The Comedy Writer Read Online Free PDF Page A

afraid to speak. The voice reminded me of my cousin Kristen, who could also be a pain in the ass.
    “All right?”
she barked.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
    I reworked my script for a couple hours, then sat on the front steps and ate a can of sardines, which I chased with a glass of instant coffee. I watched the showroom cars drive by and envied the couples running into Carl's Market for the beverages that would start their evenings. It seemed as if the whole world traveled in twos. I felt that six o'clock feeling for a moment. It was a Saturday-only feeling, there was fun in the air. But I was staying home. There was a time when I'd gone years without staying in on a Saturday night. And now three straight.
    I thought about the woman in the wooden station wagon, but the stab I'd felt earlier was gone. Those were the kinds of heartaches I could take. It was part of the game. I'd chased a lot of women in my life, but I didn't consider myself a womanizer. I was just looking for the right one, what was wrong with that? Besides, the vast majority had blown me off. They'd won. I couldn't help wondering: If I hadn't thrown the litter away, maybe I would've had more time to convince the station wagon woman to meet me. What the hell kind of karma was that?
    I opened my notebook and reread the story I'd sent to the
L.A. Times:
    It was a hot winter day. The Santa Ana winds had been recycling exhaust from the valleys for at least forty-eight hours
—
that's how long I'd been in L.A. Yd started apartment-hunting at nine and by noon my eyes were stinging from the web of filth that hung over the Westside. The neighborhoods I crisscrossed smelled like airports. I checked out a few places in Hollywood
—
dumps really
—
then decided to look closer to the beach. There were long waiting lists for rent-controlled apartments, I knew, but I was feeling lucky.
    I swung onto Wilshire and headed into Westwood, passing a row of high-rise condos layered with bushy green balconies. Traffic slowed near an expanse of modern office buildings right up until I crossed under the 405 freeway. I hung a left and a right, stopped for frozen yogurt on Santa Monica Boulevard, then shot back down 26th Street to San Vicente. This was the nicest street Yd seen in L.A. There were no traffic lights over a two-mile stretch. I could finally go over thirty miles an hour. But there was no big rush now. Not with the colorful spandexed joggers making their way up the grassy divide beneath a row of coral trees. Even the drivers around here
—
sunglassed beauties in Range Rovers
—
even they had my attention. The air cooled discernibly as I approached the water and for a split second, life was good.
    First I thought it was a worker, but the guy was too close to the edge and there wasn't a wall. The hell with this, I thought, and I blew right past the building. Hanging a left, I continued about a quarter mile on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; it was the first time Yd seen the Left Coast.
    Nice.
    Shit.
    Just check it out, I thought to myself. Maybe it's nothing.
    The maniac was still on top of the building. A woman. It was something, all right. She sat down, stood up, ran her fingers through her hair, paced back and forth. I was the only one around and hadn't had practice in this kind of thing. Should I call up to her, or would that be her cue to go?
    For some reason, I counted the number of floors: sixteen. That'd do the trick. I looked around for help. No one.
    Then, thank God, a phone booth.
    “Someone's on top of a building at the end of San Vicente Boulevard,” I said after dialing 911. “Looks like she might go.”
    “Where are you calling from?” a man asked.
    “Across the street.”
    “Can you see her from where you are?”
    “No.”
    “What's the address?”
    “I'm not sure,” I said. “It's at the corner of San Vicente and, uh, I don't know, there's only one street sign here. It's right at the ocean.”
    “Ocean Avenue?”
    “Yeah, that sounds