The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly

love her, too?”
    “Yup. Love my mom.”
    “That's unusual.”
    “Not where I come from.”
    A woman started to pull out in front of me, then hit her brakes at the same time I did.
    Colleen said, “Sounds like all-right parents. I like that. Good people make good people.
Go, you cunt!”
    The woman pulled away and I continued on.
    “They're pretty cool,” I said.
    I watched her light up. She took a hit and held it.
    “Ever do drugs with them?” she asked.
    “Not that cool'
    She held out the bone.
    “No thanks.”
    “Come on, it'll loosen you up.”
    I wondered if it was noticeable.
    “Do I seem stiff?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Just a bit.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Come on.”
    She put it in front of my face.
    “Yeah?”
    “You're getting all worked up about your meeting. This'll relax you.
    “You think?”
    “Sure.”
    I stared at the joint. Maybe she was right, I was too stiff. Maybe one little hit would be good. Maybe it would bring the soul to the surface, help us connect, me and the
LA. Times
woman. I leaned toward her fingers and inhaled.
    I ever heard of the Hard Rock Cafe. My friend Willy Bodalay had visited the original in London. At the time (early eighties) I pictured it as raucous, decadent, cutting edge. Maybe it was, back then, but no more. The place I stood in was a teenybopper fern bar full of Pepsi signs, Woodstock posters, gold records, and electric guitars on the wall. But no Janis Joplintypes. This crowd was mostly tourists with Hollywood signs and Marilyn on their T-shirts, and local girls in the thirteen-to-sixteen-year-old range carrying designer shopping bags and bitching about their mothers.
    After the joint, I'd needed a drink, so I'd come inside for a quickie. Colleen had run to the bathroom as soon as we entered, so I placed her vodka collins on an antique Coke machine, which I leaned against as I gulped down a Rolling Rock. Right away I knew this was a mistake. The lights, crowd, and energy were getting to me and I started feeling dizzy. I wanted Colleen back, so I could give her her drink and go. I finished my beer, started on Colleen's highball. Five minutes later I was standing there with two empties. I wanted to reload but flinched when I saw the crowd around the bar. A fake blonde with a fake tan in a fake French high school jacket walked by and I grabbed her arm.
    “Excuse me, would you be kind enough to get me a beer, please?”
    “I don't work here,” she said.
    “I know.”
    She threw me a look and joined a big good-looking kid at the bar. A smirky whisper, he glanced my way, I was overcome by a wave of paranoia. The crowd around the T-shirt stand was backing up all around me. My fingers started to vibrate; the pot, I assumed. When ten more minutes passed with no Colleen, I courageously wedged myself into the bar and ordered another vodka collins and a Rock. Those went down faster than the first two.
    Twenty minutes later I was starting to freak out. I was supposed to be having a date soon. Where the hell was Colleen, and what was in that weed? This wasn't normal. I felt as if I was tripping. After four pops, my nerves shouldn't feel like this. I was conscious of mybreathing, of the beating of my heart. This was a mistake. I was way too stoned to be in this crowd. I calculated how far I was from Cedars Sinai. Close, but was it close enough? I should go to the emergency room, I thought, and wait this thing out. I started dancing in place, which diverted my attention from how stoned I was to how ludicrous I felt.
    A pale well-fed woman tentatively approached. “You Henry?”
    “Why?”
    “Your date's in the bathroom.”
    I nodded yes. And … ?
    “She can't stand up.”
    Ten baby blondes were waiting for three stalls, eight of them chattering at the same time, fussing with their hair in the mirror. They hooted when I entered. I wasn't happy about being on their turf, but I knew I had to do something fast. My fingers were still buzzing and swollen from adrenaline. There