Chapter 56
SATURDAY NIGHT DEAD
Saturday night at the diner, we change the channel on the TV from the ball game to the big show out in Las Vegas.
All my friends and family are clustered at the counter, sipping sodas and nibbling French fries.
“You okay?” Gilda asks when I lock my wheels and stare up at the plasma screen mounted on the wall.
“Yeah. I just wish Uncle Frankie were here.”
“Me too,” says Stevie Kosgrov, hustling out of the kitchen with a tray loaded down with plates of food. “This meat loaf weighs a ton!”
Yes, even Stevie is pitching in and waiting tables. If you don’t give him a good tip, he hangs out at your table, cracking his knuckles, waiting for you to reconsider the error of your ways.
“Frankie’s watching it at home,” says Mrs. Smiley, gesturing with her cell phone. “Says none of these kids will be half as funny as Jamie Grimm!”
The whole diner erupts with applause.
“Jay-mee! Jay-mee! Jay-mee!”
I soak it up for a few seconds because it feels great. But then I see Ray Romano come on the screen.
Oh, man. One of my all-time favorite stand-up comics and TV stars is the host of the semifinals. The TV audience is cheering for him the way I would. Hey, everybody loves Raymond.
“Thank you, thank you! Thank you so much! Oh, man, I’m not that good, I don’t think. Let me just say, I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to be hosting the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic semifinals!”
More applause.
“First I have to say hi to my kids at home. Hi, guys! Okay, go to bed! I have four kids. One daughter, three sons. And you know what? I don’t care if you laugh or not. I’m just happy to be out of the house.”
After a couple more jokes, Romano explains how we’re going to see “sixteen incredible kid comics” tonight—the top two from the eight regional competitions. Next, he introduces the judges, who are—drumroll, please—Robin Williams, Ellen DeGeneres, and Chris Rock.
Wow. It’s like my personal Mount Rushmore of stand-up comedy.
On the outside, I’m smiling. Inside? I’m weeping. I can’t believe I came this close to meeting four of my comedy idols out in Las Vegas.
Gilda sees my lip quiver a little. It’s hard to keep smiling when you feel like screaming.
“Next year,” she whispers.
I nod.
Next year.
If there is a next year.