Read The Comedy Writer for Free Online Page B

since Len Bias died. Suddenly I smelled something and. Herb took a hit off the roach he was carrying. “You get high?”
    “Not tonight, thanks,” I said.
    He held the joint out, though, and I took a hit and we started talking. He'd just been laid so was in no rush to get back and he ended up staying a half hour. Herb Silverman was from South Boston, and his real name was Tommy Sullivan. He'd changed it because there was another Tom Sullivan in the Screen Actors Guild, and anyway he thought Herb Silverman was pretty cool because it made people think of—what else?—a Jew, and that couldn't hurt in Hollywood.
    “But you don't exactly look Jewish,” I said.
    “I get that a lot, and my answer to that is this: 'What, I have to have a big schnoz to look Jewish?' They usually back off after that. Besides, Mike Medavoy and Ray Stark look more Irish than me. Least I don't got the freckles.”
    “And you find it helps, the Jewish thing?”
    “Got me my SAG card, and I'm not waiting tables anymore.”
    “Because of your name?”
    “Hey, it worked for Whoopi and Sammy. I mean, what's the big deal? Jews are always giving themselves Waspy names: Jerry Lewis, Winona Ryder, Bob Dylan, Marvin Davis. Why can't I become a Jew? This is a tough business. Every little bit helps.”
    We talked about Boston a little and when he found out I grew up in Rhode Island, Herb beamed.
    “I love Newport,” he said. “Went to a wedding there once—girl named Josie Keenan from Jamaica Plain. Great wedding, lot oflaughs. We got divorced ten months later. I could've hung in there two or three years to make it look good, but I didn't see the point. All those know-it-alls who say to stick it out, they aren't married to her.”
    “I guess. Never been married.”
    “Well, if you do, don't ever drive cross-country with her.”
    “No?”
    “Noooooo.
I'm telling you, that did it for me. I found out so fucking much about her in those six days, by the time we got here I didn't want to ever see her again. Split up two weeks later, scout's honor.”
    I nodded.
    “Two weeks,” Silverman repeated.
    “I believe you.”
    He looked back at the Santa picture and said, “Why do you have her picture on the wall?”
    “I don't know.”
    I remembered the Jiffy Pop and went into the kitchenette.
    “What's her name?”
    “Grace,” I called.
    I came back out and Herb said, “What happened?”
    “Hm?”
    “Why'd you break up?”
    I handed him the popcorn. “I don't know. It was high school.”
    “Must've stung if you've still got her picture hanging around.”
    “Long story.”
    “What, she catch you fucking around?”
    This sounded like an easy out, but I said no.
    “You catch
her
fucking around?”
    “No.”
    I made a move for the door, but he held his ground.
    “Well, what happened?”
    “I don't know. Jesus, it's four in the morning. I've got to go to sleep, man.”
    I opened the door. Herb walked into the kitchenette.
    “You should be over it by now, bud. Grow a chin, have some pride, take the picture down. Got any beer?”
    He opened the fridge, stared in confusion. “Why the hell you got notebooks in the fridge?”
    “Case of fire.”
    “Huh?”
    “That's the only copy I have of my notes, so I figure if there's a fire and the whole place burns down, the stuff might stand a chance if it's in the fridge.”
    He picked up one of the pads and I moved in quickly. “No, no, no, those stay where they are.” I put it back and closed the door.
    “You're a writer, huh?”
    “Uh, yeah.”
    “Anything I would've heard of?”
    “I'm just getting started. Come on, I'm exhausted.”
    I handed him the popcorn and he took a Diet Coke, and I thought he was going to leave, but he stopped at the door. “So you doin' her yet?”
    “Who?”
    “Tiff,” he said.
    “Yeah, right.” I thought about this question and said, “Aren't you her boyfriend?”
    This cracked him up. “Noooo. So the truth, are you doing her?”
    “I hardly know