The Comedy Writer (27 page)

But the day came when I had to admit there was something abnormal about this preoccupation with my health. I used to be the type of guy who would play with an injury. Now it was one crisis after another. My main fears had been of a heart attack, lung cancer, and brain tumor, but I'd also entertained thoughts of leukemia, M.S., stroke, and Parkinson's; cancers of the pancreas, prostate, rectum, testicles, breasts, spine, throat, toe, and lymph nodes; an inflamed gallbladder, AIDS, colitis, and ileitis; aneurysms of the brain, spleen, aorta, and liver; and Meniere's syndrome.

That's why, when the Big Brothers called about their psychological test, I decided to take it. I was a long way from being approved, Margo Jones said—she still hadn't even spoken with my “girlfriend” Colleen—but the psychological evaluation was necessary, so we might as well get it out of the way. I was going to tell her to forget it, but she said it was free and would be administered by a Wilshire Boulevard psychiatrist. I asked if I could get a copy of the report. She said yes, I had the right to request one. “Tell me where to go,” I said. And so it was that I ended up in a ritzy medical building in the heart of Beverly Hills.

Dr. Lester Samuels was warm and effusive, almost gossipy. He
even commented on the good looks of his previous patient. “And she puts it to good use,” he added with a wink. The guy was more like a hairdresser than a shrink, and I found this comforting. He donated several hours a week to the Big Brothers, and I thought that pretty decent, too.

He had a list of questions, but I told him to put them away, he wouldn't need them. Then I spilled everything; how I'd kept track of my proximity to emergency rooms, my compulsion with litter, the strange dreams, the tingling in my face when I was in traffic, the feeling of impending doom, the overall sense of karmic guilt that had transcended every decision.

“What is it about your body that scares you?”

“Everything,”
I said, “I'm a hypochondriac for the same reason I'm afraid to fly. When I'm on a plane, I think of the millions of little things that can go wrong. Maybe one of the flaps will get stuck, or the landing gear will jam, or the fuel line will clog, or the engine will crack, or the door will blow off, or the pilot will be drunk, or he'll have a heart attack, or the wings won't be de-iced properly, or we'll hit a wind shear, or be blown up by terrorists, or the radar will malfunction and we'll collide with another jet, or the goddamn toilet suction will yank my colon out into the clouds. There's so much that can happen—just like with my body. Billions of cells trying to mutate into cancers, and veins that a hot dog can clog or a good shit can burst, and organs that stop working for no reason other than fate; there's blood fighting off infections and viruses every day, intestines trying to make sense of man-made chemicals—Christ, there's a million ways I can die. I'm amazed that I haven't already.”

“So what? If you die, you die.”

I groaned.

“Is it the pain of dying you fear?” he asked.

“I don't think so. No, not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well, for one thing, I've been killing myself writing a couple scripts and I'd like to see at least one of them reach fruition. I'd like to know I lived for a reason.”

“So you're afraid you might die before your movie gets made?”

This sounded dumb.

“No.”

“That's what you just said.”

“Well … I
am
afraid I'm going to die before I ever accomplish anything in my life.” I took a deep breath. “But that's not the thing I fear most.”

“What is it you fear most?”

“Nothing.”

The doctor tilted his head.

“You know,” I said. “The thought of being nothing.”

“You think when you die, you won't exist anymore?”

“That's what I fear most.”

“So you fear nothingness?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you believe in a God and heaven?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“The time of day. Sometimes I feel there's a God, and other times I don't.”

“What do you feel right now?”

“I don't know. I think probably not.”

“Then why do you continue to write?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you have to do it for somebody.”

“It doesn't have to be for God. Maybe I'm doing it for myself.”

“Then why do you care if you die before you finish it? You know how it's going to turn out anyway.”

“Well … not yet I don't.”

The doors were thin. I heard someone enter the outer office.

“I suppose I do it for other people,” I admitted.

“Who?”

“Many people.”

“Who?”

I didn't answer.

“Your parents?”

“I guess. I guess I do it for my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Did. Not now.”

“So she's your girlfriend.”

“My ex-girlfriend.”

“Why'd you break up?”

“It's kind of complicated.”

“I'm good with complicated.”

I felt tired. “Basically … uh …”

“Did she end it?”

“More or less.”

Dr. Samuels nodded. “And she's the main reason you want to finish your scripts?”

“I guess so … Yeah, probably.”

“Well, it seems you have a God after all, Henry.”

In the ten minutes we had left Dr. Samuels wanted to know about my childhood. I told him the truth, which was that it was wonderful. I had a great, big, loud family. We lived in a town called
Cumberland in northern Rhode Island. After school and in the summer, I was free to do whatever I wanted. There was some crying in my house, but a lot more laughing. The only time I heard sirens was at noon. In the winter we skated on the pond next door, caught snowflakes on our tongues. If we got cold, my mother would make us hot chocolate. We had dogs and cats and rabbits, too. We had a monkey for a while. There was lots of food in the house, and I could eat meals any time I wanted, except for dinner, which we all ate together when my father got home from the office around six. My parents played golf and bridge together. They fought sometimes— usually over bridge—but they always made up. We were expected to study on weeknights, and television was forbidden after dinner. I daydreamed a lot and didn't get good grades—which was a constant irritation to my father—but other than that, we got along pretty well. He took me and my friends to Red Sox and Patriot games, and every year on my birthday I'd get to go see the Celts. My mother was happy and beautiful. She wanted her kids to go to church with her on Sundays, but other than that, we didn't get smothered with religion. Virginity wasn't a big deal in my house. My parents knew that kids smoked pot. Summers were spent on Cape Cod. I was always proud of my parents.

When I finished telling all this, neither of us spoke. I sat there trying to figure what the hell had gone wrong. I'd been a happy kid, I was secure, I was confident. Now, as an adult, I was afraid of flying, I was afraid of crowds, I was afraid of fucking basketball. My mother once told me that as newlyweds she and my father would kneel next to their bed each night and pray. This wasn't what they'd prayed for.

Dr. Samuels's assistant notified him that the next patient was getting antsy.

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen to you recently?” the doctor asked when I was at the door. “Not really.” “Nothing?” “No.”

“Nothing at all?” I shrugged. “I saw a woman jump off a building.”

I always said my prayers, but this night I got a little more free-form than normal. Not that my regular prayer was from the Scriptures. As a kid, I'd learned the
Our Father
and
Hail Mary
and often recited them before going to sleep. At some point, I think in my late teens, I realized I had no idea what I was saying. These were just words that I'd memorized, like
The Star-Spangled Banner
or
Frere Jacques.
So I made up my own prayer. It started small and evolved over the years. Every single night, no matter how tired I was, no matter if I was stinking drunk or lying in bed with a girl whose pussy was more familiar than her name, I would repeat the following:

Name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Amen.

Please, God, bless my mother, my father, my sister Bette, my brother Bill, my sister Kara, my sister Suzy, my brother-in-law Jim, my brother-in-law Eddie, my brother-in-law Thomas, my nephew Willy, my niece Karly, my nephew Tris, my nephew Andy, my nephew Fritz, my niece Wesley, and my sister-in-law Jackie. Please let us all live long, happy, Christian, and fruitful lives together. Forgive us our sins.

Guide us to be better people. Please give us strength, inspiration, wisdom, patience, confidence, and courage.

Please bless all my friends, especially my deceased friends, most of all …
(Early on I would name all my deceased friends and relatives—starting with my dead girlfriend—but as I got older and more people died, I trimmed it down to the girlfriend, one or two close dead guys, and the recently departed.)
Please forgive them their sins, welcome them into Your kingdom, let them always be happy. Let them know how much I love and miss them all, but I have much to accomplish here and I'm not ready to join them. Please bless their families, especially Grace's, let them find strength and happiness through You.

Please bless Amanda and all my friends, especially the ones who need You the most, most of all …
(I would rattle off ten or fifteen friends who were going through difficult times, a constantly evolving list, with, sadly, one or two mainstays.)
Please give them the strength and energy to get through these difficult times. Let them feel Your love. Forgive them their sins and help them forgive themselves. Give them the strength to heal themselves when it's possible and the courage to accept it when it's not. Please bless their souls.

Please take care of all the people in the world who are less fortunate than me, especially the children, sick, starving, falsely imprisoned, mentally retarded, mentally impaired, mistreated, crippled, deformed, homeless, murder and rape victims, grieving and depressed, and all the AIDS and war victims, and the drug addicts and alkies. Please take care of all those who are dying. Give them strength during their dark

hours. Let them feel Your love and presence. Please forgive them their sins and welcome them into Your kingdom. Please also bless the people who are more fortunate than me. Give them the strength to he good.

or give me my sins, Jesus. Please give me the strength, inspiration, wisdom, patience, confidence, courage, and humility to become a better person. Thank You for everything You've given me, Jesus. I know I am very lucky. Ym sorry I …
(Here I would list some recent sins.)
Please come into my heart, show me the way to be a better person. Please do not let me stray. Let me feel Your presence inside me, let me spread Your love wherever I go. Please heal my body, bless me while I sleep. Let me wake up feeling refreshed and energetic. Thank You. I love You.

Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

It was a mouthful, but Fd been saying it for fifteen years, so I could rattle off the whole thing in about two minutes. On lazy or drunken nights I plowed through it without hearing a word. I tried to avoid this because it was only two minutes of my day and I didn't want it to become another
Our Father.

Anyway, on this night I said my prayer and then I hung in there and really tried to connect. (I never said my prayers aloud, just in my head, because Fd read that Satan can hear your spoken words, which I doubted, but why risk it?) I asked God how He could expect me to believe in Him when the only proof I had of His existence was the Bible and that guys can't piss through a hard-on. The Bible had been written by men I didn't know and the very first lesson Fd been taught as a human being was to not trust men I didn't know. Don't take candy from strangers, don't hitchhike,
don't even trust your neighbors, because if you do, they might kill you. And now I was expected to have faith in a book written by these killers.

It was the brain He'd given me that gave me doubts.

The world was a nightmare, people were starving, children were killing one another, space shuttles were exploding on national television, good men were being assassinated while bad men prospered, rain forests were being wiped out to make room for hamburger farms,
the coral was dying!
There was a new plague every fifty years, TV preachers were condemning the dying, priests were getting rounded up by the truckload for diddling altar boys. Yet, despite these and countless other atrocities that I was too numb to recall, the thing that really got people worked up these days, the incident that riled the masses, the lead story in all the newspapers and talk-radio shows, was that a television actress had sung the national anthem out of key.

So I asked for a sign.