OLIVER WENT TO WORK every night at eleven and conjured up new and creative ways to go apologize to Mattie that he would then abandon before he could work up the nerve to execute them. The security camera feeds flickered and idled by in the security closet unwatched. He couldn’t really bear to see Mattie doing something naughty. Not that she ever strayed very far from her desk anymore. She seemed to have lost all interest in playing her guitar or knitting or even pounding on her adding machines.
So instead of watching her, he listened.
He spent countless hours sitting in the Business Center cubbyhole, playing computer Solitaire as he waited for Mattie sounds—adding machines, elongated sighs, unconscious humming, or one of her delightful sneezes—to waft over the wall. Her mother was calling a lot now too. Mattie never really said much of substance, mostly, “I know, Mom” and “I’m sorry, Mom.” Or maybe that was all the substance that was required. Oliver had no idea. And it didn’t matter, because no matter what she said or how she said it, it hit Oliver like an accusation. Maybe if he’d confronted Mattie about her dad instead of telling a roomful of strangers, he’d be consoling her as she consoled her mother. Lord knows, she needed it. Every time she hung up the phone, she released this pitiful sigh, as if trying not to cry, which of course made Oliver feel like crying.
When computer Solitaire got old, Oliver would google himself, still amazed to see how much of him was on the internet. With nary a keystroke from Oliver, he had a MySpace page, two Facebook pages (with over a thousand fans), two Twitter accounts (both imposters, and neither very witty), and dozens of YouTube videos. He’d seen most of them at least once. But they were hard to watch, not just because of the poor sound quality or because he hated the sound of his recorded voice. Mostly, he was embarrassed to see how far he’d taken the truth. He’d used everyone he ever knew and every experience he could remember and made them all fodder for his act, grist for the comedic mill. And now, thanks to modern technology, the entire world could watch the Crying Comedian ply his trade on the internet.
The more he thought about it, the more apt the mill analogy seemed. He’d taken those experiences—which he now realized were only half his—and ground them into dust, pulverized them to feed his own selfish whims. The fact that he’d used people didn’t bother him. It was how mercilessly he’d done it.
It was no wonder he didn’t have any friends.
Some unknown amount of time passed and the phone rang again. Mattie answered, and after an elongated pause she said, “It’s just New York, Mom—not Ethiopia.”
Oliver decided to go make his rounds.
• • •
He spent most of the morning working himself into a righteously indignant lather. His plan was to unload on Barry for having posted all those YouTube videos without his consent. But his confidence wavered when he heard his manager’s groggy voice—after all, Barry wasn’t the one who took the stage every night and exploited his friends’ personal lives just to make a few strangers laugh. His confidence faltered altogether when Barry announced he’d landed Oliver a feature spot at Jesters.
“Very funny, Barry.” He resisted the urge to hang up on him.
“Let’s hope so. That’s what they’re paying you for.”
“You actually sound serious,” Oliver said.
“That’s because I am actually serious.”
“But I’ve never even emceed Jesters before.”
“Right,” Barry said.
“And it’s a Friday night.”
“And unless I’m remembering wrong, Tracy Morgan is headlining tonight.”
“Also correct,” Barry said. “So wake yourself up and let’s meet for an early dinner. We need to talk about your set list and hammer out a few other details.”
“What other details?” Oliver said, still waiting for the catch.
“Things like money. And other gigs. You know, I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but it seems the Oliver Miles phenomenon is going viral.”
Oliver sat up straighter, tried to clear his throat, and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Apparently he wasn’t dreaming. And he really was going to be playing a real gig at Jesters in about six hours, not just another showcase or last-minute emcee spot.
“Okay,” Oliver said. “I’m awake now. So let me just state for the record that if you woke me up just to jerk me around, I’m going to inflict some serious bodily harm upon you.”
“It’s no joke, Oliver. And don’t get too carried away either. You’re doing a feature, not headlining. And it pays, but not that well. It’s more about exposure. And we just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“So what did happen? A last-minute cancellation?”
“Not exactly,” Barry said. “I was making rounds with your press kits—no thanks to you, by the way —this morning. When I stopped in to see Tony at Jesters, he didn’t even hesitate. He said, ‘Ain’t that the crying comedian?’ I tell him, ‘Yeah’ and he says, ‘It’s your lucky day, pal.’”
“What does that mean?” Oliver asked, trying to keep his enthusiasm under control.
“It means there was some kind of personality conflict between Tony and the scheduled feature. It means I was working the street like any good manager should, and we got lucky. And it means you need to grab a shower, a fresh security uniform, and meet me for dinner.”
“No, no way, Barry. I’m not wearing the uniform.”
“It’s part of the deal.”
“How so?”
“The last thing Tony said before I signed the contract was, ‘He’ll be in uniform, right?’ I told him no, that you’re not doing that shtick anymore. He says, ‘If he wants to feature at my club tonight, he does.’ When I grin and tell him it’s not in the contract, he takes a Sharpie marker and writes it in, right in the middle of the page. ‘It’s in the contract now,’ he says. Before I make it out the door, Tony says, ‘And make sure he cries a little. I just love that crying bit.’”
Oliver let all this sink in, not sure what to believe. “I don’t know, Barry.”
“Yes, you do. Now get a shower and let’s meet at seven. Show starts at nine, which means you’ll go on about nine-thirty. I’m working on getting you a radio interview prior to the show. Local DJ is a friend of Chuck’s. But that’s still iffy.”
“Speaking of Chuck, why won’t he return my phone calls?”
“Why on earth are you calling Chuck?”
What Oliver thought was, To confirm whether or not Mattie’s actually been sneaking into occupied hotel rooms in the middle of the night. Thankfully, all he said was, “There’s a pretty major glitch in the security cameras he installed.”
“What kind of glitch?”
“The archives don’t work. There’s no way to go back and see what’s already been filmed.”
“That sounds about right,” Barry said. “Chuck’s a bit of a scammer. And he has this habit of disappearing when he feels like people are on to him. But if I see him I’ll tell him to call you. In the meantime, you have a gig to get ready for.”
“I suppose this will be a good warm-up for the Downers benefit on Saturday.”
“No, Oliver, I think it’s the other way around. Downers is old news. Frankly, I think it’s a waste of your time. In fact, I have a lead on a gig in Atlanta Saturday night—an actual paying gig if you’ll—”
“Sorry, Barry, I’m doing the Downers thing.” Just saying it out loud filled Oliver with both pride and trepidation. His dream gig was less than two days away.
“I don’t get you, man. It’s just a silly benefit for a grumpy old man who obviously doesn’t think much of your act.”
Oliver hung up the phone. He kept telling himself he was thrilled, ecstatic, wildly enthusiastic, that he was nearly as happy as he was nervous. Mostly though, he wanted to call someone to help him celebrate. But Mattie wasn’t returning his calls. Simon would only pretend to be happy for him. Roscoe would probably lecture him about gigs that sound too good to be true. Oliver didn’t have Rodney’s number. And of course, his mother thought he was dead.
Before getting up to shower he called information and got the number for Jesters. Three rings later he heard someone say, “Jesters Comedy Club. This is Amanda.”
“Um, yeah, Amanda, I’m thinking about coming down to the show tonight. Could you tell me who’s on the bill?”
“Tracy Morgan from 30 Rock. You should come out. It’ll be a good show, I promise.”
“Is there an opening act?”
“Let’s see … yep, says here that the emcee is a local act called Jake & John. I’ve seen them before; funny stuff. And it looks like there’s a feature tonight too, um, Oliver Miles. I’ve never heard him before, but Tony says he’s hilarious. Some kind of weeping policeman or something like that.”
“Okay,” Oliver said. “Thanks.”
“Hope you can make it out tonight.”
“Oh, I’ll definitely be there.”
• • •
He’d actually been on the Jesters stage before, but only during comedy workshops and an occasional showcase. The dressing room was tinier than Oliver remembered, replete with old high school lockers, cigarette-burned sofas, and a cracked mirror. The emcees were already warming up the crowd—a very large crowd. And the headliner hadn’t shown up yet. So Oliver had the dressing room to himself for the next fifteen minutes. Right after he changed into his uniform, someone knocked on the door. It was Simon.
“I just heard, man. Why didn’t you call?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I just found out about it awhile ago myself.”
“I brought everybody I could find—Whimbush, Freddy, Buster, all the usual suspects. We even canceled our open mic at the Sheraton, put up a big sign that told everyone to head to Jesters tonight. I called Wendy and she says she’s bringing a bunch of sorority sisters. And don’t worry; she promised not to get onstage and yell at you again.”
“Wow, thanks Simon. I really don’t know what to say.”
“Then you’d better figure it out, pal. Looks like you’re on in about ten minutes.”
Oliver glanced at the face of Simon’s watch and gulped hard.
“Nervous?”
Oliver shook his head, too nervous to speak.
“I am,” Simon said. “And I’m not even going on tonight. But you’re gonna kill. I just know it, man.”
Oliver finally managed to say, “I’ll settle for not getting killed out there.”
“It’s going to be tremendous. Just do your thing.” Simon held out his fist for a bump, then decided to wrap Oliver into a loud, manly bear hug. “I’m proud of you, man. We all are.”
“Thanks, Simon.”
“And didn’t I tell you the uniform thing was golden?”
He left Oliver alone with the sweat-stained pages of his notebook and trembling fingers. A few short minutes later, Oliver heard his name on the PA system, followed by enthusiastic applause that actually seemed to swell. He sat there a moment longer, waiting for his nerves to overtake him. But as Jake & John came bounding in through the stage door, he realized he’d grown remarkably calm. He filled his mug to the half-full mark and took the stage.
The applause grew louder as he approached the mic stand. The emcees had done their job well. It was a live crowd. Oliver took the microphone in both hands, paused thoughtfully, and said, “Let us pray.”
And he did pray, hard. Twenty-five minutes of comedy feels like a lifetime—or two—especially when you’re thinking about a girl instead of your material.
Then he told the crowd about his job at the hotel, about his nose-picking manager, about getting paid to watch a pretty girl work. He did five minutes of material about his mother, how she baptized old people against their will, how she retired from her pretend job as a nurse, how his nonexistent girlfriend had to metaphorically murder him so that his clinically insane mother would acknowledge her only son. He explained the uniform he was wearing and used it to segue into his story about Officer Dan, which he then segued into a bit about finally meeting his panhandling father. And somehow he managed all this without getting choked up.
And then it happened.
As soon as he started talking about Mattie his esophagus cramped up. His throat was a clenched fist and his mind a bowl of Jell-O. He stared at the crowd—his crowd, and completely froze. For what felt like a full minute, everything looked blurry. There was no sound, or rather, the room sounded like the inside of a seashell. He felt his jaw, hinging and unhinging, and thought of Barry. Then he spotted Barry in the crowd, elbowing a guy that looked remarkably like Chuck-in-sunglasses and pointing up at the stage. Oliver’s roaming, bleary eyes found a few other familiar faces. None of them looked worried for their panicking, choked-up friend. They mostly marveled, laughed harder than necessary, and cheered him on.
Oliver tried to speak again, then simply clipped the microphone onto the stand and climbed down off the front of the stage. He obviously should have exited through the stage door, but it was too late now. He picked his way through the maze of tables, squinting through the tears in his eyes.
Oliver was a few feet from the front door when someone grabbed his shirtsleeve and tugged hard enough to stop him. He expected to see Tony when he turned around, maybe with his fist cocked. But it was a petite blonde girl with big brown eyes. She looked like she’d been crying too as she pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Go tell her.”