FROM: RAY HANDLER
SENT: SEPT 19 10:01:54 2008
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
I NORMALLY SLEEP FROM MIDNIGHT TO 4 AM. LAST NIGHT, I TRIED SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
12:05 AM RECEIVE PHONE CALL FROM SLOTIME (SLOANE), WHO INDICATES THAT I NEED TO CALL DAD ASAP.
12:10 CALL PLATYPUS; HE INDICATES HE NEEDS AN ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, PICK-UP; SINCE I'M THE ONLY ONE WITHOUT A FAMILY OR A GIRLFRIEND, HE INDICATES THAT IT MAKES THE MOST SENSE FOR ME TO PICK HIM UP.
12:15 DEPART WEST CALDWELL, NJ.
1:30 ARRIVE AT SUNOCO STATION, WHERE MOM'S VAN HAS BEEN TOWED TO IN ALLENTOWN, PA; THE VEHICLE HAD OVERHEATED AND THE ENGINE WAS SHOT.
1:35 PAY $123 FOR HIS TOW CHARGE BECAUSE HE HAS NO CASH AND DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY HIS SUNOCO GAS CARD DOESN'T ALSO ALLOW HIM TO WITHDRAW CASH.
1:40 DEPART ALLENTOWN WITH MELVIN AND HIS 22-YEAR-OLD BLACK MAID AND HER SIMILARLY AGED AND PIGMENTED GIRLFRIEND.
1:45 SMALL TALK FROM DAD ABOUT HOW HE HAD TAKEN THE TWO GIRLS TO NEARBY DORNEY PARK (ROLLER COASTERS, WATER SLIDES AND OTHER FUN THINGS FOR 75-YEAR-OLD MEN) FOR THE DAY BECAUSE HE HAD PROMISED TO DRIVE THEM THERE.
2:00 AFTER MELVIN WONDERS ALOUD WHY YOU NEED A SEPARATE ATM CARD AND WHAT EXACTLY A PIN IS, I TELL HIM WHY A PIN IS REQUIRED FOR AN ATM CARD, AND THAT SUNOCO GAS CARDS ARE CREDIT CARDS FOR THE SUNOCO GAS STATION ONLY, NOT CASH CARDS. THIS IS NEW AND SHOCKING INFORMATION FOR MELVIN.
2:10 MELVIN COMMENTS ON THE "SMOOTH RIDE" OF THE MERCEDES E320.
2:50 MELVIN GIVES ME DRIVING INSTRUCTIONS TO THE GIRLS' EAST ORANGE NEIGHBORHOOD THAT ARE COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WAY, INEFFICIENT AND DANGEROUS, SINCE THEY GO THROUGH SOME OF THE WORST INNER-GHETTO SIDE STREETS OF NEWARK. THE GIRLS START SNAPPING AT HIM THAT HE'S GOING COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WAY AND THE WRONG WAY. MELVIN TELLS ONE OF THE GIRLS TO "SAVE IT."
3:05 PROCEED THROUGH SOME OF THE SCARIEST STREETS I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE. OCCASIONAL DERELICTS WALK AIMLESSLY AND MENACINGLY THROUGH THE STREETS. I WONDER HOW I'M GOING TO ARTICULATE MY LIKELY IMMINENT BODILY INJURIES/STOLEN CAR/AND OR DEATH TO THE FAMILY AND GIRLFRIEND I DON'T HAVE.
3:10 SOMEHOW, WE MAKE IT TO THEIR EAST ORANGE NEIGHBORHOOD AND THE GIRLS ARE INCREASINGLY HURLING BITTER AND ANGRY
INSULTS AT DAD FOR SOME REAL OR IMAGINED TRANSGRESSIONS. THEY GO FOR THE FULL
MELTDOWN AND DEMAND TO GET OUT OF THE CAR IMMEDIATELY. I STOP, THEY EXIT THE VEHICLE IN A HUFF, AND WE PROCEED AWAY AS A DARKENED POLICE CAR LURKS DOWN THE BLOCK.
3:11 THE EAST ORANGE POLICE AND A BACK-UP PULL US OVER AND ASK ME FOR MY PAPERWORK. THEN THEY ASK US WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON. I SAY I WAS PERFORMING LIVERY SERVICES FOR POPSICLE AND HIS MAID/FRIEND. HE ASKS ME TO STEP TO THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE AND THEN TELLS ME PRIVATELY THAT THE TWO INDIVIDUALS WE JUST DROPPED OFF ARE WELL-KNOWN LADIES OF THE NIGHT AND OUR BEHAVIOR LOOKS PRETTY SUSPICIOUS, TO PUT IT MILDLY. HE ADVISES ME TO STAY OUT OF EAST ORANGE.
3:30 POPSICLE MENTIONS THAT WHEN YOU HANG AROUND WITH GARBAGE PEOPLE, THE END RESULT WILL BE GARBAGE.
3:40 DROP POPSICLE AT 35 MORNINGSIDE DRIVE. HE POINTS TO ONE OF THE DECREPIT JALOPIES IN HIS DRIVEWAY AND PROUDLY PROCLAIMS, "THERE'S MY NEW VEHICLE."
4:00 AM ARRIVE IN WEST CALDWELL.
9:04 AM SHOW UP BRIGHT-EYED AND BUSHY-TAILED TO MY JOB. HOW MUCH IS EUTHANASIA? AND WHAT IS EUTHANASIA?
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
RE: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
TIME: SEPT 19, 11:10:43
PLEASE TELL ME THIS DID NOT REALLY HAPPEN. IF THIS IS A TRUE STORY, I THINK WE SHOULD HAVE HIM COMMITTED. SIDNEY?
From: Sidney Handler
Re: The Hits Just Keep on Coming
Time: Sept 18, 2008 12:10:34
We can't commit him to an institution because he knows the date, time, and the president of the United States. I have looked into this, and even though he's completely out of step with modern-day society, he still has all his faculties. Poor Mom, she's probably rolling over in her grave that he didn't even pay for.
Sent via BlackBerry
FROM: SLOANE HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18, 12:38:34
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
OBJECTION!!! HE DOES NOT HAVE ALL HIS FACULTIES. HE DEFINITELY PEED ON MY SOFA THE OTHER DAY. I HAVE TO PUT NEWSPAPER DOWN WHEN HE COMES OVER! ISN'T THAT ALL THE PROOF WE NEED? HE THINKS HE'S COMING WITH US TO PUERTO RICO FOR CHRISTMAS, BUT I THINK WE SHOULD TELL HIM CHRISTMAS IS ON A DIFFERENT DAY THIS YEAR, BECAUSE HE WILL ONLY EMBARRASS US, AND I'M WORRIED ABOUT CHELSEA'S AND MY PROFILE. HER CAREER HAS HAD AN ASTONISHINGLY POSITIVE EFFECT ON MY SOCIAL LIFE, AND I'VE BEEN CONTACTED VIA FACEBOOK BY ALMOST EVERY PERSON IN HIGH SCHOOL THAT WAS MEAN TO ME. I'M NOT PREPARED TO TAKE TWO STEPS BACK AT THIS JUNCTURE. AND WHY DOES HE NEED A HOOKER IF HE HAS A GIRFLRIEND?
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18 12:45:55
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
SLOANE, ARE YOU STUPID? OBVIOUSLY, HIS GIRLFRIEND IS A HOOKER.
MOM IS NOT ROLLING OVER IN HER GRAVE, SHE IS LAUGHING HER ASS OFF. SHE WARNED US ALL THAT HE IS A BIG ASSHOLE, AND THAT ONCE SHE WAS GONE, THERE WOULD BE NO ONE TO KEEP HIS BEHAVIOR IN CHECK. I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE THAT EUTHANIZATION IS STILL ILLEGAL. WHAT DOES THAT REQUIRE?
From: Greg Handler
Time: Sept 18 12:59:01 P.M.
Subject: The Hits Just Keep on Coming
Chelsea, Google Dr. Jack Kevorkian, and you can educate yourself on euthanizing someone. I believe Mario, Dad's new mozzarella-stick friend, has some low-level Mafia ties. With The Sopranos off the air, there's also plenty of the cast members who are no longer employed, and I'm sure one or more would be open to making a cool three hundred and fifty dollars. A different approach, but effective nonetheless.
Girls, cool it with the all caps. Ray invented capitalizing all words and proper misspelling.
FROM: CHELSEA HANDLER
TIME: SEPT 18 1:05:18 P.M.
SUBJECT: THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING
ANOTHER OPTION WOULD BE FOR EACH OF US TO KILL OURSELVES. WHO'S WITH ME?
From: SIDNEY HANDLER
Time: SEPT 18 1:25:19 P.M.
Subject: PLATYPUS RULES
If you killed yourself, Ted would kill himself, and we shouldn't be involving any other families. Let's please try and keep the hooker tale between each other and not tell spouses and/or boyfriends. This isn't something I want people knowing about.
As an attorney, I am advising all of you to stop sending emails regarding "a hit" and/or euthanasia at this time. Please call me immediately.
Sent via BlackBerry
The next week my father got a bid on his house to the tune of $600,000 and then threatened to sue the Asian family for making such a low offer. Shortly after, my brother showed him his latest legal bill, which was in the amount of $23,000 and was from a law firm that he tried to sue for malpractice after they lost my father's case to make our neighbors cut down their trees in their own yard. His issue: They were pine trees and, being a Jew, my father does not appreciate Christmas trees being shoved in his face. He believed they were anti-Semitic trees and that the people living behind those trees were clearly Nazi sympathizers. Shortly after that, Greg showed him Exhibit B: a judgment from the Martha's Vineyard court against my father in the amount of $17,000, for a case he lost when he tried to represent himself pro se against our other neighbors, who no longer wanted to share their path to the beach with my father, because he usually walks down naked.
After a little negotiating with the nice Asian family, they were finally able to come up to $625,000. This proved to be perfect timing for the last thing Greg was holding in his arsenal. It was Platypus's bank statement, which said -$42.67.
This was the day my father sold his home, and after all the bills and payments he needed to pay to clear his name (that we know about), he was left with a little over $400,000.
He agreed for Greg to be a cosigner on his account, which gave Greg access to monitor our father's account, as well as the right to deny Platypus money
if the amount of any charge exceeds $1,000. Like a child. A very bad child who urinates on other people's furniture.
By February my brother had sent us a litany of charges on my father's latest monthly debit-card breakdown, which showed a total of $201,000. Most were large but not inordinate amounts at the local McDonald's, which he seemed to frequent three times a day. Others were payments to nightclubs in Newark, and one big charge was a Delta Air Lines flight for $754, which was dubious since my father doesn't fly. There were four separate charges for Sean John tracksuits, and a few basketball jerseys, plus a Bluetooth.
I called Greg and asked him how it was possible to blow $200,000 in five months.
"Well, Chelsea, he's either buying a hundred Angus burgers a day or flying to different parts of the country to visit other McDonald's."
"What?"
"That's right. There's two of them. He and his twenty-year-old cleaning hooker are seeing the Grand Ol' U.S. of A.! They're on their way to the Grand Canyon right now."
"Please tell me you're kidding."
"No, Chelsea. He's in great spirits and mailed me a poem he sent Mom thirty years ago that he wants you to put in your new book. He said he has a feeling he isn't going to be shown in the best light, because 'Chelsea has a tendency to confuse the details,' and he doesn't want to disappoint his fans. He wants to offer you the poem for a cool $25,000."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that I'm thinking of a phrase that begins with an 'F' and ends with an 'F.' Would he like to buy a vowel?"
"And?"
"He did not want to purchase a vowel."
SONNET TO SYLVIA III
(The poem my father wanted $25,000 dollars for, but never got.)
I would send roses, stars to my beloved,
bouquets sweet
and bar no lilies from her feet.
Oh, I would send thrushes and martins skyward.
Hers alone would I be: how sure of love
we, who see only one another;
such blindness like a wind-swept sea, becalmed
becomes a kindness soon.
The ships sail homeward seeking port.
Love, unskilled but true, moves onward,
lost in the wake of arms and kisses,
then awakening at last, sees itself.
Storms and seas and kisses run aground
only love that's lost is ever found.
Chapter Ten
Chunk
Flying Southwest Airlines is analogous to being the last one picked for kickball in the third grade. Initially, an "A" boarding pass feels like you've bypassed some system flaw and managed to come out one step ahead of the game. Getting your preference of any row and then, on top of that, having your choice of window, aisle, or middle seat feels borderline aristocratic. When that "A" boarding pass comes flying out of the ticket kiosk into your palm, the whole airport experience shifts from Dora the Explorer to Princess Grace of Monaco.
That sensation quickly turns around once several "B" passengers walk by and look at you like they'd rather catch herpes from back-to-back elephant sex than share a row with you. The excitement of picking the middle seat in the hopes that none of the passengers will bother to sit right next to you soon diminishes into fear and shame that no one even wants to sit next to you. Traveler after traveler rejects you, causing any spike in self-esteem from nabbing an "A" ticket to plummet into LaToya Jackson territory.
"Fuck off," I wanted to tell the leathery, turban-headed anorexic who saw a more appealing seatmate farther down the plane. "Fuck you and the camel you rode in on." I generally don't start farting until the plane's in the air, so the rejection definitely was not ass-related. I was being tossed aside like a piece of Styrofoam before anyone had even bothered to inquire about my hobbies and/or predilection for prescription pills.
I vowed never to fly Southwest again, but Sarah was having her bachelorette weekend in San Francisco, and her maid of honor booked us all on the only airline that had managed to find pilots and a crew who also happened to be hilarious stand-up comedians.
Normally I would book my own flight for such affairs, but I didn't want to rock the boat for two reasons: (a) This was Sarah's second engagement, so I wanted things to go off without a hitch, and (b) I was physically frightened of her maid of honor, Tanya.
Tanya is a friend from Sarah's childhood, and even though I've met her several times over the years, she still seems somewhat shy until she polishes off three to seven Guinness stouts and then forces you to arm-wrestle her. Although I take pride in working out on a semiregular basis, I do not consider myself capable of winning any sort of wrestling match with a boy, a girl, or any sort of Pacific Islander descendant. I get incredibly anxious when challenged to any test of strength and usually end up pulling a groin muscle no matter where the area of strength being challenged is centralized.
I had steered clear of Tanya for the better part of the weekend, but on the last night in San Francisco we all came back to the main suite to continue drinking, and Tanya slowly but surely transformed herself into Michael Vick. Two of the girls had passed out on the floor, and I knew that being trapped in a hotel room with a dwindling crowd was going to minimize my ability to outmaneuver her.
I was doing everything in my wheelhouse to avoid a one-on-one altercation. I averted eye contact when she tackled an innocent lamp that had said and done nothing to her. When I saw an eight-hour-old chicken finger fly through the living room into the bedroom and heard it split in two, I looked yonder. When gummy bears were being hauled in the direction of my head, with one in particular landing inside my ear, I intercepted further missiles with my hand, deftly masking my movement by cupping my ear and pretending to hear knocking on the door. I did not want to give in to the bully and let her know I found her teasing considerably disappointing.
I did, however, step in when she called room service requesting an omelet with three black men inside. I grabbed the phone out of her hand and told the person on the other end of the phone, "Black beans. An omelet with black beans, please." I hung up the phone, unplugged it from the wall, and hid it in my suitcase.
"God, Chelsea," Sarah said, trying to light a cigarette with the remote control. "You've really turned into a killjoy."
"Did you really just hide the phone?" Tanya asked me as I stood with my hands on my hips. I knew by their reactions that certain measures were going to be dealt as a warning to me and my body.
One by one, the remaining six of us were forced to arm-wrestle again and again. It wasn't Tanya's strength that I found intimidating; it was the starry, retarded way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to feed. I didn't even try to put up a fight the first few times, but the celebratory high-fiving and hooting, combined with half a gummy bear's torso still stuck to my eardrum, were reason to grow delirious.
"Fine, you fucker, let's go!" I yelled, getting into position on the floor while my friend Shannon video-recorded what would inevitably turn into a violent episode of The L Word. I hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge. Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering wasn't the worst part; after she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our heads, crushing our faces into the carpeting, and then spank us. It was beyond embarrassing.
The next morning was pretty painful for everyone, and our ride to the airport was quiet. Once we boarded the plane, however, a surge of energy overtook the girls and the conversation quickly turned to Sarah's honeymoon on safari and whether she was planning on letting her fiance fertilize her first egg in the African bush. All the rest of us went through our timelines for children, and inevitably, even though I had put on my eyeshades and was trying to avoid participating in any conversation, I was the last one left to harass.
"I don't want kids," I said without taking off my eyeshades. "That's why I take the morning-after pill every morning, whether I've had sex the night before or not. I also t
ake calcium to keep my bones strong, and Ted and I take Ensure just to stay active." I didn't have the energy or interest in a real conversation and was secretly hoping that Tanya wouldn't order a Bloody Mary when the sky waitress approached. "Has anyone here tried Boniva?" I asked the group.
"You should so have a baby," Tanya advised me.
"Of course she should," Sarah agreed. "She acts like she hates kids, but it's not true. Just look at how she was last night, like a camp counselor. Hiding the phone from us. You're going to change your mind, Chelsea. You'll probably end up with more kids than any of us. Just wait."
I would rather sit next to a transgender person and discuss why every single one I've met smells like a bar in the daytime than listen to people tell me why I want to have children and that I just don't know it yet. I do know, because I'm me and my feelings are the ones in my head. I don't want to have kids, and it's not a device to get attention or have conversations about it. I simply find children incredibly immature and, more often than not, dumb.
"Oh, my God!" Tanya wailed. "Look at this poor dog!" She handed me her BlackBerry so I could look at the picture of the canine. "He's redlined, so they're going to kill him on Monday in San Diego unless you rescue him." I pushed up my eyeshades to see who she was talking to and realized it was me. "He's so sweet. He's beautiful," she persisted.
Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Page 14