CHAPTER 7

The Dinah Shore Tea Party

(October 1, 2014)

About a week later, on Wednesday night, Heather called to tell me she’d finished her gig at the Holy City Asylum and was now off to play a couple of nights at some obscure lesbian club called The Dinah Shore Tea Party.

“Don’t you have to be a dyke to play there?” I said.

“No, you just have to harbor a deeply imbedded hostility toward all carbon-based lifeforms with male reproductive organs. I figure I’ve got that down pat, so I should fit right in.”

For the past six nights I had been wondering (at occasional points during the day the thought would invade my brain, I just couldn’t help it) if Heather had met anyone while in San Francisco, and more importantly if she was having sex with him. I was surprised that it concerned me so, but nonetheless it did.

In as humorous a manner as possible I said, “You mean you haven’t gotten lucky yet? Aren’t there plenty of comedy groupies wandering around up there?”

“Sure there are, but every single one’s as queer as a three-headed Pope.”

I was relieved, but tried not to show it. “Maybe you’ll get lucky at The Dinah Shore Tea Party.”

“Yeah, right, with who? Hell, I’d have sex with you before I fucked some motorcycle bulldyke with a hook for a hand.”

“Oh. Why, thank you. I guess.”

“No problem. Look, I’ve gotta go. Marsha set up a phone interview with one of these free newspaper rags, and they’re supposed to be calling any second. Now I’ve gotta recite all my routines to some stranger over the phone.”

“The littlest publicity helps.”

“So they tell me. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay? Good night.”

“’Night.” I cradled the receiver, imagining the journalist from the free newspaper rag being a huge Aryan with a leather fetish who seduces Heather with the mere sound of his voice, hypnotizing her into taking a cab to his dungeon lair in the Haight where he straps her down on a gynecological table, then approaches her steadily with a cat-o-nine-tails in one hand and a glowing hot branding iron in the other… .

What? Where the hell did that come from? I shook myself out of the daydream. I decided to force Heather from my mind, so I retired to my desk to write some new material for the show coming up Friday night. The humor needed to be perfect, just the right balance of sadomasochism and silliness, otherwise the testosterone-filled teenagers would drag me into the mosh pit and beat me to a pulp with deadly blunt objects, most notably their heads. Striking such a balance was not going to be easy. After about twenty minutes of intense work, during which I drew indecipherable doodles in the margins of my notebook paper, I released a frustrated sigh and threw my pen against the wall. Creating comedy in a vacuum wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. I needed real people to bounce ideas off of, people who understood my humor … people like Heather.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the wall for what must have been a very long time.