The Comedy Writer (12 page)

This sounds melodramatic now, but it got to me then, and I felt a tinge of guilt because what I was really thinking was that I had my sassy journalist on the way and how the hell long would this
scratched-up lunatic be here? Didn't she have a train or plane to catch?

Then the kicker: The money hadn't arrived. She'd called her friend, who'd confirmed sending it, but the money wasn't there when Colleen got to the post office. “It doesn't make sense,” she said. “How long could it take to get one thin letter from Japan?”

“You said she was sending it from San Diego.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I said she's
from
San Diego. She's modeling in Japan now.”

This took the wind out of my sails.

“Can I stay here one more night? Please, that's all I need. Please, please,
please …”

She looked up at me with those pathetic crossed eyes, her chin dimpled and quivering.

“Ah, fuck. You can stay here until you get your shit together.”

I was as stunned as she to hear this.

“I can?”

“Just take it easy. I'm sure the money will be here in a day or two, right?”

“Definitely. And if it's not here by Monday, I'm just gonna hitchhike or something. I'm definitely, definitely,
definitely
outta here by Monday.”

“Fine. You'll get your money and go back home. I'm not going to throw you out on the street.”

I wasn't exactly sure why this was sliding off my tongue, but it cheered her up and suddenly I could more easily envision my newspaper friend servicing me with a karmic boffing. Colleen's money
would be here tomorrow anyway, I figured, and only an ogre could say no to the poor kid, sitting there all scratched up like one of the frozen ponds of Livingston, New Jersey. Besides, I needed something to cushion the impact of my next line, which was “But you can't be here right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm expecting a guest, and it's business, so I really shouldn't have anyone hanging around.”

She rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist.

“That's cool,” she said. “I'll just go out somewhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Wherever.”

“But I don't really know where to go.”

I was going to suggest she visit a friend, but I remembered she didn't have any or she wouldn't be laying all this shit on me.

“The Hard Rock,” I said.

It was nearby, the crowd was tame, what the hell, I'd even lay ten of my new dollars on her. She could get a burger, a couple Cokes—anything to get her out of my hair fast. And just to make sure she didn't dilly-dally, I'd drive her there and pick her up later—much later—after my “meeting.”

As we pulled away from the Blue Terrace, I unfastened the roof flap. “What's with the glasses?” she asked. “I wear them when I drive.” “What for?”

I looked at her. “So I can see.” “Well, you look better without them.”

“That's why I wear them. Otherwise I'd have women all over me. It'd be bang-a-lang-a-ding-dong all day long.”

“Not
that
much better.”

Colleen smiled, and there was something about the smile and her battered face and her needing me so much that got to me. As we drove, I handed her a twenty and told her to go crazy.

“You know something, Henry? I knew you were a good guy when I read about you trying to save my sister. You are. You go the extra mile for people.”

“Eh,” I said.

She pulled out the joint that she'd bought in traffic the day before.

“I bet you get along with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” I said.

“Do you get along with your father?”

“Sure.”

“Do you love him?”

This seemed an odd question.

“Yeah, I do.”

“How about your mom? You 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 Joplin
types. 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 my
breathing, 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 were drugs involved here, and I didn't like it that my “date” was apparently OD'ing. What if she died? I was the one who'd paid for the weed, I could be charged with something.

Colleen was sitting on the toilet with her pants up and her head between her legs.

“I can't get up,” she said.

“Yes, you can. Just take a deep breath and we'll get out of here.”

“I can't. I have low blood pressure. Every time I stand, I feel like I'm gonna faint.”

The woman who'd tracked me down asked if she should call an ambulance.

“No!” I snapped. “She'll be okay.”

I turned back to Colleen. She was pale but calm.

“Has this ever happened before?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. When I had my car accident, remember?”

I was going to have to carry her right through the restaurant. It would be a scene. I was too stoned to handle a scene.

I found a fire exit next to the restroom, but it had an alarm handle, so I tracked down the manager, a guy about my age with thick George Burns-style glasses and a ponytail. I explained the situation: My date was in the throes of food poisoning. “Throw out your goddamn potato salad and open the back door!” I screamed.

I carried Colleen over my shoulder, past the jeering blondes, past the panicky manager. He shut the fire exit door with a sheepish wave and I laid Colleen down on the sidewalk. Again she put her head between her legs. I tried to get my bearings, but the Beverly Center is a big mall and I had no idea where we were in relation to where we had parked.

When Colleen assured me she was stabilized, I sprinted about a quarter mile around the side of the building, looking for an entrance to the parking garage. I finally found a brightly lit escalator, but it wasn't the one I'd ridden down before. I ran up it anyway, then tried to remember if I'd parked on the second or third levels. Or was it the fourth? I tried the fourth first, figuring I'd work my way down, but nothing up there looked vaguely familiar, so I went down to the third, which looked even less familiar and brought me to the second, which I knew for a fact I had never before laid eyes on. All three levels were packed with cars yet strangely void of people and, being as stoned as I was, I felt as if I was losing my mind and was overcome with an irrational, ineffable fear. I was thirsty and my heart shook against my ribs, and I was sweating and out of breath and my fingertips were numb. I thought of my dinner guest arriving with no one there and Colleen down on the street with no blood
pressure and suddenly I had to take a shit and my tongue got drier and drier and I stopped running because my throat was making a clicking sound every time I tried to swallow and the stomach cramps got worse and for the first time I realized this wasn't about finding a car, it was about
survival
, because if I didn't get something to drink soon, I would surely choke to death. I'd been fighting an adrenaline rush for about forty-five minutes now, and for the first time, I felt I was losing. My esophagus was starting to spasm and I was afraid it was going to close entirely and that's when I saw the Coke can sitting on the pavement next to a concrete pillar. I picked the can up; it was warm and sticky. A half inch of spew swished at the bottom. I looked around. No witnesses. I made one last effort to work up some spit, to coat my throat, to save myself from doing this.

over my shoulder as I read the note pinned to my door. Four words: HENRY. CAME. WENT. JENNA. Heartsick, I flopped Colleen onto the bed, then walked down the street for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bottle of Listerine. Colleen guzzled three sodas in front of me before I went out front in my boxers and sipped half the Listerine. I tried to look on the bright side—I finally knew her name. And she seemed levelheaded. She hadn't threatened me or made any snide remarks. She was smart, secure. Why not, though? For all she knew, I could've had a terrible accident.

When Colleen 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 me
for 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.