The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly Read Free Book Online

her.”
    “So?”
    I shrugged.
    “How about those toddies, huh?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “What do you mean, 'Yeah?” You won't see better nuts than that anywhere in town.”
    “They real?”
    “Are they real?
Who gives a shit are they real? For Christ sakes, she's got a flight recorder, too, but I'm not gonna lose sleep over it. You should see when she's riding you, it is a sight to behold. She loves to squeeze those big toddies while she sways back and forth— she just squeezes and squeezes, it's beautiful. All she does is squeeze—”
    “Okay, okay, she squeezes her tits. Go.”
    After Herb left, I got back in bed and I knew I was too stoned to sleep unless I rubbed out another one, but I was thinking of old girlfriends now, and I couldn't do that when I thought about old girlfriends.
    When I couldn't sleep in L.A., I liked to imagine that I was homeless, walking the streets, cold, tired. I imagined that I'd stumbled across my bed stuck in a cranny in some hillside, maybe honeycombed into the palisades above the Pacific Coast Highway. This made me feel warm and fortunate and I would thank God for granting me this little hole and eventually I would sleep and that's what I did.
    turned left on Highland, merged onto Franklin, then hit the 101. Muscling my wayacross six lanes of traffic, I made it just in time for the Barham exit, then went right and down the hill to Warner Bros. Studios. I tried to drive onto the lot but was turned away, so I parked at Taco Bell and walked past the guards, waving my lunch and a script at them.
    A couple people pointed me to the executives' offices and when I easily got inside the building I thought, The hell with it, I might as well go right to the top. I asked a woman at a water bubbler where the president's office was, and a minute later I was standing outside a door with a gold plaque that read: HAL MARKEY. I took a deep breath, convinced myself I was a loser if I didn't do this, then walked into the room. There were two women manning the phones and a young preppy-looking black man at work on a computer behind them. One of the women held up an index finger, continued her phone conversation. I smiled casually, jingled the change in my pockets, played with my keys. Finally she hung up and raised her eyebrows at me.
    “How are you today?” I said.
    She must've thought it was rhetorical because she just opened her eyes wider like,
Come on, come on.
    “I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping I might just peek in and say hi to Hal.”
    “I'm sorry. He's in a meeting.”
    “Oh …”
    “Maybe you'd like to set up a time to come back later?”
    “No, no, that's okay, it's not business and I won't be around later anyway. No big deal. I was just on the lot and I promised him I'd pop my head in if I was ever on the lot.”
    “I'm sorry, what's your name?”
    “Just tell him Bob's son stopped by. I'll see him next time he's on the Vineyard.”
    I leaned toward the door, gave her a look to chew on.
    “Why don't you sit down?” she said. “Maybe I can interrupt him.”
    She tapped something into her keyboard, a second later there was a buzz, and she picked up the phone.
    “Bob's son,” she said. “He just wants to say hello.”
    She hung up and smiled for the first time. “You can go in.”
    Markey met me at the door, shook my hand, said,
“Hey
, how
are
you?” He was tall, with a winter tan—tighter, shinier than a summer one.
    “Good, Hal. How are you?”
    “Great, great. How's your dad?”
    I stepped into a room big enough to throw a touchdown bomb. There was another man sitting on the couch.
    “Great,” I said. “He's great.”
    Markey put his hand on my back, led me to the other man, said, “Adam Levine, I'd like you to meet …”
    “Henry,” I said.
    As I shook Adam Levine's hand, Markey was starting to show his impatience. He said, “Henry … ?” and let it hang there.
    “Yes.” I knew my time was short, so I said, “I'm sorry to bother you like