1 November 2018 – Paul Rudnick is a playwright, screenwriter, essayist, and novelist. And a frequent contributor to The New Yorker magazine where I had the good fortune to meet him during a writers’ workshop. This will appear shortly in the magazine. His current project: at work on the book for the upcoming Broadway musical adaptation of “The Devil Wears Prada”.
• I promise never to say anything bad about you to anyone, ever, although I can’t promise not to roll my eyes, make finger-down-my-throat motions, or mime choking myself to death.
• I agree never to reveal anything about your finances, except for all the money you owe me for movie tickets I purchased online for both of us, which you somehow forgot all about reimbursing me for, or brushed off by insisting, “I’ll get them next time.”
• I swear that I will never repeat statements made to me in confidence, unless they’re so juicy I just can’t resist or your ex needs to hear them for the purpose of healing through hating you even more.
• I will refuse to add devil horns, a disfiguring mustache, or a crudely drawn facial penis to any photo of you, unless I’m really bored at the office or whatever.
• Unless I am tortured by a foreign government or feeling socially competitive at a cocktail party, I will never reveal the following: your true age; your weight; your income; your original nose; the sounds you make while having an orgasm or eating layer cake, as if there’s a difference; the things you told me while you were high, which actually makes them more true; and the fact that, for the longest time, you thought the phrase “check your privilege” was a bank promotion.
• If you should ever become President of the United States, I will turn down offers to speak with even the most reputable members of the American media, because if you become President I will drown myself.
• If required to testify under oath, I will offer only my name and maybe the things you’ve said to me under the guise of “constructive criticism,” “making a color choice that might help you look thinner—I said might,” or “an honest exploration of why you’re still alone, from someone who cares enough to— Oh, I should take this.”
• Should I be subpoenaed in your divorce proceedings, I will remain loyal to both you and the beach house that has been transferred to my name.
• Should we create, license, and market an unfathomably successful product together, we will share equally in the credit and the proceeds, unless I’m wearing surgical gloves and the product can be used as a blunt instrument.
• When a prospective employer of yours contacts me as a reference, I will never make a spit-take sound, inquire about mandatory drug testing, or congratulate said employer on “not believing the Internet.”
• Should I ever be asked to appear on a scurrilous syndicated gossip show to dissect your affair with a married celebrity, I will insist on having my voice altered and sitting in deep shadow while wearing a ski mask, and will do my best to sound nonjudgmental as I say, “And there they were, right after the People’s Choice Awards, just the two of them in that hot tub with their arms around each other and those incredibly lifelike fifteen-thousand-dollar sex dolls.”
• If your parents ever ask me where you could possibly be at this time of night, and why you’re not answering your phone, I will always reply, “I don’t know,” without making a coke-snorting gesture and holding up a pad scrawled with the name of whichever other friend of yours they blame for your dropping out of that last-resort rich kids’ party school after half a semester.
• If questioned by the police following your suspicious death or disappearance, I swear I will appear visibly heartbroken and almost unable to talk, whispering, “I wish I could help,” while hoping that I’m not wearing your fur coat or jewelry.