Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler Page A

asked.
    “And what?” I asked.
    “Well, did you discuss the movie at all?” he asked me.
    “No, Dave, as a matter of fact, we didn’t. And you could have mentioned his hair.”
    “I think he’s pretty cool,” he responded. “He actually just wrote a movie for a client of mine and he’s a real stand-up guy. He’s the type of guy I would like to see you end up with.”
    “Really?” I asked. “He’s the type of guy you’d like me to end up with? An orange-head?”
    “He’s really smart, Chelsea. I think he went to Stanford,” Dave said.
    This statement turned me on the most because I was definitely at a place in my life where brains were starting to matter. There are only so many conversations you can have about NASCAR and female mud wrestling before your mind starts playing tricks on you.
    “Well, who knows if he’ll even ask me out?” I said coyly.
    “Chels, I got another call,” he said. “Is there anything else?”
    Not exactly the response I was looking for.
    “Thanks for nothing,” I said, and hung up.
    I wondered how long I would have to wait for Big Red to call me.
    I rolled over and picked an Us Weekly magazine off the floor. The cover had a picture of Angelina, Brad, and their little Eskimo son, Maddox. I sat staring at the photo, wondering why this little guy looks so pissed off in every picture.
    At first I thought he was just pissed about his mohawk, but then I realized he’s probably furious. Maddox must have thought he hit the jackpot when some A-list celebrity rescued him from third-world Cambodia, only to discover that she was going to shuffle him back and forth to every other third-world country in the universe. He’s probably like, “When the fuck are we gonna get to Malibu, bitch?”
    My phone rang and I jumped out of my chair with an alacrity my body hadn’t seen since a tetherball class I had taken in the fall of ’94. Unfortunately, the number that came up was Darryl’s, the guy I happened to be sleeping with who lived down the hall. He was going away for a few weeks to shoot a movie with Hulk Hogan, and was calling to ask if I would pet-sit his goldfish while he was away.
    “You mean you’re not bringing him with you?” I asked.
    “It’s actually a girl,” he said.
    “Oh. Yeah, I guess I can watch her.”
    He hung up, came over, dropped off a key, and told me where the fish food was. Why anyone without children would have a fish was beyond me, but what’s even more alarming was that Darryl’s fish’s name was Maude. I had learned this information once before, but somehow had managed to block it out.
    Then he asked me if I wanted to come over and play Ms. Pac-Man. He had one of the real arcade versions in his apartment.
    “Sure,” I said. “Maybe we can use this opportunity for Maude to really get comfortable with me,” I told him. I knew Ms. Pac-Man was code for getting naked in the middle of the afternoon, but the only thing on my calendar that day was an appointment with a palm reader, which wasn’t until 5 p.m.
    Darryl and I had a blast together. We’d have crazy rabbitlike make-out sessions, and then I’d make fun of him for his receding hairline. Darryl was the epitome of a Hollywood actor—he had been in a ton of B-movies and was absolutely, madly in love with himself. It was fine, because he knew he was ridiculous, and we would actually have a lot of laughs making fun of him together. He would stand naked and recite monologues to me, all the while asking me to confirm his suspicion that he was one of the most underrated actors working. I would tell him again and again that if he would just consider getting hair plugs, he would get the recognition he deserved.
    Two days later in Darryl’s apartment, while feeding Maude, my cell phone rang and it was Big Red.
    We chitchatted for a minute or two before he asked me if I was happy to hear from him.
    “I guess,” I responded dryly, not really sure how one responded to that line of questioning.
    “Try