Free The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly Page A

Anyway, when the sun was coming up, I caught a lift over here from some guy who'd been trying to fuck me all night.”
    I looked up. “Fuck” struck me as a bit harsh for someone who called people “jerko.”
    “Oh.”
    “I would've slept in my car, except I don't have it anymore. I kind of had an accident.”
    “Yeah?”
    “The car was hardly scratched, but they took my license away, so I got rid of it.”
    I rolled the eggs into a tortilla and asked Colleen to pass me the ketchup from the table behind her.
    “Yes, Master.”
    “Why'd they take your license away?” I asked.
    “Well … they said it was my fault.”
    “Was it?”
    “It's really debatable. I mean as I recall, no, but, to tell you the truth, I can't recall. You see, I passed out for a couple seconds 'cause of my low blood pressure and now I don't remember much. Bottom line is, I hit a lady in my car.”
    “You rear-end her?”
    “No, I hit her in the side—she was walking.”
    When I flinched, she quickly added, “She was okay, though.”
    “But they found you at fault?”
    “Exactly,”
Colleen said with a confusing conspiratorial nod, as if this somehow exonerated her. “I looked right, then I looked left to see if there were any cars coming, and there weren't any, so I started to go, and she came out of nowhere from the right, and I ran into her.”
    “But she was okay?”
    “She was fine, the big whiner. I was only going like two miles an hour.” Colleen sipped her coffee. “The baby was okay, too.”
    I stopped chewing.
    “The carriage got knocked over and the baby was crying and everything, but he was just in shock.”
    “You ran over a baby.”
    “Then this cop comes over and I'm allergic to smog, so I ended up going to jail, you know.”
    “You ran over a baby?”
    “And the judge was a real asshole.”
    “A
baby
you ran over?”
    “I didn't run him
over.
I hardly tapped him, and it wasn't my fault.”
    “Baby was okay?”
    “Yeah, I told you, he needed like
one
stitch.”
    “And where does the smog come into this?”
    “That's why I went to jail.”
    “Because of smog?”
    “Yeah, 'cause when the cop looked at me, he saw that my eyes were all diluted and red as a bunny's, like Michelle Pfeiffer or something, and he figured I was on drugs, which was just the smog I'm allergic to, so he sent me downtown for three days 'cause it was a weekend and court was closed. But, like I said, first I passed out and by the time the ambulance got there, the baby had already stopped crying, but the judge was an asshole and he took away my license, so I got rid of my car. Now, what do you say? Can I live with you?”
    “Live
with me?”
    “I mean stay. Just for tonight. My girlfriend from San Diego's sending me money, but it won't be here until tomorrow.”
    “Colleen, you saw my place—it's really small.”
    “You won't even notice me, I'm tiny, and I'm real quiet.”
    “Yeah, I know, but I also have a girlfriend back home. This would not … she would … it wouldn't be good.”
    “Oh, come on, she won't know.”
    “Ah … I don't even know you.”
    “Listen, Henry, I'm begging you. Just tonight. I'll be gone tomorrow and you won't never hear from me again … never.”
    “Um … no. I'm sorry.”
    Colleen shot me a look as if I was throwing her out on the street along with our five kids.
    “Thanks a lot!”
    She smashed out the cigarette, grabbed her bag, and rushed from the room.
    I shrugged at the couple whom she'd just almost bowled over, then I grabbed the newspaper off the counter. While finishing breakfast, I checked out how the playoffs were shaping up for the Celts and Bruins, then stared at the top ten batting list for a few minutes. Boggsie had gone one for three.
    Colleen was leaning against a pay phone when I came out. I tried to slink by her.
    “You know, Henry Halloran, you're a real hypocrite! You write about trying to be a hero, but when it comes right down to it, when it comes down to really helping a