The stage was my home, the only place I felt capable, powerful, and normal. Usually, I held down a stool in the corner of the bar waiting to go on, reading through my notebook. Whenever I got an idea for a joke or a punchline or a situation that was funny, I wrote it down in the book with my crooked penmanship that wasn’t winning any awards.
The Punch Line was a beer-soaked, nicotine-stained dive in the basement of a jazz club in downtown Kansas City. The building has been in Paulie’s family for decades, and it looked like it. Mint green walls, a faux brick backdrop, and spotlights so red hot it was like they turned into magnifying glasses and you were the ant on stage. It always felt like you were just one bright concentration of sunlight away from bursting into flames. The Punch Line was a dump, but a lovable dump. I was a comedy bottom feeder, hustling to get my time on stage, showing up early to pass out flyers for the shows on the sidewalks to earn my time. Comedy was an old school institution and you had to pay your dues.
Paulie could be kind of a jerk. He still held a grudge from my first performance, when I threw him and his precious club under the bus. Nervous on stage for the first time, I said, “I love to tell people I work at The Punch Line.”
A smattering of whoops and hollers came from the regulars as I continued, “They’d always ask, ‘Well, what’s The Punch Line?’”
“The fact that they advertise this place as a ‘fine dining dinner club and entertainment establishment.’” I giggled with finger quotes and waited as the crowd roared. At the end of my set, I walked down the steps, heading into the backroom for an after-set celebratory drink that often turned into seven, when a red-faced Paulie jumped in front of my face.
“Never use that joke again. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to bite the hand that feeds you?”
“Come on, Paulie, it was a joke and it landed. And let’s be real, the only food this place is providing for me is stale popcorn.” I pointed over to the greasy popcorn machine, circa 1982 that was lodged in the corner of the bar, cranking out enough kernels every night to feed a small village.
He walked away in a huff, and I brushed it off, not knowing it would stick in his craw for as long as it did. He got over it eventually, and since for the most part I was mildly successful, I was allowed to continue to entertain the crowds for tips as long as I removed that joke from the set.
It was Friday night and Cora came by and offered me a screwdriver. Cora was too skinny, flat-chested, and petite, but crammed into that puny physique was a fierceness and strength that was missing in most men.
She knew my drink by heart and smiled as she slid it next to me, knowing I didn’t like to be disturbed when I was writing in my notebook. I heard a few random laughs in the background and the magical sound of ice tinkling in glasses. Then Paulie blasted through the pre-set quiet, “And now, a man among men, a bitter disappointment in the sack, and the kind of guy you bring home to drive your daddy crazy—our resident Funologist is in the building—Freddie… An…gel.” He dragged it out like I was a boxer in a televised fight.
The applause lifted me from my barstool, and I floated onto the stage. I smiled wide and waved the audience to quiet down, laughing at myself.
“Disappointed, aren’t ya?” I leered into the microphone while I sensually rubbed my soft belly. “It’s okay to admit it. With a name like Freddie Angel, you expected more. Am I right?” The audience snickered. “Yeah, that name was the first of many, many shortcomings in my life. My mama set me up for failure from the get-go. It’s my real name. No joke. After the show, I can show you my ID in the lobby.” I waggled my eyebrows. “And by ID, I mean my I… D,” pointing to my dick when saying the last letter. “And by you, I mean…” I pointed to two of the hottest chicks in the audience, “you and you,” Then at an older man, “But not you, sir.” The audience cut up and I was able to take my first full breath. The adrenaline surged high and hot but cleared when the first joke landed, and then I could get into my rhythm.
“Being a comedian is hard,” I whined and waited. “If you don’t make people laugh, suddenly the club loses your number. Sometimes I think I should have aimed a little lower when choosing a career. You know there are some jobs where you can literally screw it all the way up and still be employed? Case in point… weatherman.” I pretended to use my hands to indicate the direction of the jet stream. “‘Today, it is going to be sunny and 70s. Enjoy the sunshine. Back to you, Bob,’” I said in my best broadcasting voice, cupping the microphone with my hand. “Then a storm pops up and an F4 tornado flattens everything.” I pressed my knees together and put my hand on my mouth, embarrassed. “‘Oopsie, my bad.’” The audience giggled. “Or a road construction worker.” I shifted my hand to my chin and looked down into the audience. “Keep digging, Jorge. You got this, my man. Carl, Joe, and I are going to sit here and watch your form and supervise while I sext my latest tinder whore. Good job outta you, Jorge.”
“Where are my momma’s boys at?” I shouted into the microphone and was rewarded with a couple of whoops and scattered applause. “Okay. Okay, there are definitely a few of us out there.” I shook my head. “Fifteen… it was brutal to grow up with a single mother. Taking the long showers.” I used my fingers to make quotes in the air when I said the word showers. “Jizzing into socks.” I changed my voice to mimic my mom. “‘Freddie, you go through so much lotion. I just don’t understand it.’” The audience laughed. “‘I am going to make an appointment with Dr. Berstein right away. Maybe you have eczema or a thyroid condition. We need to get to the bottom of this.’”
“‘No, Ma!’ I’d shout up the basement stairs while I was wanking it to a dogeared Playboy.” I grabbed the mic stand and waited. “My mom is so gullible. God, I love that woman. When I was a kid, every weekend she’d go to Blockbuster Video. Show of hands, how many know what Blockbuster was?” I waited, seeing that over half of them did not. “Let me enlighten you,” I pantomimed like I was riding a horse while the old people in the audience laughed. “Back in olden times, groups of people would venture out into the wild in our covered wagons to procure video tapes from a fine institution called Blockbuster Video. This was many, many moons before the internet existed.” I waited to let it sink in. “Before the internet, you say?” I bit my lip, letting the words linger. “Yes, it was a simpler time.” I stood quietly waiting; comedy is all about the pause. “Anyway, my mom is a sweet and innocent lady. Every weekend, she’d drive her horse and buggy to Blockbuster and bring home a fat stack of videotapes. One day, in the middle of the pile was a film entitled Spanking the Monkey.” I froze, my body feigning shock, making my eyes huge as I blinked slowly and glanced from side to side without moving my head while the audience giggled awkwardly. It was the perfect setup. “I vividly remember eating a peanut butter sandwich while I rifled through them, and that title stopped me dead in my tracks,” I paused and tapped my index finger to my cheek as I made my expression inquisitive. Half the job of telling a good joke is the delivery. It requires you to twist and contort your face into playful expressions. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
I switched over to my ‘mom’ voice. “‘Freddie, we have seen nearly everything in the store. The clerk said it got four stars and he highly recommended it.’”
“‘Did he now?’ I asked her. ‘Color me intrigued.’” I paused again for effect and tapped my index finger on my lips like I was carefully considering the clerk’s recommendation. “So, what did I do? You bet your ass I ran downstairs and popped that tape right into the VCR, pressed play, but to my dismay the credits scrolled.” I huffed my frustration into the microphone. “Looks like someone never heard of ‘be kind, rewind,’” I paused again shaking my head in disgust. “Sinners.” The audience laughed again. “So, I pushed rewind and waited. You know, children today will never know how agonizingly long it takes to rewind a VHS tape. We have spoiled them and created an instant gratification generation.” I surmised pausing again for laughs, then exaggerated, “Finally, twenty-five minutes later, it was ready for my viewing pleasure. I pushed the button, settled back into the sofa with my popcorn, and discovered that Spanking the Monkey was a trail blazing, coming of age film about…” I paused and looked around the audience, “Spanking… the… monkey.” Laughter erupted in the room and I soaked it up. You had to savor those moments of joy and know when to pause so the audience didn’t miss your next joke. When it died down again, I asked sweetly, “Mom?”
“‘Yes, dear?’”
“Do you know what spanking the monkey means?”
“‘What do you mean, honey?’”
“It’s slang for choking the chicken. Waxing the pole, having a party with Rosie Palmer and her five friends.”
“‘What?’ My mom turned all shades of red and marched down the stairs, yanking the tape out of the VCR. I have never seen the woman move as fast as she did that day. I heard her mumbling how she was going to go back to that store and give that clerk a piece of her mind. The next day, to my horror and amazement, she strode into Blockbuster, dragging me, waving that smut tape in her hand, demanding the pimply-faced clerk lock it up and put it in the adult section.
“‘This video has corrupted my innocent son.’”
I grimaced. “Yeah, Ma, we’ll go with that. That’s what corrupted me.”
The audience snorted and clapped.
The rest of my set moved quickly, and at the end of it, they loved me. “Thanks for listening. You all have been amazing. I’m Freddie Angel and remember to give your bartenders…” I paused and held the microphone out to the audience, “…just… the… tip!” The crowd chanted back at me. I was becoming a pretty big fish in a very small pond, and my catchphrase had caught on. It wasn’t my best work, but it wasn’t my worst either. There was no greater high than having a good set. Making people laugh was like breathing oxygen for me. I couldn’t live without it. I walked back to the bar and took a seat at a stool, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“From your biggest fan,” Cora said as she slid a vodka cranberry over.
I lifted my glass in salute in the direction that Cora pointed at. “It’s nice to have a fan that is so concerned about my urinary tract.”
Cora snorted when she laughed, a quirk I found magical the first time I’d heard it, and when I told her so, she turned twelve thousand adorable shades of red.
I sipped the drink, and in a few minutes, it softened my razor-sharp edges. Fortified by the vodka, I watched Cora work. I’d had a crush on her since Paulie brought her in to sling the weak drinks the club served a few months ago. An hour later, the club was starting to clear out. She wiped down the sticky countertop and then tucked a straw behind her ear like it was a pencil. She rocked a red pixie cut that made her blue eyes electric, and her golden hoops winked when they caught the spotlight. But it was her mouth I couldn’t stop fixating on. You know that little half-moon shape on the top of a woman’s lips? I think they call it a cupid’s bow or some shit? It made me weak in the knees. I wanted to press the pad of my thumb across it. I was certain that her lips felt like satin, and I found myself wondering what they would feel like on mine. Noticing my eyes on her, she flashed me a wink and a quick smile. To her, I was just Freddie. To me, she was the sun.