Read Online The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly - Free Book Online Page B

asked.
    “No.”
    I waited for an explanation.
    “Well, what do you want?”
    “I read your article in the paper. Please
open up.”
    This made me swoon with fear. Suddenly I felt embarrassed about still being in bed at … I looked at the clock: 6:13 A.M. What the … ?
    “Just a second,” I said.
    I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, threw my hand under the faucet and slurped up some water. I took a few deep breaths and opened the door.
    The woman looked to be in her late twenties, but she had the shiny forehead of a teenager. Her dirty blonde hair was long and straight, with a short puff of bangs. A red-and-white checkerboard dress was what she wore, and no stockings, and if she'd told me she'd just stepped off the set of
Hee Haw
, I would've believed it. Her body was pale and unexceptional by L.A. standards, but probablyokay back in Tennessee or wherever the hell she learned to dress like that.
    “I lived your story,” she said.
    I squinted and forced a crooked smile.
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean, I really loved your story. You know, in the
Los Angeles Times.)
    “Oh. Yeah. Well, thank you. That's very nice.”
    “Can I come in and talk to you about it?”
    “How did you know where I live?”
    “Called information. You're listed. Can I come in?”
    I thought again about the hour, about how odd this was, about how damn pushy she was being.
    “Actually, this isn't the best time.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well …”I rubbed my chin. “It's a little fucking early, that's why.”
    She flinched.
    “Can I come back later, then? We'll go somewhere for breakfast to eat.”
    “I already have a breakfast meeting,” I lied.
    “How about lunch?”
    Although I was bewildered and maybe even slightly flattered by the attention, something about her struck me as being “off,” and I hesitated. Whether it was the pushiness or the fact that one almond eye was slightly off-center and larger than the other, or just good, solid intuition, I don't know, but something about her definitely frightened me. It frightened me so much that I heard myself saying “Sure” out of pure intimidation.
    “Great. I'll come back at noon'
    “Noon it is,” I said. Then: “I have a better idea. Why don't we meet at Ed's Coffee Shop—on Robertson between Beverly and Mel-rose.
    “Okay,” and she left.
    I crawled back into the crib until eleven-thirty, then showered, brushed my teeth, put on a clean white shirt, and ate a small bowl of raisin bran to rid myself of morning breath. I was annoyed that the raisins came in a separate bag. The fuckers. There were already too many unnecessary decisions in the world, now I had to decide how many raisins to allot myself. I liked the pure chance of it before—let the raisin gods decide, not me.
    On the way out to meet my fan, Tiffany stuck her head out her door wearing a big grin. “Hear me last night?”
    “As a matter of fact …”
    “I was doing it right in the hallway!”
    “Yeah,” I said, “Yeah. What happened, you lose your keys—or just couldn't wait?”
    “No, it's just that he's like this forty-five-year-old lawyer and he's pretty straight, so I thought it would be exciting for him.”
    “Huh.”
    She stepped into the hall and I saw that she was in her undies, her bra barely managing to contain its heavy cargo.
    “Can you give me a lift to work?” she asked. “I left my car there last night.”
    As we drove up Melrose, neither of us spoke much. I was bitter. All I could think of was her animal moans and her perfect, scientifically engineered body, and this flabby-assed Porsche-driving pig, who was probably married and had three kids, getting his nut off while Iwas free and single and pushed to the point where I was considering tasting my own load across the hall. I dropped her off at the Moustache Cafe, then headed back to Robertson Boulevard.
    It was too hot for coffee when I got to Ed's, so I sat at the counter and ate a piece of watermelon. I opened the paper to