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Jenny does not Describe herself as a feminist, doesn’t have it in her Twitter bio, doesn’t post pictures of her dyed armpit hair on Instagram. But that's mostly because she finds those actions performative, and feminism is actions, not an identity. However, she doesn’t surround herself with anti-feminist either, which means Twitter blew up when they saw a picture of Jenny and Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier hanging out together.
Up until now, Alison was not aware that they even knew each other. Okay, yes, Jenny is a big name and goes to big name parties, which Alison doesn’t go to because she’s C-List at best. But in her opinion, Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier is B-List, and the only reason that everyone in big-name comedy knows him is because everyone in big-name comedy hates him. Alison will tell anyone that.
The fact that everyone knows the “Trashmouth” other than just through word of mouth also astounds her. Somehow, despite seeing him puke on a rug or a prized orchid because “What? Like you haven’t puked in a bush?” he still gets let into every party. Alison isn’t jealous. She has a life outside of getting wasted.
Her friends do, too; that’s why they are friends. That, and they are feminists. So it’s obvious why she can’t just sit by and let Jenny make this sort of mistake. That’s a lie; Jenny is her own woman capable of independent choice, and Ali has no problem watching her fuck up, but how the fuck is Alison supposed to just reconcile this information?
The obvious answer is just ask your friend dummy. However, Ali has never gone for the obvious answer. Instead, she choses confrontation. Form: phone call.
She types in Jenny’s number by heart and is answered on the first ring. Before her friend can even get a ‘hello’ out of her mouth, Ali says, “What the fuck, babe?”
After a beat or two Jenny answers, “Oh, is this about Tozier?” Which, duh.
“Duh,” Alison answers. Not her best moment.
“Man, I don’t know what everyone’s so surprised about,” Jenny answers. “We've hung out forever. Dude watches my kids.”
_______________
As far as Nichole was concerned, Richie Tozier was a good guy, but not as far as Jason was. One of the worst, actually. Yeah, yeah, he’s happy that Tozier helped out his girlfriend even if it was before he knew her. The story is alright. Nicole was at a cast party which he knows because Nichole has told him the story several times, each time focusing just a little too much on his forearm definition. Sure his arms are important to the story, but so were a lot of other details. Including, well, the fact that Richie is also an asshole, just not as big as the other guy.
The night started like any other. Nichole arrived tastefully on time which meant that she got first crack at all the other losers that show up early, networking with the small fries and such. At the time, she was also a small fry. Richie on the other hand showed up two hours in when no one would notice that he wasn’t on the cast… which he told people as a conversation starter. Except, as comes up twice in this story, he’s a liar, a goddamn liar. He had a voice role, which got cut, but he still had one and was still given express permission to be at the party.
You know who else was welcome at the party? The secondary director, Martin Heels. He came up to Nichole and said he noticed her work on the props and that he wanted a picture to let people know he knew her before she got big because she was going to be big. Yeah, it was big talk, and yeah, they all knew it was a white lie, but a picture was nothing. Until, of course, Heels grabbed her ass.
This is where the story gets to be a story: Tozier flew in out of nowhere (or from the bar) and decked the dude. Square in the face. Knocked him the fuck over. And, as Nichole will state smugly, it took Heels’ hand straight off of her. From the rest, Tozier checked up on Nichole and left, handing her his leftover drink voucher.
Don’t get Jason wrong, Tozier did a solid for his girlfriend, and even if it was before he knew her, he respects it. What he doesn’t respect though, is that Tozier let the blame fall on Bill Hader for punching the dude. At least three magazines and TMZ reported it. Which meant… Jason has never seen Bill Hader at a cast party. Nor has he seen the man in general. Fucked up if you ask him.
_______________
This is a job, Amy reminds herself, just a job, she doesn’t have to agree with everything she writes. In fact, it is a very good job to be on the writing team as an editor for a stand-up comedian who sells out every show. A resume like this could open some doors for her and better, James was nice enough that he would write her a stellar reference as long as she proved herself today. That means sitting down and shutting up until she has something constructive to say.
Why couldn’t he just talk about his wife again? Amy likes her. She likes a wife guy.
Despite her building disillusionment in James, she listens as he goes through his routine:
“Everyone seems to be jumping on the bandwagon to liking Richie Tozier. It seems a bit unfair to me because I’ve liked him this whole time. I want some clout for that. Yeah, you’re a gay ally for following him back on Twitter, but I liked him before we all had the excuse of him being a homosexual. Okay, so maybe not the whole time, but since 2008.
“I am a polite little man who comes up here in a suit, freshly shaven as if by a 1930’s straight razor, and not in the Sopranos' murder way. He is a man who has never ironed a shirt in his life. I’m not sure he has ever washed one, either. He shaves twice a day, I know, with a throw-away razor. I am not sure of that fact. I do not know him as a liar, but he might be… We have been friends for nine and a half years, and I know absolutely nothing about that man. He reminds me of my father, if my father had ever told me about the joys of anal sex while pretending to be heterosexual.
“He knows enough about me though. Not to toot my own horn, but I am a polite person, as referenced before. Hollywood is not, however, which is why I saw him walk into a party at my friends' house once and immediately texted my wife for help.
“I have never once been described as a go with the flow type of guy. I will pretend that I am now because he walked up to me absolutely sloshed and the party had started ten minutes before. I respect that. Richard and my teenage self had the same idea: Get as much free booze in your system as possible before you are kicked out. Now like I said, I respect that, but that is not what I want at an adult party, or so I thought. He, in his own polite way, offered me a drink from his flask, to which I said ‘no, I am sober,’ in the same way I say ‘no, I am married’ to the people at mall kiosks who want to go all the way up my wrists when giving me lotion samples.
“He looked me in the eyes. Yes, the Eyes. It was a touching effort from such a tall man. And then he said, ‘That’s boring.’
“Yeah, really ruined the effect of his loving eye contact. Then, in a shocking turn of events, he set down his handle of vodka on the table. If that sounds like a continuity error, it is not, and you are just judgemental. He had both a flask and a handle of vodka. Apparently thinking too highly of me to offer a handle, but lowly enough to offer a flask at a party with real cups.
“Yes, so, back to the main point. He sat down the handle he was keeping to himself and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay sober with you.’
“A worrying sentiment for two reasons: 1.) his definition of sober matched neither common connotation nor denotation, and 2.) it meant I had to have a conversation with that man all night. Except he was very sweet. He asked about my girlfriend at the time, now my wife. I asked him about his.
“He stared straight ahead, smile on his lips and said, ‘she’s tight.’ To this day, I still do not know if he meant tight as in ‘cool’ or not.
“He dog sits for me now, which is an interesting arrangement because I do not know where he lives. He does such a good job, though, that I overlook that entirely. Each time she comes back knowing a new trick. My dog now knows how to high five, which she only does to my lips. This puts me into a tricky spot though because again, I must say, ‘Carolita, I am married.’”
It’s funny enough. Her only comment is that it sounds too rehearsed, like he wrote it out as an essay first instead of a conversation. And also she thinks he means Boardwalk Empire instead of The Sopranos. Well, that was her only constructive criticism. Destructive though, that’s her real thought. Tear that script to shreds. Really, her true problem remains that James likes Richie Tozier, specifically after meeting him at a party, specifically a drunk Richie Tozier.
He weaseled his way into one of her house parties once. No one even invited him. He managed to get drunk on red wine and puked in her orchid, the one she had kept alive for three years, the only one she had ever kept alive that long. Amy didn’t even know how to respond, just stared at him.
In her opinion, Richie didn’t know how to respond to her either because he turned to her and said, “What? You never puke in a bush before?”
It was not a bush.
______________
Greenroom celebrities are either fantastic or the goddamn worst. Richie Tozier is the goddamn worst. Hakim knows this. In fact, he was warned about this. Naturally, he thought this would be the same as the other celebrities that came in, and Hakim would go to the grave telling Adam Sweltz to lick his ass for writing only green M&Ms in the contract instead of no green M&Ms, then threatening not to perform until they brought out a photocopy of the contract. Dude didn’t even apologize. So, yes, Hakim headed that warning and pushed the couch all the way against the wall, made sure all dust bunnies were out of the corners, and put fresh lemon wedges under a glass dome next to the bottled sparkling water and regular distilled water. The only thing “Trashmouth” personally asked for was the water and a bag of Lucky Charms cereal with only the marshmallows, which Hakim put out too.
Tozier never even went into the fucking room. He didn’t have time to. He showed up seven minutes before curtain call, not dressed, just fucking pacing outside of the room. The makeup artist he kept waiting for over half an hour had to follow behind him with a comb. Dude needed some fucking concealer, too. He looked fucking rough. Unprofessional. Then, to make it worse, his manager yelled at Hakim for not having two fingers of bourbon at the ready. The manager. Richie couldn’t even yell at him himself.
Once he went out, Denise, should’ve been given a ladder to reach that rats nest, leaned over to Hakim and whispered, “That dude has an anxiety disorder, and I am not a fan.” A sentiment he shared.
Yeah, he watched the show. It was enough to keep the venue doors open. Not a single thing he said was funny, but the way he said shit made the audience laugh, and that’s what the theatre needed to watch for. Yeah, he could deliver a joke, but could he deliver himself to the fucking venue on time?
By the time the show ended, Hakim had given up his anger, just tired and regretful and needing a sandwich. The place was three blocks away, but only there could he find his favorite bodega lady who would spill the local gossip and listen to his all while making the best goddamn sandwich at 11:45 pm.
He walks in, and when she asks what’s the matter, he only says “Richie Tozier.”
“Oh, Richie! He’s a lovely young man!” Mrs Chaey announces, really truly happy. And if she didn't look so pleased, he would alert her to the fact that he is 36 and definitely not a young man, not young enough and not green enough to pull all the shit he does.
Mrs Chaey is nice, though, so she deserves an answer. “You like his stuff?” Hakim just heard his stuff, all of it, in person. Nothing likeable came from that man’s mouth.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, “That’s all rubbish, what he says about…” she lowers her voice, “websites.”
Hakim almost laughs, “But you think he’s a ‘nice young man’?”
“Oh, yes.” There’s no pause. “He’s very funny in person. And he bought a Yakult and a banana.”
The last part she says with a gleam of pride that only a 72-year-old grandmother can produce, and Hakim would’ve noticed how sweet it was if he wasn’t filled with rage at the idea of him being funny, and in person. He wants to scream, right here, in this very building. But that's not polite, so instead, he forks over twelve dollars and forty-three cents, walks outside, and screams there.
______________
“One time Richie Tozier puked on my cat. By that I mean PUSSY,” Jezebel says, starting off the conversation, and their lunch date as a whole. This is why Adrian only visits her every six months. “He looked me in the eyes, said ‘I think I’m gay,’ and left. Best hookup of my life. I mean this. I’m married. I’ve had wedding night sex. I met the love of my life, my spouse, and we hooked up with sex so fucking banging that made me call the next morning, and I’m picking the one who puked on my PUSSY.”
“Jezabel, this is lunch,” Adrian says, near begging. “Please don’t monologue at me.” If Adrian were to start a fight, he would mention something about it being the third frickin’ time this trip under her breath. Instead, he feels like that one really weird Phoebe Bridgers song where she just breathes at the end.
Jezebel blinks as if this is the most unnatural thing she’s ever heard. “Do you not want to help me with my tight five?”
“No.”
Jez opens her mouth again.
“I don’t want to be an unwilling audience for hearing about Richard Tozier getting ill on my sister’s,” Adrian makes his hands into air quotes. “Cat.”
Oh geez, Adrian knows that look. Betrayal, desperation, and a deep pondry on how to keep flipping talking. Same as when they were kids. This is… sometimes quiet is just a tunnel to more talking and—
“Do you hate Abigail?”
“What? No, I don’t hate Abby.”
“Richie is the reason we are together today.”
“So I have to hear about it?”
“Yes,” Jez says with the confidence of Bill Clinton as he talks about not having, you know, with that woman, the same way Adrian would also like to hear about his sister not having… sex. Alas, she keeps going
“His bravery to come out combined with how he ruined the idea of having sex with men for me is why I realized I was a lesbian.”
The pride in Jez’s voice is what really makes Adrian hate to shatter her dreams, if only Adrian didn’t loathe hearing her talk about this even more.
“Yeah. He ruined the idea of being with men for me, as well. I find him repugnant.”
“Homophobe.”
“Yeah! Maybe!” Fuck. Now his sister thinks she hates her based on gayness. Yet another thing Richie Tozier has ruined for the world. Neigh. Ruined for him. One is more important. Fuck that dude.
______________
Much like how every day millions of Americans get an email, each day Ramesh gets a text message.
ManWELL T: yo can i bring richie to the party
Ramesh: Wht richie?
ManWELL T: you kno trashmouth tozier
Ramesh: Have u /ever/ been to a party w/ tozier?
ManWELL T: yea he plays with my cat and once spent a whole night high laying on my carpet hes the shit
ManWELL T: you should def let him come
Ramesh: no.