Bedsheets and pillows and clothes strewn about -- the entertainment symbol for People Just Got It On Here. Naked Amy and Christopher sit on the floor and converse. He's asking her whether her father is a movie producer. She says he's a neurosurgeon at Cedars-Sinai. Christopher tries to show he's a sensitive male by caressing her shoulder and claiming he wants to know about her, to which she says, "I'm not usually an open person." Wow, you struck me as completely open and sincere, Amy. They're playing with each other's fingers. Gross. "How come he didn't pressure you to become a doctor like him?" Christopher asks. Amy says she was pre-med her freshman year at Yale. Yeah, but so is everybody, sweetheart. "Fucking Yale, I swear you Jews have your own Cosa Nostra hidden in that Ivy fucking League." Hee. Amy tells him that's "very funny, very imagistic," and laughs in the most dorky goofy manner possible, flipping her hair. All that's missing is a snorting sound. And..."imagistic"? "So, that blonde guy in the club the other night, what did you say to him?" Christopher's all "that's for me to know and you not to find out." "What, did you make him an offer he couldn't refuse?" She keeps poking and prodding, and he admits he said "be a good boy and I'll let this girl blow you afterwards." Ha ha ha, hee hee hee. Amy laughs like a dork again, baring her horsy teeth. She asks if he's ever slept with a member of the tribe before, meaning a Jew. Christopher says he has: "What do you think, I discriminate? I'm PC." She asks when; he says two nights ago. Hardy har har, she laughs like Ernie of Sesame Street, and he tickles her or something weird and then pours a bottle of Evian all over her back, which would annoy the hell out of me, quite frankly, and teases her about shagging another "skinny guinea." Foot, meet Christopher's mouth. Amy grows a conscience in one second flat, becoming a big sourpuss all of a sudden, and Christopher groans and falls back onto the rug as if he just remembered she's engaged to his cousin. "How are we going to tell him," Amy whispers, and Christopher tells her to not do this now, that they'll figure something out. She's all gathering sheets up to cover herself, and in a crying voice she insists she's not a terrible person and runs into the bathroom to hide.
Christopher puts on his undies and notices Favreau's screenplay on the floor. He starts reading aloud to Amy, who is gazing at herself in the mirror in the bathroom. She manages to scold, "You're not supposed to be reading that. It's limited distribution, numbered draft." He continues to read about cops, Copacabanas, mobsters and goomahs. "Jesus, you can see it from the words, this is the way you write a fucking script," he says with admiration, but soon he's on his feet. "Fucking shit," he exclaims as he reads something further along. Amy's face has gotten all guilty and distraught as she rubs her temple. Christopher bangs on the bathroom door. "He used it! What, just 'cause he gave me that tar smell idea? I could have come up with that!" He goes on and on about Jon using Joey Cippolina's "she-male" story, insisting that they can't put it in the script. Amy puts on her robe and calmly comes out of the bathroom. "It's not the same at all," she claims, because the location of dick-sucking has been changed. "Don't you understand where I come from, I explained it how many times!" Christopher's furious, and does his angry Joe Pesci walk out of the room and down the hall. Amy follows, as he proceeds to bang on Jon's door. Amy's all we can't take it out now, it's been faxed everywhere, how mad could your friend get? Just stupid, is what she is. I guess the moral of this story is that Hollywood types will screw anyone over, even a wiseguy. A passing hotel worker says Jon checked out. There's lots of screaming from Christopher and Amy tells him he's being absurd for getting so bent out of shape. Arrgghh.