ONSTAGE, OLIVER WAS LOOSE, focused, and had full control of his mouth, his memory, and that mysterious part of the brain that makes ordinary things funny. He followed his opening prayer—which grew more sincere every time he uttered it—with a heartfelt promise of full disclosure, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, whether they wanted to hear it or not. “I promise,” he said, “I won’t lie to you once tonight.”
Simply saying this out loud, actually promising to confide in a roomful of strangers, was as liberating as it was terrifying.
He paused then to consider his crowd. And for the first time in his short comedy career, Oliver did consider them his—at least the ones facing the stage and paying attention. He tried to ignore the oblivious people talking amongst themselves or watching muted sports highlights or poking their BlackBerries.
Ever since he started adding truth to his repertoire, he’d noticed several things. There were “regulars” now—not quite groupies, but a dozen or so actual fans who brought their friends to see this new comic who swears most of the stuff in his act is true, who sometimes pretends to get stage fright or forget his lines or even shows up wearing a ridiculous security guard uniform. And as much as he hated to admit it, he had Barry to thank for some of his recent notoriety. Not only had the quality of Oliver’s gigs improved since “hiring” a manager, but Oliver was actually making a little money. Not only that, his confidence was back. The upcoming Downers gig still terrified him a little—it was less than a month away—but at least now the fear was manageable.
Even his fellow comics looked at him a little differently now, not quite in awe of his newfound talent or eaten up with petty jealousies, but like they’d begun to genuinely respect him.
The best part, however, was the actual laughter. It no longer seemed like a conditioned response, one where the guy on stage relies on subtle physical cues or the pitch of his voice to help the crowd figure out where they’re supposed to laugh. Finally, after years of doing stand-up, it had become less about playing assigned roles and more about the actual material, what he said and how he said it.
The amazing thing about telling the truth onstage was that it worked. It really did set him free. Oliver did five solid minutes about third-shift security work at an allegedly haunted hotel, detailing the nutty things that happen while most normal people are sleeping, which included getting beaten up by a guy in a dress. From there he launched into a brief character sketch of his uptight, paranoid, publicity-obsessed, nose-picking general manager, then segued into a series of hollow rationalizations about the security guard who steals his college education. He flirted with the idea of improvising a joke or two about his roommate-cum-stepfather capturing Mattie and making her read Are You My Mother? Not that it wasn’t funny; it was just too raw to work onstage yet.
Oliver realized midway through his set that his gaze kept drifting to the only couple in the room that seemed oblivious to the guy telling jokes in the front of the room. The silver-haired man huddled around a young blonde as if he were afraid someone would steal her. They sat in gloomy profile, on the same side of a darkened booth, quietly animated with lots of whispering and stolen kisses. Oliver thought about calling them out, trying to embarrass them from the stage. But crowd work was never his strong suit. So he did his best to ignore them and tried not to resent their lack of interest in his craft.
“Tonight I want to tell you guys a story …”
Oliver noticed an auburn-haired thirty-something elbow the girl next to her, then point at the stage. Her gesture said See? This is the part I told you about. This guy tells great stories and they sound like they might actually be true.
“… a true story,” he said. “It’s the classic tale of girl meets boy … boy catches girl stealing.”
Then he told them about Mattie, skirting as close to the “whole truth” as he could without actually naming names. He started with the night that she found him playing make-believe in an empty ballroom. From there he connected the dots from that initial meeting through two robberies, from Sherman’s covert installation of security cameras to Mattie’s heroic phone prank where she convinced a meth addict to drop criminal charges against her employer.
“You see, the problem with my girlfriend is that she has this odd habit … just a little quirk, really … something the legal system likes to call breaking and entering …
“But that’s just one of her problems. The main problem with my girlfriend is that she hasn’t realized it yet … you know, that she’s my girlfriend …
“Despite all that, she is the most adorable kleptomaniac you have ever laid eyes on.”
He segued into finding Mattie in his house, rolled up like a burrito and held hostage by an enormous captor who reintroduced himself every sixty seconds. This new material worked, but it didn’t kill. Probably because the real-life version was way funnier than any jokes he could cull from it.
The end of his set was approaching and he wanted to finish strong. He glanced at the digital clock by the soundboard, then allowed his gaze to drift to the oblivious couple in the back. Something about the man’s profile looked eerily familiar. For a second Oliver thought it might be Professor Laramy, or maybe another of his mother’s former lovers.
As he stared though, the crowd—his crowd—had gone silent, expectant, waiting. So Oliver dismissed the non-laughing couple and forced himself back on script.
As he approached what should have been his culminating punch line about the lovable burglar who’d obviously stolen his notebook, then broken into his house to return it, Oliver realized his voice had stopped working.
Why am I so upset? he thought. Was it Mattie’s silent treatment? His mother’s matrimonial betrayal? His new roommate-slash-stepfather? His stupid notebook?
But then his brain began to catch up with his heart. As the real reason began to dawn on Oliver, the crowd continued to laugh at the comedian on the verge of tears. Everyone but the couple in the back of the room.
The non-laughing man stood to allow his date out of the booth. As she disappeared toward the restroom, he sat on the edge of the booth and began thumbing his cell phone. The faint glow was enough to make out the man’s features. Oliver thought he was imagining things until the man removed a silky handkerchief and dabbed each corner of his mouth.
Oliver made himself look away, to try and salvage his waning momentum. But it was no use. He would finish this set by rote.
He tried again, starting with the basics. He opened his mouth, had his brain dispatch the order to his lungs to begin moving some air upward and outward. He synchronized his lips, his tongue, and the muscles in the back of his throat. The words had found their form, but couldn’t seem to make it past the giant knot in his throat.
The room grew quieter, leaning forward in anticipation. A few people tittered, assuming Oliver’s forced silence was just another wacky part of the show. It dawned on him then that if he could see his face from where the crowd sat, he would see a quivering bottom lip, flared nostrils, eyes wide and panicky—a thick-voiced man fending off heaves and sniffles and prickly wetness gathering in his right eye.
The audience assumed he was acting. And of course they were eating it up. A few people even shook their heads, obviously marveling at his uncanny thespian abilities.
What he should have done was fake a cough, maybe even pound his chest for good measure, before turning and gulping ice water—then, after some self-deprecating aside, finish the punch line he’d worked so hard to perfect. What he did instead was strain harder, finally producing a tortured, squeaking sound.
Oliver gave his voice one final push, but it just cracked.
That’s when the non-laughing man looked up, met Oliver’s gaze, then blinked away the tinge of recognition that flashed across his features before turning his attention back to his date.
Oliver clipped the microphone atop the stand, grabbed his half-empty mug and drained it, then left the stage. But instead of waving thanks at the generous applause and commiserating with his comedian buddies in the back of the room, Oliver walked straight for the exit. Which, for some reason, the crowd cheered even louder.
His crowd.
Before pushing through the door, he took one last glance at Mattie’s father as he fondled and flirted and traded small kisses with the young lady that was clearly not Mattie’s mother.