive light on yourself sometimes.”

I sipped my water, fought the urge to agree.

“Give you an example,” he said. “I was married for a while to my college sweetheart, then we went in turnaround. So a couple years ago I go to my twenty-year reunion. Everyone wants to know where Myrna is, they want to know what the hell went wrong. Know what I told 'em? I told 'em that
Annie
lasted seven years on Broadway. See what I'm saying? I'm saying that even good things have to come to an end. It's not that it was a bad marriage, it's just that its run was over. Hey, it swept the Tonys, it brought joy to millions, it got made into a bad movie. But then it's over.” He glanced out the window. “You make things palatable. You get by. Life is only as good as the spin you put on it.”

“But when you go right on red, you're supposed to stop first.”

“I did stop.”

“I don't think you did.”

“You say you don't
think
I did, but I
know
I did. So obviously you're wrong.”

“Well, no. Actually, I
know
you didn't stop.”

“So you're calling me a liar?”

“I think you probably think you stopped, I mean everything was happening so fast, but I watched the whole thing and I think, well, I
know
, that you didn't stop. In fact, you were the one who was speeding, not the other guy.”

Bowman turned his eyes to me and it was very imposing, that stare. Luckily, I'd been a U.S. Lines salesman and knew what it was like to have to keep eye contact with a guy when I was dead wrong, and here I was dead right.

Finally Bowman nodded and said, 'It's okay, I have other eyewitnesses. You weren't the only one.”

“Well … great.”

“Yeah.”

I didn't say anything, just held my breath.

“Now go.”

It's not that I hadn't considered this outcome—odds were a hundred to one in favor of it—but I'm an optimist, which is one reason I started writing, to improve on reality, and the right side of my brain had humored me all day with the prospect of a life-affirming, feel-good finale.

“What about
Ice Cream Man?”

“I'll have someone else write it.”

“But it's my story.”

“Fuck you. I've been working on that thing for years and everyone in town knows it. Just ask your agent.”

“Look, you're going to set yourself back six months, at least. I've already started this thing, I know it better than anyone, I could write this story in my sleep.”

He didn't blink.

“Ted, come on, I came up with the ice cream man part. That's mine.”

“You take the time to copyright it?”

“Of course. I wasn't about to pitch something without a copyright.”

“You're a liar.”

“I am not,” I lied again. “I copyrighted it months ago.”

“Then you'll have to sue me.”

I started to say something but managed only a few facial tics.

“Halloran, the idea of doing a serial killer love story was mine. You may have come up with the title, but you can't copyright a title. That means
Ice Cream Man
belongs to whoever comes out with it first. As for the story—if you recall, you never really told me one.”

“Exactly. And I happen to have a very good one. You should see my notes, you're not going to believe it.”

“I don't want to see your notes.”

“Come on, this is stupid. You're letting personal issues get in the way of good business.”

“You did this to yourself, man.”

I saw that wet smile again and I sweated and finally I managed to stand.

“Well, I guess you really are what you eat. Because you're a big dick.”

I didn't actually say this; I thought of it on the way home. I considered calling him back and saying it, but what would that do? He'd probably just use it in a script.

is what I felt like. He'd thought he'd had his big break once.
The Big Chill
They'd made the movie, he was one of the stars, it centered around his character's death, there'd been tons of flashbacks of him. But they'd cut him out. All that remained was Kevin Costner in a casket. That was me. Dead. Robbed. Screwed. Then I said fuck that. Costner had gotten another chance, and I would, too. I'd write
Ice Cream Man
on my own. It
was a slam dunk spec script, especially since I wouldn't have to tailor it to the lunatic's liking. He could go ahead and do his own thing, maybe he'd even get the title, but he couldn't steal what was inside my head, he couldn't steal my inspiration.

“Look, Doheny, I don't know how else to put this, but … we've got to break up.”

I could hardly believe the madness that was spilling off my tongue, but by giving in to her delusion that we were in fact “going out,” I hoped “breaking up” would allow us to complete the cycle, just like a real couple.

I was surprised by her reaction. Doheny looked genuinely hurt. This was good, she was taking me seriously.

“What are you saying?”

I avoided her shattered gaze. “I think we need time apart, you know, to sort things out.”

“No … no, we don't need time apart.”

“I've booked you a ticket. You're on a nonstopper into Newark—it leaves in two hours.”

She moved toward me, a layer of tears reflecting the television screen.

“You poor baby. You don't even know, do you?”

“I'm walking you to the gate. There's no more excuses, it's really over, Colleen. I want to end this on a good note, so please get your stuff together so we can go.”

I held my lips above her reach.

“Don't you see why you're doing this?”

“Well, yeah, actually, I do.”

“You're trying to break up with me before I break up with you.

Maybe it was an out. “Were you going to break up with me?”

'Of course not.”

“That's not why I was doing it.”

“Yes, it is, Hen. Don't you get it? You got fucked over by that bitch and you don't want to get hurt again, so now you're subconsciously sabotaging
our
relationship.” She waved a
Psychology Today
at me. “It's all in here, man. It's textbook.”

“I'm very conscious of my motivation here, Doheny. I'm sick of living in a fucking nuthouse.”

“I'm not going to leave you, Hen. You help me. I help you. We help each other.”

“That's bullshit. We don't help each other.”

“Oh, it's bull, is it?” She smiled. “Why don't you get your big producer on the phone, ask him if it's bull.”

“What?”

“The producer, Mr. Bowmark, he'll tell you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I helped you. He called on the phone and your machine answered—Saturday, in the morning—so I dug you out of your little mess is what I did.”

“You talked—you picked up the phone?”

She nodded.

“Colleen, what did you say?”

“Doheny.”

“Colleen, what the fuck did you say?”

“Don't get your pants on fire. I told him that you felt bad 'cause you weren't really paying attention in the car, but that
I
saw what happened.”

“And what was that?”

“I don't know, you know, whatever.”

“Tell me!”

“I said I saw the Cholo speeding along and then he slammed into him. I mean, it's true—that's what I heard anyway. So now he doesn't need you as a witness—you're off the hook!”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Henry …” In two octaves. “Henry, stop it. You don't mean that. I'm your soul mate.”

“What?” With a staccatolike giggle.

“Ym your soul mate.”

“Open your magazine and look up the word 'delusional.' “

“You don't know what you're doing! You don't know what the fuck you're doing!”

“Look,” I said on my way to the door, “I'm going across the street for a beer. Now, when I get back in ten minutes, I want you to have all your shit together because you really are going this time.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Oh, yeah.”

“If you walk out that door, you're making the biggest mistake of my life!'”

I took my hand off the knob.

“What? What did you just say?”

She stepped back, thrust her chin at me.

“What did you just say?” I repeated.

“You heard me.”

A ringing in my right ear, some internal teapot reaching a boil.

“Where did you … ?”

“Look, Henry, why don't you just go.”

I moved toward her. She looked nervous, aggressive.

“I did you a favor. I told Mr. Bowmark about all the great stuff you had.”

“Does he know … did you … about the notes?”

…Henry, would you relax? I helped you out. I mean, you should've heard him, he was laughing like a bastard. He didn't even know about half the stuff. I saved your white ass, Monkey!”

“You've been … in the fridge …”

“Yes, I've been in the fridge.”

“You gave him my—”

“What, now I can't go in the fridge again?!”

“But you gave him my—”

“You sound just like my goddamn mother. 'Stay out of the fridge, you're fat.' Yeah, well maybe that's why I got a fucking eating disorder now, because of assholes like you!”

That's when I slapped her.

“He's crazy! Help! He's crazy!”

I sat on the bed, horrified at what I'd just done.

She kept screaming. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

“Stop it,” I said.

“Please, somebody help me! He's crazy!”

“I hardly touched you.”

“For the sake of Pete, somebody!”

“Shut up!”

“No, I won't shut up.
Please! Somebody!”

I made a move toward her; she picked up a plastic knife off the table.

“Oh, Jesus,” I said. “Knock off the histrionics.”

“You get out of here, you!”

“You get out of here, you. I live here.”

“Help! He's trying to kill me!”

“You are a fucking nightmare.”

Somebody started banging on the door. When I glanced away, she stabbed me in the cheek. Luckily, the white plastic bent, but the blade's serration left me with a four-inch flesh wound, which didn't look so good when the cops arrived a hundred and fifty seconds later. We were outside by then. She'd run into the front yard to attract more attention and I'd followed to defend my name. All anyone saw, of course, was a screaming woman being followed by a bloody, guilty-looking man, and when the first frosting-headed cop arrived, I was actually glad to see him as it enabled me to step out of the prickly bird-of-paradise that two bat-wielding “heroes” had backed me into.