The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly

Author:Peter Farrelly [Farrelly, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Humorous, Fiction
ISBN: 0385490526
Google: QrMYTr-2K4IC
Amazon: B0028MBKPW
Publisher: Main Street Books
Published: 1998-04-20T04:00:00+00:00

five

when it rains in L.A. is that during the long dry periods an unseen layer of smog settles on the pavement, and when the rain does come, that dust becomes slick as ice. This was explained to me by an officer during a lull in the Colleen saga and I was thinking about it as I lay in bed that night listening to freedom Rock. I was also thinking about Colleen up there in the rain. That fucker. I supposed that my neighborhood was ruined for me. Every time I'd go down to the store for a soda or newspaper, someone would point out the guy who turned the hypo-glycemic urchin away. Maybe some grandstander would try to sucker-punch me. And the worst part was: Something inside was telling me that maybe they were right.

I thought about how nice it would be to be twelve again, when these songs were new, sleeping in my old backyard, a sheet pulled over my mother's clothesline, my buddies telling Juan Corona stories, bullshitting each other about getting tit. When the tape ended, I tried to concentrate on the soft rattle of my window screen and the occasional siren that momentarily quickened the city's sleeping pulse. Colleen's dead sister Bonnie came to mind. A telephone rang in somebody's apartment, reminding me of what a ballbuster God is. That afternoon, after the commotion, I'd noticed my answering machine blinking: Margo Jones of Big Brothers looking for my “girlfriend” Colleen.

Surely she would return. They would let her go and she'd sprint right back. I started hearing odd sounds in the apartment below—a bang, a faucet, a high-pitched whir. I imagined my neighbor covering his tracks, his murdered wife in pieces in the bathtub. I got up, checked my lock. A couple moths fluttered around a light, sending bat-size shadows across my wall. I wondered how moths could fly while it was still misting out. The place suddenly seemed haunted. Maybe digestion would put me to sleep. At 4 A.M. I boiled a couple eggs for an egg salad sandwich, then realized I didn't have any mayo, so I crumbled the eggs on a piece of bread, slammed another piece on top, and ate it dry. I heard the downstairs door open, footsteps, and finally, unbelievably, a meek knock at my door. A shock of adrenaline. I threw down the sandwich, flew out of bed, landing on my toenails, practically soundless. My breath came through my nose; I could hear the blood gushing through my veins.

“Honey, are you up?”

I loved Tiffany right then and, yanking open the door, I embraced her like a soldier.

“I'm so glad you're up,” she said. “I need some popcorn.”

“I have missed you.”

“Henry.”

“Yah?”

“You're hurting me.”

I released her and bolted the door.

I told Tiffany Pittman about the ordeal I had endured, and though she may not have grasped the horror of it (judging from the purple teeth and winey breath floating my way) at least she didn't interrupt. This allowed me to hear it

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