“Dude,” he says. “This is really not cool.”
Angelenos. As if not cool is the correct way to describe being tied up and interrogated. “Did she go home with you?”
“What?”
“Don’t act like you don’t do this five nights a week, Henderson. I’m asking the questions. You answer the questions.”
“And then you’ll let me go?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. Dummy. “Then I’ll let you go. So yes or no, did she go home with you?”
He looks at the wall. “I told you I don’t know.”
“Henderson.” I stand. This is fucking ridiculous. “It is very simple. You met her at Soho House. You asked what she year she graduated. Finish the fucking story.”
He growls. “Okay, fuck it! Fuck it! There is no story to finish because she’s not my girlfriend. I made it up!”
I stare at him. “You just pointed to her the other night. You said ‘hi, Amy.’”
He laughs, patronizing. “It’s a TV show,” he lectures. “I pointed at a plant.”
People in this business; all they do is make shit up. “You mean, you’re not with her?”
He sneers. “She never even wrote me back, kid. I sent her a dick pic. She must be a prude. Or a lezzie. Or a fucking nut job.”
“So why the hell are you out there telling people she’s your girlfriend?”
He writhes. “Because that’s my job! I can’t go out there and talk about banging hotties every night! Because sometimes they want your bits to be about relationship shit! Because on TV you make. Shit. Up.”
“You never slept with her?”
He laughs. “I told you. She’s a lezzie or a prude.”
I stab the chair. He’s the same annoying fuck he is on the show; not everything is made up.
He whistles. “Yoo-hoo, buddy! Can we fucking move on from this shit already?”
I’m sick of California with the lies and the jagged earth and the hills and the monotony. I walk into the bathroom. And no, we can’t move on from this shit. It doesn’t add up. Blueberries. I bolt out of the bathroom.
“If you didn’t sleep with her, why did she say her ex was bad at sex?” I demand.
He heaves. “This is fucking tired.” He chomps and snorts and he’s a dog, a spoiled dog. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s break it down already. I met a chick named Amy. She said she hated my show, which obviously made my dick hard because most of the time girls are just throwing themselves at me.” This, at least, is good to know. He continues. “She wouldn’t go home with me. She said she’s not that kind of girl but, you know, the ones that say that, they’re the ones who will do just about anything a day later, right? So I got her digits and sent her a picture of my dick.”
Revolting. All of it. The idea of dicks in Amy’s phone. “And?”
“And nothing,” he says.
“How did you know about blueberries?” I ask.
He laughs. “She said the best sex she ever had was with some guy, some blueberries, I dunno, bar talk. I told you. I make shit up. I turn it around. Nobody wants to hear me go off about how my lady’s ex is, like, the shit in bed. It’s called a fucking comedy routine, son. It’s called, comics make shit up. It’s called, let’s get you paid.”
He really thinks he’s getting out of this and I walk into the bathroom. I turn on the water. Best sex she ever had. Still, she ran away from me, from love, from all the good we shared. She would rather sit in a bar and lie to strangers than be with me. Charlotte & Charles. Bullshit. She makes Tinder Banger Calvin seem like John Fucking Sweetie Pie Cusack and I get it now. I’m too good for her. Way too good for her. My hands are too good at grabbing her ass and my dick was too appetizing to her and she loved me so much she couldn’t stand it.
I check on Henderson. He’s revved up again, moaning and thrashing. “Can we get the show on the road?”
“Hold on,” I say. “We’re not done just yet.”
“Dude,” he says. “Go get her back. Fuck me. Fuck this.”
I look through his phone but there are so many fucking Amys in here: Amy Toronto and Amy Chubby and Amy Bad Nose and Amy Tits and Amy Ass.
“Who came first?” I ask. “Amy Tits or Amy Ass?”
“Dude,” he says. “You try meeting this many people. You have no idea what it is to be in my position.”
“No,” I say. “But I guess Amy Gym and Amy Chateau and Amy Marmont and Amy Blowjob know about positions.”
“Stop it,” he says. “Don’t act like there’s anyone in there that didn’t wanna be in there.”
“Even Amy Fat Ass?”
“Especially Amy Fat Ass,” he says. “Stop it. Come on.”
“Tell me,” I say. “Did Amy Blowjob get on her knees before or after you put her name in your phone?”
“I have four women writers on my staff,” he boasts. “And I only banged two of ’em.”
I look at his phone. “Which one did you bang? Amy Fish Lips or Amy Sponsor?”
“That’s private,” he snaps. “Neither. Fuck. Stop it. Seriously.”
But there are so many more. “Does Amy Sponsor One know about Amy Sponsor Two?”
“Kid,” he says. “You quit now, you get paid. You fuck around, you don’t.”
“Who gives better head, Amy Sponsor One or Amy Sponsor Two?”
“That’s an AA thing,” he barks. “I was in that for a while, and that’s that.”
“But I guess that’s not how you met Amy Grey Goose and Amy Tequila.”
I laugh but he struggles. “Dude,” he says. “I don’t lie to these girls. I’m not the bad guy. This is fucking beat, kid. You gotta stop.”
“Did you meet Amy Bellagio after you boarded Amy American Airlines or before?”
“Fuck off,” he snaps. “I’m serious. Cut. Stop. Enough.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “This isn’t your show, Henderson. Do you not get that by now?”
Frankie Valli continues to croon in the background, lecturing adolescent men about their juvenile posture. Henderson meanwhile screams and I search for Amy Blueberries. She lives here too, and I never felt so betrayed. My girlfriend, his phone. She looks foul here, lumped between Amy Blue Balls and Amy Bradley Whitford Party. I want to kill her. I want to kill Henderson. I dial Amy Blueberries and it brings me to a familiar recording. This phone’s not in service anymore; fucking Amy.
Henderson howls, red and enraged. He wants out of his shackles. Five seconds ago he was talking to me about getting paid and you really can’t trust anyone here. No wonder Amy thought she’d feel at home.
I search his phone for communications with Amy Blueberries. I feel like I’m going to get diseases just from looking at these texts and I am so disgusted with him, his abuse of power. I bet Jack Nicholson never did anything like this and I bet Paul Newman never asked women to come over bring two other chicks I want to watch you eat each other out. All his requests are honored. The girls come over. They bring other girls. It’s all horrifying and pornographic and he is one of America’s favorite men and this isn’t Bill Clinton falling for an intern and this isn’t Hugh Grant bumbling with a tranny on Hollywood Boulevard. This is revolting. He doesn’t delete any of the messages and the girls are always writing to him gushing about his dick—it’s HUGE and HOT—even though he ignores them once he gets into their pants. He is a loveless narcissist and only interested in the new. Just like on his show, the way he makes fun of our nostalgic fucking culture and brings on one soulless noisy band after another, all of them disposable. Then he gets home and rocks out to the Jersey Boys soundtrack and obsesses over pictures of his ex-fucking-wife. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done, honoring his request for water. I turn off my music.