Why Not Me? (19 page)

And he is so funny. When I first moved to Los Angeles, and I was lonely and homesick for New York, B.J. cheered me up simply by making me laugh. Sometimes it was inadvertent. If you went into the writers’ kitchen after B.J. had been there, you could always tell. Several of the cabinet doors would be wide open, and one time he even left the refrigerator door open. It was like a teenage ghost had been there before you and had taken all the Chex Mix and soy milk with him. It was so funny to me. But more often, though, it was intentional. He wrote my favorite joke of all time: “I learned nothing in college. It was really kind of my own fault. I had a double major: psychology and reverse psychology.” His impression of the character Stanley Hudson on
The Office
makes me laugh harder than anything. If you ever run into him—even if he’s at dinner or on a hike—definitely stop him and have him do his “Stanley.” He’ll really appreciate you asked, I promise.

I, in return, decided he was the best person I had ever met. In my relationship with B.J., he has always been the more worldly, cleverer, and more poised one. Why? Because he has lived in L.A. longer, he was a comedy writer before me, he is more well read than me, he even seems to understand
Lost
somehow. He has always played that role. Suddenly for the first time ever, he was looking to
me
for reassurance. It felt so foreign to me. “It’s going to be OK,” I said, not sure if I had ever uttered that phrase to another person. “I promise.” He closed his eyes and nodded, his grip on me still tight.

When the plane stabilized a few minutes later, and our pilot reverted to his confident, folksy self—“In a few hours there’ll be a great view of the Finger Lakes to your left!”—I felt B.J. relax, and he loosened his grip on my arm. I knew he was a little self-conscious now, but I was happy. When the pilot explained we had to make an emergency stop in Buffalo for more fuel, I nodded at a worried B.J. and said, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.” He was relieved. Most people who know B.J. will go the entire length of their relationship with him without having the moment where he is vulnerably looking to them for help. Now I had experienced it, and I felt closer to him. All it had taken was a dangerous electrical storm that terrorized a plane full of innocent people and ruined one perfectly good shirt with a red wine stain. I think it was worth it.

My mother passed away in 2011. She was a warm and sociable person, but she did not suffer fools. In fact, that policy extended beyond fools. She did not suffer lazy people, pretentious people, liars, the sloppy, or the inarticulate. Basically she suffered very few people, and it was hard to earn her respect. But she always really respected B.J. Maybe it was something about his confidence, but I think it had more to do with the fact that he, like her, is a very serious person who loves nothing more than a smart joke. They had a fondness and mutual respect for each other, even through the tumultuousness of our twenties.

She said of him, “B.J. is your equal,” which is saying a lot, because my mother thought I was literally the best person she had ever met.

Later, when she got sick, B.J. came to Boston to visit her in the hospital, and he did something I will always be profoundly grateful for. He did for her what he had done for me when I was a nervous, homesick, heartbroken New York transplant hired on my first writing job on season 1 of
The Office
. He made her laugh.

And that is why B.J. and I are soul mates, and the reason is … because in terms of the soul, we like to … That doesn’t make any sense. We’re soup snakes. B.J. and I are soup snakes.

¹
If quoting
The Catcher in the Rye
right off the bat scares you, you’re really not going to like when I reference
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
and
Animal Farm
later. Basically, I stopped reading after ninth grade. Just kidding! Just keep reading!

ONE OF THE PRESIDENT’S MEN

I
AM AT DINNER
with a tall, handsome blond man and I have told myself I will not sleep with him. We are eating at a small-plates restaurant because, in Los Angeles, you are legally required to go to a small-plates restaurant on your third date. I’m a little drunk because I really like the blond man, whose name is Will, and I want him to think I have a carefree personality, which is a lie. I have a very anxious, argumentative personality. Two Moscow Mules become three. I feel myself descending into drunken agreeableness. My outrage about normally hot-button topics fades. “Good for those
Entourage
guys for making a movie!” I hear myself saying. “I can’t wait to see what they’ve been cookin’ up all these years!” I am now a textbook great date. Thanks, alcohol!

At the end of the date, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. The back of my Alexander Wang dress is soaked through with nervous sweat, like I am testifying in front of Judge Judy and I definitely stole my ex-husband’s favorite dog. I’m so relieved that I decided to wear black for what feels like the first time in my life. I pat my forehead with a damp paper towel, look in the mirror, and say, “You are a strong, powerful woman with incredible self-discipline.” In the low glow of the bathroom light I seem resolute and kind of hot, actually, in an Olivia-Pope-being-tortured-for-state-secrets sort of way. I am so proud.

When I get back to the table, Will has already paid the check and stands as I approach. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says, matter-of-factly, resting his hand firmly on the small of my back. If he feels how damp my dress is, he doesn’t seem to care. “I want to see your place.”

Oh my God, I thought. I think I might be about to hook up with someone who works for the president of the United States.

THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD WOULD LIKE TO MEET YOU

May, a Year Earlier

I’ve attended some pretty glamorous events over the years, like the Costume Ball at the Met, the Golden Globes, and the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party. They are usually held at distinguished cultural institutions like the Met or the Annenberg Center—always beautiful spaces that are home to priceless works of art.

The first thing they do when a Hollywood party rents out the place is push all the art to the corner so it doesn’t get in the way. They have to do that so there’s room for a red carpet, a bar, a prime rib carving station, a photo booth, and, for some reason, an Acura parked inside, in the middle of the party floor. There’s
always
a parked Acura at every major Hollywood party. Who wants to see some boring Winslow Homer when Scarlett Johansson could be getting sliced prime rib while catching a glimpse of a brand-new Acura coupe?

I’m sorry to say that these parties are actually a little bit of a letdown. First of all, the lighting is usually so dim you can’t see anything, so you wonder why you even wore your expensive heels that are making your feet bleed when your gardening Crocs would’ve been more than fine. But the main reason the parties are a letdown is that I have this Cinderella idea that after spending hours getting ready,
something is going to happen at the ball!
But then, when you end up going to the ball, the best thing that happens is, say, you get a gift bag with some Lara Bars in it.

But one year, I became a somewhat frequent guest of the president of the United States, and it
was
like Cinderella.

Several springs ago, I went to New York for the Upfronts, where everyone in television gathers to hobnob with advertisers. The advertisers are usually clean-cut, skittish, fairly indistinguishable executives named Patricia or John. They had all been drinking since nine a.m. on the networks’ dime and were completely plastered. Patricia was emboldened to confess to me that she had never seen my show, but would I mind taking a photo with her because it would make her sister so jealous. I teach Patricia how to use the camera on her phone, she and I pose as Charlie’s Angels, and when she leaves she kisses me on the lips. That’s pretty much what I did for four hours, and it was actually kind of fun.

In the midst of all this, my publicist Alex texted me. She had received a call from a woman named Sarah Fisher, who worked for the president.

“The president of what?” I asked warily, immediately assuming it was the head of a tampon company who wanted me to Instagram a photo of me holding their goods during National Women’s Menstruation Week or something.

Alex texted back immediately: “Of the United States.” I almost dropped my phone. I excused myself from the Patricias and Johns and went to a quiet corner to call her.

She explained that Sarah Fisher was a huge fan of my book and my show, and, through Instagram, had seen that I was in New York. She was also in New York, traveling with the president for a fund-raiser at the Waldorf Astoria. Later, I would realize that Sarah was one of a small handful of people in President Obama’s inner circle and one of the most powerful people in DC. Sarah was calling to see if I would like to come by between events and “spend some time with the president.”

Spend some time with the president?
Uh, sure, whatever that means! Was I to be presented to the president as a human sex gift, like Marilyn Monroe? I would do that! Would I be able to go to my hotel and change out of my high-waisted comfort briefs first? As I was fantasizing about my life as mistress to the president, I suddenly imagined Michelle Obama’s tall, perfectly proportioned body and thought, OK, that’s definitely not happening. Never picture First Lady Michelle Obama. She is the death of any presidential romance fantasy you might have.

“Yes! When does he want to see me?” I asked.

“Right now.”

Within ninety minutes, I found myself standing outside the Waldorf Astoria. The Waldorf—or “The ’Dorf,” which only I call it (and which I am hoping will take off, so please use it)—is an enormous old hotel in midtown Manhattan that is fancy in the way your great-aunt might like; that is to say, it looks exactly like the inside of the
Titanic
. I breezed in, wearing a bright-blue dress I’d been wearing for my press events. It wasn’t exactly right, but all of my other outfits were too “Mindy Kaling”—that is, best suited for a New Year’s Eve party sponsored by a men’s deodorant body spray.

I was somehow expecting that I would be escorted directly to the president, who would appoint me diplomat to some cool little country like French Zaire (I’m assuming that’s a place). Instead, I was stopped in the Waldorf lobby by a tall blond man in glasses. He introduced himself as Will and shook my hand firmly. Will had the pleasing, mild accent of someone who is not from New England or New York and was good-looking in a Methodist minister kind of way. After spending ten years in Los Angeles, where all the white people are Jewish, Will was actually exotic to me. He was also wearing a suit, which I rarely see on a man under forty years old. In my line of work, every man wears exactly one outfit: khakis, a
Late Night with Jimmy Fallon
T-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. If you don’t wear that, people think you are a Scientologist and no one will eat lunch with you.

Will made small talk with me in the elevator. He said he was from Tennessee. “Oh, like the song,” I said. He didn’t respond. After a beat, I added, “Now,
that’s
a song I haven’t heard in a while.” Another beat. “Great song, though,” I concluded.

It was the kind of babbling one does when they are at the first stages of a nervous crush. Oh, God. Do I have a nervous crush on this guy? I thought.

My perception of people in the White House has been shaped 100 percent by Aaron Sorkin.
The West Wing
and
The American President
were to blame for my feelings for this stranger. The idealism and adorability of Rob Lowe and Bradley Whitford had made me long for a civic-minded beau who is constantly making long, important speeches and taking principled stands. As a person who has to be enticed to vote by a sticker that says
I VOTED
, I’m drawn to people who have strong convictions, and not just about who’s the best
Shark Tank
shark. Here was Will, focused and quiet, probably full of eloquent monologues I just hadn’t heard yet. This, by the way, is the anatomy of a Mindy Kaling crush. Just bear a passing resemblance to a fictional romantic trope I like and I will love you forever. We’re all just trying to find the Mark Darcy of our workplace, aren’t we?