Twelve Months

by Steven Manchester

  The two drunkest people in the place laughed before I was escorted back to my table by my family’s applause. The rest of the audience remained quiet.

  Bella stood to kiss me, Riley’s eyes were swollen from crying, and Michael shook my hand. “That took real guts,” he said.

  I felt like I was in shock. From the moment we’d arrived, I just wanted to get up there, deliver my lines and get off. The laughs didn’t matter all that much – which was a good thing. If I’d learned anything from my recent cooking class, the real value was in the effort – not the outcome. But why do I have to suffer each time I go up? I wondered. Why can’t I just remember that it’s not so bad getting up there?

  One of the other comedians came over to the table. “Don’t sweat it. Tough crowd tonight,” he said.

  “That’s what they told me last week,” I replied, still dazed from the experience.

  He laughed. “Now that’s funny,” he said.

  “How long you been at this?” I asked.

  “About a year.”

  “So when does it get comfortable?”

  He looked at me and grinned.

  “You know…at what point does the fear leave you?” I clarified.

  He laughed again. “As far as I know, it never goes away. But that’s the reason we get up there and do it, right? To feel alive.”

  His name was Smokin’ Joe Holden. I asked him to join us at the table and he did. We were the two oldest guys in the place, so we hit it off right away. He explained, “My daughter was going to have a baby and I was going to be a grandfather at forty-one years old. I thought – my life is half over. If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it. I was working two jobs that weren’t making me happy. I eventually talked to a friend. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘To be a stand up comic,’ I told him. ‘Then do it. Do what makes you happy. If you get paid for it, even better.’ Today, if only for my twenty minute set, I’m living my dream by making people forget their problems.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “So why are you putting yourself through all this?” he asked.

  Everyone at the table tensed. I quickly broke the tension. “Very similar reasons, my friend.”

  He nodded once, but as he excused himself he leaned into my ear. “I do a set every Sunday over at the Gazebo Room. Why don’t you join me? It’s a good audience. Most of the comics I know try out all their new material there.” He handed me his business card. “Give me a call, if you’re interested.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Riley held my hand all the way to the parking garage. “You just wait til I tell Pudge what his Poppa did tonight!”

  A giant lump formed in the base of my throat. I can’t believe that I actually considered escaping, I thought.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Over the next few weeks, Joe brought me to a few different clubs. One was a bachelor party where no one listened to a single joke. At a different club, I asked to do a ten-minute set. The booker laughed. “What do you want to do, cut your own album tonight?” he asked. I got the standard four minutes.

  The vast majority of my stuff bombed, but I was more interested in facing the fear and overcoming it. To me, the lonely stage was the perfect place for me to grow as a human being.

  I suppose I started to show some real signs of pain and fatigue when Riley expressed her concerns. “Maybe you should slow down a bit and take better care of yourself, Dad?”

  “I can’t, sweetie,” I told her. “For the first time in my life, I’m living.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Right around that time, as a gesture of kindness from a few talented comedians, I was invited to the big dance. It was a charity fundraiser, with eleven other comics, a few of them national headliners.

  A crowd of three hundred and fifty had gathered in the large, smoke-filled room, while I stood trembling at the bar awaiting my turn to take the stage and make the audience squeal with laughter. Smokin’ Joe was the host of the night and opened up with a hilarious fifteen-minute set. He poked fun at everything from his strong New York accent to his first prostate exam. “And have you heard about this new Viagra for women?” He shook his head and twisted up his face. “Not for my ol’ lady. That’s like lighting a single match stick to a block of ice.”

  With each laugh, the crowd loosened up. My heart pounded out of my chest and my shirt was already drenched in rings of sweat. Bella kept looking at me, smiling.

  Steph Collura went on next and she was non-stop funny. From her weight problem to her daily difficulties with marriage, she reminded the audience of how important it was to laugh at themselves.

  As if I were watching the night from a distant window, everything felt surreal. I kept scanning the crowd. There are three hundred and fifty people here, I thought. And you’re afraid to speak in public. What are you – insane?

  Bella threw me a thumbs-up and mouthed the words, “I love you.” Riley and Michael were beaming with pride.

  Tony G., the Italian Don Rickles, took the stage next and from the moment he grabbed the mic, no one was safe. He rolled over the crowd like a thunderstorm. By the time anyone knew what had hit them, the after effects were nothing but laughter and people holding their sides in pain. He was a real pro.

  Oh God, I kept repeating in my head and honestly thought I was going to pass out.

  Christian Shaw took the stage, pointing out that he was the only black man in the joint. Everyone laughed. Reminiscent of a young Chris Rock, Shaw’s style of comedy was smooth one minute and physical the next.

  Jay “Dunny” Donovan grabbed the mic. This thirteen-year veteran of stand up had commuted from Boston and had the accent to prove it. A regular at Nick’s Comedy Stop, he’d also honed his craft at different clubs in New York. In the end, he finished with an impression of an inebriated SpongeBob Square Pants and left the stage to a roaring applause.

  “And let’s welcome our newcomer for the night, Don DiMarco,” Smokin’ Joe announced.

  I don’t know how I did it, but I forced my legs up the stairs to the stage and grabbed the microphone. It’s hard to explain, but at that moment I felt like I’d been doing stand-up comedy for years. “I broke down on the way over here,” I said and paused.

  The enormous crowd waited.

  “My car’s fine. It’s just that the song Wind Beneath My Wings came on the radio and I couldn’t take it. I had to pull over to the side of the road and have myself a good cry.”

  In the rear of the audience, like an angel sent from heaven, some lady burst out laughing. Unfortunately, her laughter was anything but contagious. Although I tried to will myself to enjoy the set, by the second joke, I was already babbling like a drunken auctioneer. “This stand-up…comedy thing…is all new to me,” I stuttered, “I’ll try anything, I guess. I raised hamsters…for a while. To be honest, they’re tough to herd. And…they kind of freak me out.” I paused, wiping the sweat that poured from my brow. “Did you know that the harder you squeeze their bellies, the more their eyes bulge?”

  A few guys standing at the bar began laughing. I quickly looked over. They were talking amongst themselves. I soldiered on.

  “My kids – no matter how much I tried to get rid of them, they always followed the car home. Seriously, though, being a parent isn’t easy, is it? I remember when my son, Robby, was at that young age where he could be very inconsiderate of other people. One night, we were enjoying a picnic at a rest area just off the highway when he decided to devour a bag of cheese puffs all by himself. It was dark, he was tired and with the orange powder completely covering his fingers, he mistook his thumb for a cheese puff. One chomp later, he let out a howl that had two dozen sweaty men running out of the woods.” I shook my head. “I swear that boy has no respect for the privacy of others.”

  There was awkward laughter – people trying to be kind.

  “And the little bugger had a bad habit of picking his nose. ‘Stop eating sweets,’ I’d tell him, ‘you’re going
to rot out your teeth.’” I offered another head shake. “Tastes like candy, but it’s snot.” I counted three full seconds. “Poor kid. It wasn’t his fault he was so slow. When he was young, he was drinking from the toilet when he split his head open and suffered some pretty serious brain damage. It was so bad we had to have a plate put in his head. The wife and I couldn’t afford metal, so the doctors went with a paper plate.” I shrugged. “I don’t think it worked the same. Every time we went swimming, the plate got wet and Robby started talking with a lisp.”

  There was less laughter.

  “He was the first boy in his high school’s history to play field hockey. His junior year, the season was going great until some of the guys on the football team confused his plaid skirt for a license to abuse him.” I shook my head again and put on a sad face. “That’s all I have to say about that.”

  After another impregnated pause, I said, “Thankfully, his college years proved less violent. He was playing badminton on a full scholarship. Plagued with injuries all season, he was in a real heated match when he lost the shuttlecock in the sun. All of a sudden – smack – it hit him right between the eyes! He was out cold, out of a scholarship and his dreams of playing professionally were gone forever.”

  I paused to take a sip of water and listened as private conversations began to pop up at different tables. I quickly looked at my watch. One minute to go…thank God!

  “Recently, for my fiftieth birthday, Robby rented me a stripper dressed in a Western getup. I’ll never forget that night. I felt so embarrassed. Robby said he wished he could have afforded a female stripper, but money was tight.”

  I scanned the crowd. Most everyone – except my family – had given up on me. They were smiling, laughing and enjoying my set, as though they didn’t realize I was bombing terribly. With a grin, I winked at them.

  “Before I get kicked out of here, let me share a story that might help some of you folks. Last year, I was out doing some Christmas shoplifting when a junkie wielding a knife assaulted me. For anybody who’s ever been mugged, you know what a terrifying experience that can be.”

  The same guys at the bar laughed, their backs now turned to me. Your timing’s off, fellas, I joked with myself.

  “I suppose I was lucky, though. It was a butter knife.” I shook my head one last time. “He must have carved for three solid minutes before he broke the skin.”

  As I started to place the microphone back into the stand, my family’s table erupted with applause. A few of the tables around them followed suit. I paused and put it back to my mouth. “Thank you,” I told them, though I doubt anyone but Bella, Riley and Michael would have known what I meant. I looked over to see them wiping tears. I wished they were tears from laughing so hard, but I knew better. I rushed over to them.

  Ed Glavin wrapped up the night. From the time he appeared, his comical presence hypnotized the crowd with everything from impressions to props. He also quelled the ignorance of a heckler like a lion tamer at the circus. “Can you buy men’s clothes where you got that shirt?” he asked, but the man never answered. And the punk never opened his mouth again. I wish I could have enjoyed it, but my head was still spinning.

  Glavin got off the stage and walked right over to our table. He pointed to me. “You’ve got big ones,” he told me.

  “Thanks,” I told him. “It means more than you know.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you at the next show.”

  “Not likely,” I said. “Tonight’s my last night. I’m retiring early.”

  He shrugged. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, you gave it a real shot, and that takes big ones!”

  I thanked him again and got up from the table to walk away from the shortest, craziest life I’d ever known. As we walked to the car, I pictured Dewey’s swollen face and laughed to myself. So much for the Tonight Show, I thought, but I didn’t take three more steps before I decided, But it really doesn’t matter. It’s all about the experiences in life…not the successes.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  A few anxious nights later, I sat in a packed auditorium and watched my courageous grandson deliver his lines like a pro.

  When the cast took their final bow, Pudge looked me straight in the eye and smiled. There was no need to say anything. The tears in my eyes were filled with pride. We both understood what it had taken. Through all the doubts, past all the nerves – he’d stood up, too.

  Chapter 10

  The first red and orange leaves began to appear and an early autumn was upon us. Fall had always been my favorite season, but this year it arrived as a brutal reminder of the few moments I had left. Cancer symptoms aside, I was chomping at the bit to get back to the honey do list, and I told Bella so.

  My appointment with Dr. Rice was spent playing hit or miss with new medications – a cocktail of pills – to combat constipation, fatigue and nausea, along with all the side effects of the pills themselves. It was a cruel juggling act, but I was grateful she was right there to help me keep the balls in the air for a little while longer.

  After taking the grandkids to watch my beloved Red Sox get obliterated by the Baltimore Orioles, I returned to my masterpiece. I had to laugh. Like a shoe-making elf, Bella was pushing my next dream hard. A handful of brochures had magically appeared on the puzzle table, along with a Post-it note: “I’m coming with you this time.” With a smile, I began skimming through them. They were for dude ranches located in Arizona. A childhood fantasy of being a cowboy, an adulthood of loving the music and the idea of sleeping under a sky that never ended – all encouraged by my love of Louis L’Amour books, I thought. It can now come true. As I read the pamphlets, I wondered what I’d look like in cowboy boots and a real Stetson hat.

  The first ad read, “Experience the Old West! This historic ranch, founded in the early nineteen hundreds, is one of today’s premier guest ranch resorts. The beautiful window to our western past will build memories for a lifetime.”

  The second was equally appealing. “Guest ranches, or dude ranches as they are more commonly known, have been around since the late eighteen hundreds, offering a glimpse into the past and a haven for relaxation. Welcome to one of Arizona’s most authentic ranches.”

  The last, however, was the keeper. “Guest ranches in Arizona are a glimpse into the past, but with all the modern amenities. These might include a day trip to the Grand Canyon, fishing on the Colorado River, visiting a local ghost town, or getting your kicks on Route 66. Our charming, informal ranch gives you a feeling of the Old West. Whether you are busy all the time or just want to take it a little easier, your time here will be a vacation free of crowds, lines and stress. We guarantee you will know everyone within hours.”

  The brochures were nice, but it was time to live the experiences rather than read about them – as I had my whole life. “Isn’t it going to be too hot this time of year in Arizona?” I joked with her.

  “But it’s a dry heat,” Bella countered.

  “An oven is a dry heat, too…right?”

  She laughed. “I can’t wait!”

  “Me, too!” I admitted. I checked the dates. The timing was spot on, so I booked it – a small casita with a real Mexican queen-sized bed, a fireplace and a private porch.

  On the night before we left, Michael and Riley came by with a new pair of cowboy boots they’d bought for me. “We figured that you’d want to pick out your own hat,” Michael said.

  Once again, Riley did her best to hide her grief. This time, I let her cry into my shoulder for as long as she needed. “It’s okay, babe,” I told her and she let it all out.

  A half hour later, I tried on the boots. They were painfully tight. “They’re perfect,” I lied. “Thank you.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bella and I arrived at the ranch to find a beautiful view of the mountains from all sides. Nestled amongst tall pines, juniper and mesquite, it was an inviting respite. I fell in love with the place right away. It was hot, but not nearly as uncomfortable as
I thought it might be.

  “Howdy, folks. Good to meet ya,” Gloria said and welcomed us with a pair of strong, open arms.

  We were escorted to our personal hacienda, decorated with a Southwestern flare. I placed the bags on the bed and whistled. The thick-walled adobe dwelling was an Old West postcard of charm. The room itself was just what the doctor ordered – a getaway of seclusion and solace.

  Gloria caught our reaction and laughed. “How ‘bout I give y’all my two-dollar tour?”

  With a nod, I followed Bella out into the desert sun.

  We visited the ranch’s general store and met Louise. “I actually came here as a guest a few years back and loved it so much I decided to move down here and work,” she said.

  “Good for you,” I told her.

  In the tack room just outside the stables, Gloria introduced us to one of the ranch’s three wranglers. “This is Alden Marques,” she said. “We call him Al.”

  The man was a true cowboy. He dressed the part and looked as tough as rawhide. When he spoke, though, it was easy to pick up on his softer side. “Pleased to meet you both,” he said in little more than a whisper and shook our hands.

  I couldn’t help but pick up on his melancholy disposition.

  As we walked out, Gloria whispered, “As much as he fusses after the animals on the cattle drives, that sweet man wouldn’t hurt a horse fly.”

  Bella and I exchanged a glance. She smiled.

  We toured the sprawling grounds where horseshoe pits, a swimming pool and a hot tub were desolate of life. “The workers live on site,” Gloria said, “and since we’ll be treating you like family, I hope you’ll see fit to do the same?”

  “Absolutely,” Bella replied.

  The main lodge was separated from the kitchen and dining room by a small stone courtyard. As we stepped in, I could tell the lodge was the main focus of the dude ranch. Decorated in western décor, the giant Mohave building was where everyone gathered to talk about his or her day. A huge fireplace, surrounded by comfortable couches and chairs, created a relaxing atmosphere. There was even a stack of classic western movies on hand.