The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly Page A

stop light. When the Happy Redhead caught me looking, she didn't blanch, just started singing louder, bobbing her head more. She checked out the cellular geek in the Lexus to her left. He was talking animatedly on his car phone, wearing tennis clothes, probably making a deal on a weekend read. When she glanced back at me, I was talking animatedly into my shoe, Bond-like. The Happy Redhead laughed, so I covered the heel and called over to her, “This is a remarkable coincidence. Here I am sitting in a car, and there
you
are sitting in a car. Let's go on a date!”
    She nodded her head. I couldn't tell if it was to me or the music.
    “Seriously,” I said. “I know this is a little bold, but how about we go get some eggs?”
    Well, of course eggs should never be included in pickup lines, and that was the last I ever saw of her.
    The phone was ringing when I got home. I answered and a man said, “That was really stupid, Halloran.”
    Immediately I felt guilty. “Who's this?”
    “Levine.”
    “Who?”
    “Adam Levine.”
    It rang a bell.
    “I'm sorry,” I said. “I, uh—”
    “Aren't you Bob's son?”
    “Huh?”
    “Last week when you conned your way into Hal Markey's office—I was the other guy.”
    “Oh …”
    A tidal wave of embarrassment.
    “Nice try,” he said.
    “Eh.”
    “Very stupid, but a nice try. Do you know why it was stupid?”
    “Um … because it didn't work?”
    “Do you know why it didn't work?
    “Well …”
    “It didn't work because
I was there.
You humiliated him. The way this town works is you make people
look good
, not bad. Markey might've thought it was funny if you hadn't made him look like a fool in front of me.”
    “I wasn't counting on you being there.”
    “You should've had a backup plan.”
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Anyway, I read your script.”
    “You did?” “It's not bad.” “Yeah?”
    “Why don't we meet?” he said. “Do you work for Warner's?” “No, I'm an agent. Marshall and Pinson.” “Yeah?”
    “I'll have my assistant call you in the morning. We're in Century City. She'll give you the details.” “Great,” I said. “Great.”
    referred to the Marshall and Pinson group as a “boutique agency,” which sounded to me like a place specializing in gay films but was really just a fluffy way of saying they were small and preferred it that way. This was bullshit, of course. No agency
wanted
to stay small, and if they did, why the hell had they called me on a Sunday? But because they
were
small, they were able to give new writers more personal attention than the CAAs and ICMs of the world—or so he claimed.
    Levine, as he preferred to be called, had long frizzy hair parted on the side and a very large hooked nose on a muscly face. A cross between Kenny G, Tiny Tim, and Fred Flintstone's phonograph. He'd graduated from Cornell and he still retained a New York accent. The man looked psychotic, but he was quite sane and he knew the business as well as anyone I would meet.
    “So do you think you can sell it?” I asked after we'd bullshitted for a few minutes.
    “The truth?”
    “Lie to me.”
    “Very likely,” he said.
    “That a lie?”
    “Yes.”
    “How unlikely is it?”
    “You've got a better chance winning a big dick competition in South Central.”
    Levine walked out from behind his desk.
    “Hey, hey, hey, come on,” he said, “I didn't call you in here just to break your balls. We're gonna be able to use this script as a writing sample.”
    He picked up a small basketball off the floor.
    “What do you mean?”
    He took aim at a minibasket in the corner of the room, then retrieved his miss.
    “You know, we'll run it around town, maybe get someone to hire you on another assignment.”
    “If this would get me hired on another job, then why won't they buy it?”
    “They just won't.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because the studios are looking for high concept.”
    “What's that?”
    Levine ran his fingers through his hair and I wished I'd gone