SOMETIMES, BREATHING THE AIR inside Downers made Oliver feel small, inadequate, like an eleven-year-old in a boardroom full of suits. More times than not though, it felt like home. As he scanned the room for Roscoe’s stooped silhouette he wasn’t sure how to feel.
Downers wasn’t the biggest comedy club in Nashville. Neither was it the hippest or most celebrated. By strict definition, it really wasn’t even a comedy club at all. The building’s eleven thousand square feet moonlighted as a deli by day, a family-style bistro in the evenings, and a showcase for stand-up comics after dark. Locally, it was known for strong coffee, rude waitresses, and an ageless club owner named Roscoe who was notorious for turning comics’ microphones off in the middle of subpar sets, no matter how many times he or she had been on Letterman. Among touring stand-ups, Downers had a cultlike reputation that spanned both coasts. It was the place to test one’s comedic mettle, to separate the artists from the posers and hacks. In the subculture of stand-ups, Roscoe was not unlike a mafia don—once you received his blessing, you were a made man. There were dozens of obscure professional comedians roaming the country that would never grace a network sitcom or write for The Tonight Show, but they carried the knowledge that Roscoe Downs approved of their work. And they knew the other comics knew it too.
The protocol went something like this: Famous comedian finishes his high-paying gig at Jesters, cabs over to Downers, and is eventually ushered into Roscoe’s cramped office. After exchanging pleasantries and some obligatory industry gossip, the famous comedian then agrees, via handshake, to perform a single set of new material for the lofty sum of one Roscoe Burger Platter—an artery-choking basket consisting of a fiery, high-fat burger, fries, and a malted shake. Most nights, Roscoe moonlighted as the club’s bouncer and short-order cook, as well as the owner.
None of Oliver’s fellow comics ever believed him when he tried to explain that Roscoe’s mission in life was to create the perfect burger, not to christen new comic sensations. That he was way more interested in The Food Network than Comedy Central.
On one such night when Oliver was twelve, a slightly tipsy Eddie Murphy showed up in Roscoe’s office, negotiating hard. He wanted to do a set but was politely refusing to eat the Roscoe Burger Platter.
Apparently, he had just been cast in a romantic comedy and was under contract to shed fifteen pounds. He glanced at Roscoe’s blank desktop and realized that he’d barged in on a game of paper football. Murphy raised one eyebrow in supplication and a deal was struck. If Eddie wanted to forego Roscoe’s fat-filled entrée, all he had to do was win a game of paper football—against Oliver. The game was close for the first few minutes, then Oliver began drubbing the good humor right out of the renowned funny man. That’s when Murphy began surreptitiously flashing money. Once, as he fashioned a goal post out of his long brown fingers, Oliver noticed a five-dollar bill peeking out between his knuckles. Oliver split the uprights. On his next extra-point attempt, Murphy flashed a ten and Oliver aimed the triangular projectile to the left. The point was good, but he’d sent the signal that Eddie Murphy was getting close. When the ante rose all the way to twenty dollars, Oliver began to shank kicks and leave touchdown attempts a hair shy of the tabletop’s edge. Eventually, Eddie Murphy defeated Oliver Miles in paper football by a score of 91–90. Murphy lit up the office with his signature grin and accompanying horselaugh. He shook Oliver’s hand on his way out, transferring the damp bill.
When the door closed, Roscoe met Oliver’s gaze and said, “I woulda paid double that to see you beat him.”
As proof, he flashed a palmed fifty-dollar bill, just like Mr. Murphy had done. Oliver’s face grew hot and he began spluttering apologies, more for his new friend Eddie than for himself.
“Don’t sweat it, kid. The first time he drops an F-bomb I’m killing his microphone.”
When it came to crude material, Roscoe had a zero-tolerance policy. It was an unwritten (but widely known) rule that any comic spewing overtly racist, sexist, homophobic, or crass material was promptly uninvited to the Downers’ stage. It wasn’t the filthy talk that bothered Roscoe as much as the abject lack of creativity it implied. To his way of thinking, any junior high school kid with a decent command of the English language could wield a microphone, talk nasty, and make drunk people laugh.
Eddie Murphy had a really short set that night.
No amount of begging ever helped Oliver land a gig at Downers. Still, as far as he knew, he was the only comic in America who could claim to have grown up there.
Upon graduating high school, Delores Miles piled into her boyfriend’s VW camper and spent several delirious months camping in Daytona. When her savings ran out, the boyfriend ran off, and she moved back home and went to work for Roscoe. Somewhere along the way she got pregnant.
On average, she worked six nights a week and filled in at lunch when money got tight. Whenever she couldn’t find a babysitter —because frankly, she never really looked that hard—Delores Miles brought her son to work with her. She would exaggerate a few obligatory apologies and make Oliver promise to stay out of trouble. Roscoe would then exaggerate his frustration before inviting the boy to his office where they would play gin rummy or paper football until the comedians started up. That’s when Oliver would follow Roscoe to his customary booth in the back where he’d be treated to burgers and fries and all the pie he could eat. Sometimes they would even critique comics together. Roscoe not only liked having Dot’s kid around; he preferred it.
Now they sat in the exact same booth, eating the same burger, same fries, same pie. A trail of hamburger grease snaked its way down Roscoe’s stubbled chin. He dabbed at it with the back of his hand. And that’s when Oliver noticed the slight quaver in the man’s fingers, the brown-spotted skin, the way his slight frame seemed to be hollowing. It was subtle, but very real. Not quite into his sixth decade, Oliver’s oldest friend was getting old before his time.
Neither one spoke until the comedian onstage worked through his opening. The guy was a prop comic, much too loud and too zany for Roscoe’s tastes.
“How’s your burger?”
“Perfect,” Oliver said. “Just like always.”
Roscoe frowned at his plate. “I don’t know. I think it could use a touch more garlic. And a little less blood on the plate.”
“Speaking of bloodletting, isn’t it about time you had a change of heart and offered me a headlining weekend spot?”
Roscoe ignored him and craned his neck to meet his bartender’s eye. He held up his index finger for a long moment before drawing it across his own throat like a blade. Then he swallowed hard and said, “You already had your shot.” Roscoe took another large bite and chewed faster, no doubt to mask his grin. “And you sort of blew it.”
“I was only sixteen years old.”
Roscoe nodded as if he couldn’t agree more. “If you remember, that’s what I kept telling you when you kept begging to take the stage. Told your mother the same thing. But she wouldn’t listen either.”
“Wait,” Oliver said, “Are you telling me that Mom knew?”
Roscoe opened his mouth then closed it again. A cluster of french fries hovered just inches away.
“Well since you asked, it was kinda her idea. Thought it might help get it out of your system.”
“How so?”
“She knew you had talent. Dot was your biggest fan, actually. But she’d met a slew of touring stand-ups and wanted a better life for you. She was afraid my stage would stoke your obsession and keep you out of college.”
Roscoe and his mother were obviously close, maybe even intimate. But he never suspected them of anything this underhanded. Maybe he was more naïve than he realized. And their scheme almost worked too.
After months of relentless begging for stage time, Roscoe finally relented—sort of. He had called Oliver into his office and closed the door. “You want to work for me, you work your way up first.”
So Oliver cleaned toilets and hauled garbage and washed dishes every day for a month. When he complained, Roscoe would say, “You want the gig or don’t you?”
“I don’t see Seinfeld cleaning latrines.”
“Seinfeld don’t need a backup plan.”
A week later an up-and-coming comic named Ray Romano finished two shows at Jesters, then cabbed over to Downers for an obligatory burger platter and a short set of all-new material. His final joke ended with a whiny punch line about having just opened for an underaged, rookie comedian. Oliver had shoved another rack of glasses into the steamy Hobart when he heard Romano whine, “Please put your hands together for Olivia Mills.”
The crowd cheered gamely and waited for this new comedy sensation to arrive. And Oliver cheered right along with them, craning his neck in the dark, and anxious to glimpse this new upstart comedienne. That’s when he heard Roscoe’s familiar growl from the back of the room.
“It’s Miles, you imbecile, not Mills.”
And that’s how Oliver was introduced to the professional world of stand-up comedy—sweaty, reeking of dirty dishes, thoroughly unprepared, and way over his head. It did not go well. In fact, his set was shorter than Mr. Murphy’s. But it had nothing to do with profanity. In a word, he was terrible. Oliver didn’t realize until he moped offstage that he was still wearing his apron.
He’d wanted to surprise his mother. It appears now that she was trying to surprise him. Despite their scheming, Delores and Roscoe didn’t quite manage to scare the comedy out of him. There were days however when he wished they had.
Oliver’s reverie finally broke when the voice of the zany prop comic died in midsentence. Oliver alternated his gaze between the bemused comedian and the top of Roscoe’s head. When he finally looked up, his gaze was defiant, unapologetic. “I’m trying to eat here.”
An awkward murmur rippled through the crowd as the emcee barged out of the men’s room, stumbled through the maze of tables, and clumsily introduced the next comedian on the docket.
Roscoe seemed unfazed by it all.
“You know,” Oliver said. “You could have at least warned me.”
“Good comics are always prepared. Kind of like Boy Scouts.”
“I wasn’t a good comic, not back then. I was a kid washing dishes. Anyway, how about another chance?”
“Sorry kid.”
“Come on, Roscoe. You don’t have any work for me at all?”
“Well, now that you mention it. One of our better cooks just moved to Miami.”
“What I had in mind was something, you know, a bit funnier.”
“We’ve already got a dishwasher. Although you’d have to admit, that’d be pretty funny.”
“You leave me no choice then. I’ll just have to go to Jesters.”
The truly big names played Jesters, Nashville’s premier comedy club. These were the guys with HBO specials, sitcoms in development, regular spots on Comedy Central, and stints on Saturday Night Live. They hawked T-shirts and CDs at their routinely sold-out shows. Jesters was a franchise deal, quite literally, with showcase clubs dotting the map in Boston, LA, Vegas, Chicago, New York, and a dozen other major metropolises. Agents booked their comics at wholesale prices in exchange for steady work, prodigious exposure, and pedigree enhancement. If you were not already famous, then landing a touring gig with Jesters was one of the fastest ways to become so. It guaranteed a steady paycheck, countless radio interviews, and ample opportunity to rub elbows with industry insiders. If you wanted to headline on the Jesters circuit, it was not enough to be known—you had to know somebody. The only opportunity for local talent at Jesters was reserved for open-mic nights, showcases, and the occasional chance to emcee for bona fide headliners. Prestige aside, it didn’t matter how famous the Jesters comics were because the real comedians—those serious about plying their craft, the true artisans, the comedian’s comedians—always made their way to Downers when their paying gig was over.
Roscoe didn’t take the bait, mainly because he didn’t see Jesters as competition. Instead, he drained his coffee and said, “Got a call from an old acquaintance of your mom’s this afternoon. Said he bumped into you recently.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lawyer named Laramy.”
“I thought he was a teacher?”
“Apparently, he’s both,” Roscoe said. “And since he was sort of, you know, dating your mother when she was incarcerated, he was the attorney of record. His name’s all over the paperwork.”
“So, why’d he call you?”
“Well it wouldn’t make sense to call your mother.”
“No, but he could call me.”
“Would you actually talk to him if he did?”
“Probably not.”
“And when you do talk to your mother’s old boyfriends, don’t you tend to get a bit … how do I say this … unreasonable?”
“How would you know that?”
“When it comes to your mother, you’re not the most rational person in the world.”
“And I could say the same thing about you.”
Roscoe’s thinning shoulders dipped, as if the air had gone out of him. Back when she was of sound mind, Delores would get fed up with something or someone at Downers and quit. Roscoe would let her cool off for a day or two, then allow her to resume her normal shifts as if nothing happened. More often than not, he paid her for the work she missed anyway, referring to it as her dental plan. Despite the obvious age difference, Oliver always suspected their relationship ran much deeper than that of a typical boss and capricious underling.
Roscoe dragged a french fry through a puddle of ketchup and made aimless circles on the plate.
“So what did Professor Laramy have to say?”
“That Tompkins lady’s family is threatening legal action.”
“Against Mom?”
“It will start with the facility. But Laramy says to be prepared for anything. Says the kids seem pretty greedy.”
Oliver had already heard some of this from Betsy—that the bulk of Mrs. Tompkins’s savings had been depleted by the monthly fees at Shady Grove and that her heirs were bent on recouping their inheritance by suing anyone who had anything to do with Shady Grove, from the board of directors all the way down to the janitors.
“But it makes no sense,” Oliver said. “She’s got nothing, no money, no assets.”
“Don’t really matter,” Roscoe said. “Anyway, if they can prove Dot had anything at all to do with her untimely passing, it’ll bolster their case against the nursing home chain.”
“What’s the good professor going to charge for his legal help?”
“It’s on the house,” Roscoe said.
“His or yours?”
“Not your concern, son.”
“So,” Oliver said, “should I be worried?”
“You’ll worry no matter what. Just thought you should know.”
They sat together, each nursing his own thoughts. During finals week of Oliver’s only semester in college, he’d received a midnight call from Roscoe. His mother had been arrested for public intoxication, disturbing the peace, destruction of public property, simple assault, and resisting arrest, apparently the result of another nasty breakup with another loser boyfriend. According to Roscoe, Oliver’s mother snapped the antenna off an unmarked cop car and proceeded to whip her ex-boyfriend as well as the wide-eyed arresting officers. The incident prompted a battery of state-mandated psychiatric evaluations and her eventual incarceration in the Tennessee Mental Health Institute, a minimum-security facility that housed the state’s criminally unbalanced. The court kept adding to her eighteen-month sentence for persistently bad behavior. Through it all, Roscoe was always around to bail her out, offering rides to the courthouse and checks for the lawyers. Her official diagnosis wasn’t made until she was already a ward of the state. Due to overcrowding, she was eventually moved to Shady Grove. And of course Oliver never went back to college, at least not officially.
Eventually, Roscoe asked, “How’s Dot doing?”
That was basically the same question Laramy asked, and so many men before him. But it was different with Roscoe. Although Oliver had no idea just how intimate they’d been, it didn’t really matter. Roscoe had earned the right. He took care of her —and not just financially—even if he did refuse to visit her at Shady Grove. Oliver considered asking Roscoe if he was in love with his least reliable employee. Or if he ever had been. Instead, he just answered the question.
“About the same.”
“She need anything?”
“No, she’s good.”
“What about you?”
“You know any good jokes?”
“Nope,” Roscoe said, allowing his eyes to drift toward the comic onstage. “And apparently, neither does he.”
“You should go see her,” Oliver said.
“You’re right, I should.”
“But you won’t.”
“Right again.”