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

salesman. I knew immediately what I'd stumbled upon and wanted badly to win her over. I'd seen her before, several times, in the Back Bay, at the Dockside, bopping around Faneuil Hall, rushing along Milk Street. She stood out.
    That started a five-year run, and it didn't end until the hippie Lehman Brothers girl looked like a woman and she started playing hackeysack with my heart. She kicked it around for a few months, then stuffed it in the back pocket of her jeans and sat on it for a while. She threw the jeans in the wash and tumble-dried them on high. She put a hot iron to them, then gave them away to the Salvation Army.
    Despite all this, I still loved her and when I got the good news about my story being published, I felt elated, I was a real writer, and I glanced at the phone and a few seconds later I had her roommate on the line.
    Maura was kind, if a tad distant, and she quickly put Amanda on. Amanda said she was eating dinner. I apologized, but didn't let her off that easy. It had taken me three months to make this call. I told her I was in L.A. now. She said she knew, asked if it was true that I was writing. I stumbled for a second, then confessed it was true, said it was a longshot, but I was going to play it out for a while. Better now than in ten years, I said. If it didn't work out, I'd come home. No big deal. The conversation started getting more strained, so I got to the point.
    “Why don't you come out and visit?” I said.
    “Henry …”
    “What?”
    “I don't think that's a good idea.”
    “Why not?”
    “You know why not.”
    “Look, it doesn't have to be that way. I mean, nothing's going to happen. You can just come and see California.”
    “I don't think so.”
    “But you'd love it out here, it's Beach Blanket Bingo. And just because we're broken up doesn't mean we can't still be friends.”
    “I can't.”
    “Why can't you?”
    “Because … because it wouldn't be fair to you.”
    “Then don't be fair to me. Come and abuse the hell out of me. You can get even.”
    I wanted a laugh but didn't get one.
    “We'll just be buddies.”
    “I don't know, Henry … No.”
    We always came back to this. And then I felt the anger.
    “Is that the only word in your vocabulary now? What are you, a two-year-old? I mean, you just find it so easy to say no to me.”
    “You made it that way.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about? How did I make it that way?
    “I'm going to hang up now.”
    “Answer my question first. What the hell did I do?”
    “Henry, we've been through this a hundred times.”
    “And I still don't know the answer!”
    “You make me say no to you because that's the only answer to the question you're asking.”
    I sighed and in a whiny voice said, “But why can't you just say yes sometimes?”
    “Because I can't. Now this isn't going anywhere, so I'm going to hang up.”
    “Wait. Don't.”
    I wracked my brain for the sentence that would save us, but it didn't exist. I'd told her I'd change, I'd told her I'd do anything she wanted, I'd told her I loved her until the words didn't mean anything anymore. All it did was humiliate me and destroy any pleasant memories we may have had. I couldn't think of us the way we used to be, because we didn't exist that way anymore. The memories were fraudulent. If you're a Red Sox fan, you can't think about Game Six of the '86 Series and say, “Wasn't that great! The Sox led for almost the whole game!” No, the lead meant nothing. If it ends bad, it's bad, and that's all that matters.
    “Why don't you think it over,” I said, “and I'll call you back next week. You can bring Manra or your sister or someone, so it won't be just the two of us.”
    I could imagine her rolling her eyes at Maura. It didn't matter, though. My pride was gone.
    “I'll call you next week,” I said.
    “I can't come.”
    I started to sweat. It was like trying to wriggle free from a hangman's noose. “Why not? You still haven't given me one good