Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang

  Chapter Four

  Dudley

  Every once in a while, I like to send out an all-staff e-mail to find out who the dumbest people working on my show are. The e-mail below is something I asked my assistant to devise based on the fact that we still had a doctor's table for a skit we did on the show called "Dr. Lately." Since production had paid to rent the table and we still had it for a few days, I thought it made perfect sense to get our money's worth and see how many people would believe that a gynecologist was coming in to perform a couple of Pap smears. Here is what Eva sent out to the staff:

  Hi there,

  Dr. Clara, MD, will be here on Tuesday, April 14th from 4:30-6:30pm. She is available for individual concentration and will be setting up 20-30 minute appointments on stage 2. Dr. Clara is dedicated to providing outstanding care for patients needing pap smears, adolescent medicine, gynecology, infertility, high-risk obstetrics, STD testing and questions relating to male/female health overall. Space is limited so please email me if you would like to schedule an appointment. She will also be providing the appropriate garments for any examinations. Prices and co-pay vary depending on insurance and for more information on Dr. Clara, MD, and her practice, visit: West Los Angeles Women's Care.com.

  Thanks!!

  I had Eva CC my boyfriend, Ted, on the e-mail so that he could be aware of how I was spending my day, especially since he also happens to be the CEO of the network that my show is on. Ted's office is in a different building from ours, so we are essentially unsupervised and generally unproductive. Ted, instead of realizing that this was obviously a joke, responded with this e-mail to Eva:

  Don't say anything yet to CH but having outside Dr in is a problem as outlined below. I'm going to try to help here but at the very least, the dr is going to have to sign a letter indemnifying us.

  Generally speaking, this is something we would suggest we avoid and not do on our premises... but it also seems as if the wheels have already been put in motion so we need to consider how to handle that as well...

  Below is the e-mail Ted received from his legal team later that day, which he forwarded to Eva:

  Here are two preliminary concerns. There may be an expressed or implied endorsement of this particular physician by us taking such an active role in setting her appointments and allowing her to conduct those appointments on premises, most specifically, pap smears. If the company is perceived as endorsing this physician, do we take on the liability for anything this physician does (including a misdiagnosis?). Second concern is that if there is any medical treatment actually taking place on our premises, are we covered for that from an insurance perspective.

  I am checking on these specifically with outside counsel and will get back to you soon. I can tell you most definitely, that any fertility treatments raise a red flag.

  As soon as I finished reading the e-mail, I picked up the phone and called Ted. "Do you really think that I'm going to have girls in our office go down to Stage 2 on their lunch break for a quick vagina assessment?"

  "Chelsea."

  "Ted."

  "Chelsea."

  "Ted."

  "Jesus, Chelsea."

  He put his phone down and yelled, "It's a joke. There's no gynecologist. It's Chelsea being an asshole. Again."

  "Ted," I said, "did you even read that e-mail that Eva sent? It said the doctor would be available for male/female health-related questions. What gynecologist services men? Either you're a gynecologist or you aren't. You're not a man doctor for women."

  "How would I know that?"

  "Because you're a man! Have you ever been to a gynecologist?"

  "I can't believe I fall for this shit."

  "I thought I was being nice by including you in the joke, and now the joke is on you. Not the two girls on staff who have already booked their appointments."

  "Oh, my God."

  "I know."

  "Are you going to film it?"

  "I hadn't gotten that far, because there was a little bump in the road named Ted."

  "Chelsea, I don't have time for this shit. Now I have to go clear this up."

  "Ted, the e-mail also said 'individual concentration.' It's 'consultation.' What the hell is an individual concentration?"

  "Well, I don't know what you girls do in your appointments, Chelsea. That cost us money. You're paying the legal fees. We had to hire outside counsel."

  "Yes, I know. That's why I'm calling. I assumed you would know that I wouldn't be doling out fertility treatments on a fake doctor's table at the studio."

  "That is something you would do!"

  "Really?"

  "Yes, you're fucking crazy, and you would do something like that, and you're paying the legal bills."

  "I'll be happy to."

  "Good, we'll send you the bill."

  "Good. I'd like to frame it and put it in my office."

  In true Ted form, he was not in on the joke, which is basically the foundation of our relationship. No matter how much time goes by, I am still able to make him believe stories that no one who has completed high school would believe. On separate occasions I've convinced him that I paid sixteen thousand dollars for a pair of sunglasses, that I donated ten thousand dollars to a charity that helps prevent pit bulls from being forced to wear rhinestone collars, and that a pair of my shoes came with two Swiss Army knives under the soles. The jokes are never well-thought-out plans, more like happy accidents that just pop into my head when I look out the window. That is exactly what happened a few weeks later when Dudley came into our life.

  My agents at the time wanted to throw a little congratulatory party celebrating a new deal I had signed. One of them was named John, and he was a rather unusually muscular gay man who lived with an even more unusually muscular gayer man and shared with him an English bulldog named Dudley.

  Their house was in the Hollywood Hills and was decorated the exact way you would expect a couple of gay bear millionaires living in the Hollywood Hills to decorate: very masculine, very expensive, and a lot of lubrication.

  The house was filled with beautiful art and had a very modern but luxuriously comfy feel. Like a resort. A resort with a prison shower the size of a mosh pit and enough waterfalls for a stranger to slip into another stranger's asshole without a moment's notice. In other words, the kind of spa two gay bears from the Hollywood Hills would like to run.

  There were only about nine of us at the little soiree: Ted, two of my agents (John, Claire), my attorney (Jake), my partner (Tom) and his wife (Beth), and Eva, my assistant. I planted myself on the sofa and was talking to Beth and Eva when Dudley sauntered over with his ass in the air, the way only an English bulldog can do.

  Dudley was a dick from the word go. He was sniffing around the hors d'oeuvres while simultaneously licking my uncovered leg, so I immediately gave him a fried ravioli. The setback occurred when Dudley thought the fried ravioli was accompanied by the black cocktail napkin it was on, both of which he demolished with little or no struggle from me.

  I did make a moderate attempt to save the napkin, but after one overly aggressive tug from Dudley I decided it would make less of a scene if I just gave the napkin to him rather than get down on my knees and wrestle a bulldog. I felt I had maybe made the wrong decision when I looked at Eva, who was staring at the dog, horrified, as the last corner of the napkin disappeared.

  "I think we should tell them that their dog just swallowed a napkin," she said, getting up.

  I pulled her down to her seat. "No. It's fine. I give napkins to dogs all the time."

  Ted walked over to us just as Dudley was ready for more, and I told him what happened. "Oh, he'll be fine," he said. "It's just a napkin."

  "It was a four-ply napkin," Eva told him.

  "Okay, cool it," I told her, glaring. "It's fine. I didn't know I had hired a vet," I mumbled loudly enough for her to hear.

  "Those dogs can eat anything," Ted said, dragging me by my arm. "Come on, Chelsea. I found another waterfall."

  Dudl
ey, of course, was hot on my tail from then on, knowing he had found an ally. "I hope the dog doesn't throw up. At least while we're here," I told Ted as he pulled me outside into a scene out of a Costa Rican bathhouse, but classier.

  "We have to get the name of their designer," he exclaimed with a little too much excitement. "This guy is a genius. You can put waterfalls wherever you want."

  "Ted, we live in a condo. This compound is more along the lines of an anal jungle. We can't just rip out our roof and stare at the moon. I can find out where we can get those little glow-in-the-dark stars and glue them to the ceiling. Then you can go off."

  "Well, we can think of something. This is amazing! What is that smell?"

  "It's Dudley," I lied. "It's the napkin."

  Actually I had farted, but I sensed an opening in my path, and, not yet knowing in which direction it was headed, I had to leave all options open.

  "Is it okay to give a dog shellfish?" I asked.

  "Is that what you gave him?"

  "Yeah. That crab thing they were passing around."

  "I don't know, but don't give him any more. I don't think dogs can eat crab," he said, grimacing at Dudley. "Come to the bathroom. I want to show you this bidet I want us to get."

  "I've seen three bidets in fifteen minutes. I'm good."

  "God, it reeks. What the hell kind of napkin was that?"

  "The crab was wrapped in butter lettuce. Maybe that's it."

  "Oooh, that sounds good. I'm gonna go grab one."

  On the way home that night, I mentioned Dudley once more in the car and then let it go. I had to figure out my game plan of where I was going to take this little doozy of a story.

  "I can still smell Dudley's farts," Ted declared as we descended a hill so steep that the only safe form of transportation would have been a rickshaw.

  "It's not Dudley anymore. It's me."

  "Was it you the whole time?"

  "Yes."

  "Maybe you're allergic to shellfish."

  In the car on the way to work the next morning, I heard my phone ring and saw that it was Ted. I picked up and started wailing. "John's assistant just called. The dog died after we left last night."

  "No!"

  "Yes!" I heaved into my steering wheel, which I mistakenly believed held my speaker.

  "Oh, my God, you're kidding me, right?"

  "Do I sound like I'm kidding, Ted? I haven't spoken to him yet, but Eva just called me and told me his assistant called. She's calling everyone at the party."

  "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Do you think it was the napkin?"

  "It had to have been. Or the shellfish," I reminded him.

  "Oh, my God! Do not tell anyone that you gave him the napkin or the shellfish. Who else was there when you gave it to him?" he demanded.

  "It was just Eva and Beth."

  "Okay, just don't tell anyone else that was there. Do not tell anyone, Chelsea. Do you understand me?"

  "I don't feel comfortable asking Eva to lie for me if I killed a dog."

  "Did she sign her confidentiality agreement?"

  "Yes, but she didn't see what I fed Dudley. She just saw the tail end of him eating the napkin. I'll say it was one of those raviolis."

  "Okay."

  I felt a new wave of fake tears ready to make their way through the phone just in time for me to explode, "I'm a murderer, Ted! I'm a murderer. A dog murderer! I'm just like Phil Spector minus the music career."

  "No, Chelsea, you need to get ahold of yourself. You are not a murderer! This was an accidental dog homicide!"

  "What if they find out?"

  "No one's going to find out anything. Let me make a few calls. I'll call John to give my condolences and feel around to find out if he suspects anything. Stay strong. You did nothing wrong. This was an accident. Chelsea.... I love you."

  "Thanks," I muttered as meekly as possible, and then added, "His assistant said they were doing an autopsy."

  "What?!"

  "An autopsy."

  "The dog is fucking ten years old! They said last night they gave him open-heart surgery two months ago."

  "I know. That means they think something fishy happened last night. They're going to find out. I can't believe I killed someone's dog." We hung up the phone, and I spent the rest of my ride into work craning my head around trying to find out where exactly the speakerphone in my car was located. Ted's voice had sounded like it was coming straight out of the sky.

  I had an extra bounce in my step walking into the office that day and headed straight into Tom's office, where he was sitting with Brad, one of the writers on my show.

  "What did you think about that dog Dudley last night?" I asked Tom as I sat down on the sofa opposite Brad.

  "I'll tell you what I thought of Dudley," Tom said, placing his morning coffee on his desk. "I believe Dudley is what two bears can produce when they fall madly, deeply in love under a waterfall. A cub in the shape of a bulldog that goes by the name of Dudley."

  "I thought that dog looked like he could take a punch in the face. And I wanted to punch him, because he didn't stop farting all night."

  "That was you, and you're a fool if you think everybody at that party didn't know it."

  "That may be true, but that's not what I'm here to discuss. Let me tell you a little story about Dudley. Last night I fed him a ravioli, and he ate the whole napkin with it. For Ted's benefit I later changed the ravioli to one of those crab appetizers. I spoke to Ted earlier this morning and told him that Dudley passed away last night and they're doing an autopsy today at three."

  Anyone who has seen Brad on the show knows how ridiculous-looking he is, but to see him when his face turns bright red and he is unable to control his heart-attack-like fits of hysteria is worth playing any practical joke on anyone. He immediately starts contorting his body and grabbing his head, and his face turns into the exact color of his ridiculous orange hair. Basically the same way a person would react during an earthquake, minus the laughter. "How can he believe you?" he bellowed as he started writhing on the couch. "How can he believe anything you say anymore? A dog autopsy?! Who the hell gets a dog autopsy?!"

  While Brad was going into what anyone walking by the office would perceive to be seizures, Tom was as cool as a cucumber.

  "This is excellent work, Chelsea. I like what you've done here."

  "You have to call him on speakerphone and let us listen!" Brad sobbed.

  "Cool your heels, Tinker Bell," Tom told him. "This has to be thought out very carefully. You need to call all the other people that were there last night and tell them the deal. There's a lot of potential here. What's your weekend looking like?"

  "Wide open."

  "Well, why don't we stage a little dog funeral somewhere and have our little producer, Mr. Johnny Kansas, film the whole episode. You're on Leno Tuesday night. You know how much Ted likes to be on television."

  This was true. As much as he pretends he hates it, Ted loves to be talked about or displayed on television.

  "Johnny!" Tom yelled.

  Johnny walked in, and Tom asked him what his plans were for this weekend.

  "I've got a christening on Sunday," he told us. "I'm free Saturday."

  "Then Saturday it is. Where can we have the funeral?" Tom asked me.

  "Well, it would have to be somewhere on our side of town, because there's no way I'm going to drive forty-five minutes for a fake funeral. How about the Santa Monica Pier? We can say we're spreading Dudley's ashes because he wanted to be cremated."

  "The Santa Monica Pier!" Brad was now slamming his head on the arm of the sofa. "I can't take it! I can't take it! Dog ashes at the Santa Monica Pier!"

  "Brad, pull yourself together, you fucking idiot. This is business," Tom told him.

  "Okay, okay, okay, wait! You have to do the funeral after five so I can come."

  "No, you can't come. You'll give it away before he even finds out," I admonished him.

  "No! I have to be there."

  "Brad is not c
oming," Johnny said, looking at him in disgust. "He'll ruin everything."

  "Brad, you're not coming," I told him again. "But I will call Ted on speakerphone to tell him about the funeral, and you can listen."

  "Not on my watch," Johnny said as he walked out. "I will not be a party to this other than videotaping the funeral."

  "Hi, sweetie," Ted said in his very melodramatic way when he picked up the phone.

  "They're having a funeral on Saturday at the Santa Monica Pier."

  Brad jumped off the sofa and buried himself under Tom's desk, which had been vacated when Tom stood to shut the door.

  "A funeral? I just got off with John, and he didn't say anything about a funeral."

  "You just got off with John?" I asked, thinking I was screwed because I hadn't even spoken to John yet. "And?"

  "And he sounded awful. I don't think he suspects anything. He just sounded terrible."

  I looked over at Tom, who was standing by the door rubbing his goatee, and his eyes widened.

  "Well, did he say anything about what might have caused it?"

  "No, he says they just had open-heart surgery on the dog a few months ago, so he doesn't understand what happened."

  The amount of fluid that you could hear coming out of Brad's body was unsettling. Luckily, the desk muffled his fits of laughter enough for Ted not to hear. I walked behind the desk and kicked him.

  "He didn't say anything about a funeral, Chelsea. I don't think we have to go."

  "No, his assistant is e-mailing everyone at the party. They want everyone who was there when he left the world to be there when he enters the ocean."

  That was the only line I actually had trouble delivering with a straight face, and I fumbled a little but made a quick recovery. "It's Saturday."

  "Saturday?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh, my God. I have to go to a dog funeral on a Saturday?"

  "It's at the Santa Monica Pier."

  "Well, at least that's not too far."

  This was just like Ted, to have a problem with the event as a whole but not take issue with the idea that the dog's ashes were basically being spread off a circus fairground into the Pacific Ocean.