After that I never felt much like working at St. Joe’s. It wasn’t what I wanted to do, I realized, but I had nowhere else to go. So I worked hard and climbed their ladder, getting promoted from nights to days and from days to lead child-care worker to supervisor of the entire unit. It was pretty good for a guy with only a high-school education.
My asset was that I understood kids, and something inside me made me care about them, despite not wanting to work there. I stayed at the job three years, but it did get tiring. The system did nothing but perpetuate itself. The same kids would come in time after time. They’d arrive at St. Joe’s, return to their families for a while, and, soon enough, the same problems would come up again and back they’d come. Usually till they moved on to the next system.
Strangely, they didn’t mind coming back, because, I realized, we provided a better family situation than they had at home. Come to think of it, that’s why I stuck around, too. It became my surrogate family. I knew everyone, loved seeing them and socializing with them after work. The downside is that I began to drink myself.
I wasn’t the only one, though. Lots of the people who worked there drank. Maybe drowning and numbing the sorrowful sights we dealt with daily was the only way we could get ourselves to return again. But a routine developed. After our three-to-eleven shift, a bunch of us would meet at the bar. At first I only drank sodas. But it looked like everyone who drank was having such a great time. You never sang and danced or wrapped your arm around my shoulder and told me what a great guy I was, but that’s what we did at the bar. And after the bar closed, we’d buy more beer and take it down to the lake and get even drunker.
After these ordeals, we’d usually all end up at some greasy-spoon diner, eating and trying to sober up. I enjoyed this, especially the tightly knit camaraderie, but I realized the drinking would lead me to trouble if I didn’t cool it, and the one thing I didn’t want was to turn out like you. So, after getting drunk one evening and telling off this loudmouth goofball for no good reason I can recall, I decided to quit. I never drank again. It was like a buzzer went off in my head. I didn’t want to become another drunken Anderson.
I still went out with the gang, and one night we decided to try a favorite bar. They wanted two dollars to get inside.
“For what?” I asked. “It didn’t used to be like this.”
“Comedy night,” a big bouncer said.
“We don’t want comedy,” I said. “We’re regulars. Where’s Larry, the guy who’s usually here?”
“He’s off tonight. Two bucks or you can’t get in.”
“Screw that,” I said. “Let’s go.”
But my friend O’Brien interjected and said he’d pay.
“Okay, you pay,” I said, “and I’ll laugh.”
The bar was small, even smaller with a makeshift stage, and the chairs and tables were stacked practically on top of each other. The guy onstage was a beefy Italian who was doing a Popeye the Sailor impression. Then another comic did his stuff. “These guys aren’t funny,” I told O’Brien. “I
can’t believe we had to pay for this garbage. I’m funnier than this in my sleep.”
“If you think you’re so funny,” he said, “why don’t you go up there and try it?”
“Maybe I will,” I said.
I wanted to talk and he wanted to listen to the comics. Finally, I gave in and listened, too. Like a good boy, I sat back and paid attention, and discovered that this one guy wasn’t bad. But I didn’t want to admit it, not after putting everyone down. As we watched some more, I even found myself laughing along with the rest of the crowd.
“It’s too bad you don’t like any of these guys,” O’Brien said.
When the show was finished, I went up to one of the comedians I liked and introduced myself. “You were great,” I said. “How does a guy get into this?”
“Every Friday we play at Mickey Finn’s,” he said. “You know it?”
“Yeah. Can anyone do it?”
“If you’re funny.”
“I’ll be down Friday,” I said, automatically judging myself funny.
“Okay,” he said.
“Do I need to call anyone?”
“Just come down and bring lots of friends,” he said. “We need an audience.”
He returned to packing up the microphone and I went over and told O’Brien what I was going to do the following Friday.
“You’re what?” he said incredulously.
“Well, you dared me.”
I gave the comics a wave as they left.
“See you Friday,” I called.
They gave me a fake smile, like, Sure, we’ll see you. I already felt different. Terrified, in fact. What was I going to talk about?
Signed,
But seriously, folks