The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly Page B

joined me outside, I was sitting on the steps, knees plugged into armpits, my head gazing thoughtfully at my own crotch, coincidental but ironic, seeing as I blamed that part of mefor the night's failure. Things had started to go south as soon as I thought about putting the plank to Jenna. Originally my intentions had been pure; I'd just wanted company. But by thinking about what the good karma of helping Colleen would bring me, I'd brought on bad karma.
    I couldn't hold Colleen responsible for what happened at the Beverly Center. I was the idiot who'd smoked the joint. I was the one to blame, not her. Over and over I reminded myself of this. This is not to say that I wouldn't have loved to see her come down with a Third World-style bladder infection.
    “You feeling okay?”
    I groaned yes and said, “You?”
    “Oh, I'm fine. My blood pressure's normal again. I can feel it.”
    The crickety whir of a coasting ten-speed rose and faded into the night.
    “So the businessperson you were supposed to meet with left, huh?”
    “Yeah.”
    She laid on an exaggerated guilty look and said, “Gulp.”
    The lacerations on her face had dried and blackened, her chin was a blur of scabs. I took my tenth swig of mouthwash, swallowed a little, spit the rest into the bushes.
    “Henry's my favorite name, you know.”
    “Huh.”
    “Yeah, in fact, I was gonna name my son Henry. I mean, you know, when I have one.”
    “Don't worry, I didn't think you had a kid somewhere without a name.”
    She pushed me. “You Rhode Islanders.” Then: “Hey, do you know Anna Gaye?”
    “Who?”
    “Anna Gaye. Marvin Gaye's wife.”
    “How the hell would I know Anna Gaye?”
    “I don't know. She used to come into this store I worked at. She's really nice.”
    “Well, that's great to know. And so pertinent.”
    “So
what?”
    “Never mind.”
    “What was that, some kind of insult?”
    Suddenly she was all paranoia, leaning back, taking no shit,
feinting.
    “It was nothing,” I said.
    “Bullshit it was nothing. It meant something. What, do you think I'm stupid?”
    “It meant nothing. It meant work on your segues.”
    “My what?”
    “Forget it.”
    “Fine then.”
    I looked back at my crotch and thought about what I was going to tell the
L.A. Times
girl, Jenna. I knew one thing: It wouldn't be the truth.
    “You want to go to sleep now?” Colleen chirped.
    Her rage had passed like the hiccups and she liked me again.
    “Little while,” I said.
    “Don't worry. Everything's gonna be okay. You could just reschedule your meeting.”
    She put her arm around me and together we looked back down and stared, and after about twenty more minutes of crotch-watching, we went inside and Colleen jumped in bed and turned on the radio and she was fast asleep before my head hit the floor.

    At five in the morning I was jolted awake, as if someone had stuck chocolate smelling salts under my nose. A small light was coming from the kitchenette and I heard the clanking of tin against Formica. I pulled myself up, shuffled toward the light. Colleen was crouched over the counter, her face inches from a fresh pan of brownies, the icing melting, steam still billowing from the pan, half of them already devoured. She looked up, startled, her cheeks smeared like a chocolate clown.
    There was a beat, I didn't know what to say. Finally she blurted out, “I have an eating disorder.”
    “Cool,” I said. “Whatever.”
    She looked embarrassed and her chin started to quiver. “I miss her sometimes … okay?”
    I nodded and went back to my spot and listened to the whine of the refrigerator through the floorboards.
    I showed up at five to one, and while waiting at the bar I saw Tom Hanks and Teri Garr enter, not together. I ordered a Stoly soda, checked out the caricatures of famous people on the walls, then called the
Times.
Jenna wasn't in. Levine arrived fifteen minutes later looking sharp in a European suit, trailed by a group of similarly attired agents and studio