The line between pain and comedy is so thin, it might as well not even exist. That’s what I’ve learned from all this. Comedy isn’t a way to avoid pain — it’s a way to acknowledge it. My jokes don’t need to be perfect. They just need to be honest.
At least this is what I’m telling myself as I sit here in the Comedy Cavern — these bitches love their alliteration! — reviewing all the new material I feverishly punched into my Notes app last night.
I put my name on the sign-up list, but I’m still considering the option of playing dumb when they call it. Letting the moment pass. It’s gonna be a game-time decision for sure, but I’m hopeful I’ll make the right one. I’m sure I’ll gather more confidence once Will gets here. That way I’ll have three people at this table to count on for guaranteed courtesy laughs.
Where is he? I scan the club — the red curtain-enclosed mini stage, the uneven rows of tables and chairs, the dimly lit bar — but come up empty.
“You seem nervous,” Marco says from across the table. “Remember, you have time on your side. Five minutes will go by like nothing. Even if you bomb —”
“Why are you putting that in his head?” Mom interjects. “He’s not gonna bomb!” She turns to me. “You’re not gonna bomb.”
“I’m not nervous!” I assure them. As my thigh vibrates up and down like a horny rabbit en route to orgasm. “I don’t know where Will is. He texted an hour ago that he was on his way.”
I pull my phone from my pocket to try him again, but I feel a strong hand grip my shoulder from behind. I turn around and instantly melt like an M&M. He’s even cuter than I remember — messy hair, crooked yet perfect smile, genuine brown eyes. Instead of his lake uniform of Nantucket Red shorts, he’s in dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt (but like a really nice one). He says hi to Mom and Marco and sits down in the empty chair next to me.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Traffic in the Holland Tunnel was unbelievable. And I didn’t get cell service down there! They didn’t start yet, right? When are you up?”
“I think I’m gonna be one of the first,” I say. “There were only two people on the list when I signed up. I still might not do it. I barely have any of my new jokes memorized.”
“You have to!” He puts his arm around me and I casually just marry him in my head, no big deal. “You’re going to be hilarious.” He gives a playful smirk. “You better be — I crossed the Hudson River for this.”
“Uh-oh,” I deadpan. “Now the pressure’s on.”
The lights dim a little further and the host of the night jumps up onto the spotlit stage to introduce the first comedian.
“Joey Rossi,” she proclaims. Of course.
I look across the table at Mom. Her big hoop earrings peek out and glisten from under her hair. Her glossed lips flash me a loving beam of encouragement. Her MAC-lined eyes brim with confidence in my ability to kill it up on that stage — mixed with just enough nervousness to indicate she’ll be destroyed if I don’t.
You know what? I am so grateful for this woman. Regardless of what the men in our lives do to us — good or bad — there will never be a love as unconditional as the one we have for each other. I make a mental note to remember this in the event that this whole Will thing ends up blowing up in my face and/or the event that she can’t make it work with Marco this time around. It really doesn’t matter. We’ll have each other no matter what.
Oh, my God. What the fuck am I doing? Now is so not the time to be sentimental — it’s the time to literally be a joke machine.
“Joey?” Mom says. “You change your mind?”
Marco and Will just kinda look around like they’re minding their own business. It’s clear everyone at this table would be supportive if I chickened out right now.
“Joey… Rossi?” the emcee says again. “Bayonne?”
But I’m not chickening out. I’m ready for this.
I sprout up and step onto the slightly raised “stage” area.
Whoa. Okay. This spotlight is gonna take a second to get used to. I squint my eyes until a vision of Will in the audience comes into focus. Now his leg is vibrating up and down like a horny rabbit en route to orgasm. Fuck. I’m just standing here and not saying anything. I scan the room. Everyone kinda has that same oh-shit-is-he-gonna-self-destruct? look on their face.
“So, first of all,” I start. “I know what you’re thinking…‘That’s the guy who’s been all over the local news this week! Isn’t he wanted for felony arson?’”
This only gets a few (audibly uncomfortable) chuckles from my table. Maybe the story of the fire wasn’t quite as viral as I imagined it was. Shit. This is off to an excruciating start.
“Hold on,” I say — into the actual microphone. And then I step down to our table and steal a giant gulp from Mom’s wineglass. Hopefully there aren’t any undercover cops here! I could have just gotten this place busted for serving a minor. But nobody seems to give a fuck. And I need this liquid courage more than they need their liquor license. “So. Anybody here ever been arrested?”
The wine does wonders. It’s not nearly enough to give me a buzz, but there’s something about the familiar taste. It relaxes my nerves just enough to let words flow out of my mouth.
I step back onto the stage and allow the spotlight to blind me this time. My mind is a blur. I latch on to the first joke I can think of and just keep talking. My material from last night comes back to me in spurts — not even close to exactly how I wrote it in my phone — but I can remember the basic setups and punchlines. It’s almost like I’m on autopilot. I hear myself launch into a bit about how the lighting in my mug shot booth was basically a hate crime. “I should have arrested them for that shit.”
This actually gets a few laughs. From strangers! I can’t even explain the high it gives me. I imagine it’s crack-esque. All these years I’ve been so afraid to get up and tell jokes, I could have been experiencing this. More laughs trickle in. Mom howls from our table.
The next joke doesn’t land quite as well. It’s almost a total pin-drop moment (save for the trio of polite giggles from my table). I try to shake it off as quickly as possible. I do not say any corny nonsense like, “Tough crowd.” That would just be pathetic. Better to keep it moving. So I switch gears to a bit about the founding fathers. Will came all the way here from the city, so the least I could do is make some historical references for him.
This bit gets a good response, so I stay on the topic. “This country would have been so much better if it were founded by women and gay men instead. You know? Like, founding mothers and founding… guncles.” Beat. “Then our exes would be the ones with the mug shots.” Beat. “And my Mom and I would be over here with Presidential Medals of fucking Honor.”
I think I still have a good minute left in my time slot, but that last line seemed to be the perfect finale. I squint past the light at our table and see that Mom is laughing so hard she’s in tears. It feels good to know that after a week of crying for all the wrong reasons, she’s finally crying for the right ones.
I hand the mic back to the host as the audience applauds me. That’s right. There’s applause! Nary a boo to be heard. I did it! I performed and didn’t bomb. Already I can tell you it was the most exhilarating experience of my entire life. Way better than destroying Luke’s car or burning Richard’s clothes. Instead, I created something.
“You were a little rough on Benjamin Franklin,” Will cracks as I return to the table. “But you killed it.”
“Clearly my killer sense of humor has rubbed off on you,” Marco goofily adds and then taps my arm. “You were great up there.”
Mom’s being suspiciously quiet.
“What did you think?” I ask. “I saw you laughing at the Instagram joke.”
“I’ve always known that once you got the courage to perform, you’d be great.” She wipes her smudge-y eyes. “But this blew away my expectations. Oh, my God — Joey. I couldn’t breathe, I was laughing so hard.”
“Shut up!” I say.
“I’m serious, Joey.” She leans back and looks me up and down with love and admiration. “You are that bitch.”
“No.” I smile and throw it all right back at her. “You are.”