by Jeff Strand
“I’ll set down a plastic sheet or something.”
“No!”
“If we use my bed she could get impaled!”
“I don’t care. And don’t use the floor, either. I have to walk on that thing.”
“Fine. I’ll figure something out.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said. “If you want to videotape it you’ll want to put the camera on the left side of the room to avoid glare from the window.”
“I really do appreciate this.”
“No problem. That’s what spineless friends are for.”
Aside from that, Travis was easy to live with, during those moments when I didn’t envision his head in a spiked vice.
I got off the subject again, I know. Just slap me next time I do that.
Okay, the competition was at eight o’clock in Fodder Hall, but the participants were supposed to be there by seven. Travis and I arrived on time and in costume. To make his hair more like a newscaster, Travis had put in three types of gel, hardening it to the point that he could break down walls if he butted his head against them. Since I was playing two characters, being the versatile actor that I am, I wore a flannel shirt for Chuck the stagehand, as well as a fake mustache and a ball cap. Underneath the flannel shirt I wore a nice sweater for Butch the sports guy.
There were going to be ten acts, with Travis and I being the only duo in the group. We all stood in the backstage area, hanging around various corners practicing the routines. I overheard one very confident guy adding the comment “Hold for laughter” after every line. “Women are so unpredictable. Hold for laughter. I mean, my girlfriend changes her mind every two seconds. Hold for laughter. Guys, now they don’t do that. Hold for laughter.”
“All right, everyone, listen up!” said Jim Zucker, a short pudgy guy with thick glasses that looked more like swimming goggles. “We’re starting in half an hour, so everyone draw a number out of this hat for your starting order.”
He went around with a ten-gallon hat, clearly to get us in a comedic mood, and each of the contestants took a number. Travis reached inside and held up a slip of paper with “8” on it.
“Eighth. Well, that’s a good place,” I said.
Travis shrugged. “Depends. If the other people are lousy, the audience may have graduated from rotten fruit to sharp objects.”
He had a point.
A girl with hair so red it looked combustible approached us. “Do you know who the judges are?”
“No idea,” I said.
A bearded guy next to us groaned. “I heard that one of them’s a Catholic priest! A priest! How am I supposed to do my tampon routine with a priest judging?”
“I guess you’ll have to stuff it,” Travis remarked.
Tampon Man sighed. “Have any of you been in this before?”
Flaming Hair nodded. “Last year. I came in second.”
“Oh yeah,” said Tampon Man. “I remember. You were a blonde then. I’m graduating, so I only get one more chance at this. I’m gonna win or take everyone out with a machine gun trying.”
“He’s kidding,” Travis told me.
“I know,” I informed him.
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Travis said. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Of course I’m nervous.”
“I could ask them to remove the women from the audience if you want.”
Flaming Hair turned to me. “If you feel like you’re gonna pass out, bite the inside of your cheek really hard. That’ll keep you going for a few more minutes.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” I assured them. “I’m fine.”
“Your color isn’t so good,” Tampon Man said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Really.” Immediately after saying this I began to feel dizzy. “I just need some fresh air.”
“I think there’s an oxygen tent out back,” said Tampon Man.
Travis put his hand on my shoulder and guided me out of the backstage area into the hallway. “Seriously, are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“We can cancel, you know. I’d resent you for the rest of our lives, but we can cancel.”
“Which way is the bathroom?” I asked.
“Right around the corner, I think.”
“Meet you back here after I throw up.”
I sprinted ahead, rounded the corner, and smashed into Laura. She fell to the floor, where she was promptly regurgitated upon.
“Son of a bitch!” she wailed, wiping it out of her eyes. “What the hell’s the matter with—”
She recognized me and frantically scooted backwards. “Get away from me! Just get away!”
“I’m sorry,” I insisted, covering my mouth and sprinting into the men’s room before Vomit Phase Two began. I didn’t make it to the toilet, but at least I hit the sink. After the process was completed to my satisfaction, I rinsed out my mouth and wiped it with a paper towel.
A student emerged from stall #2, wiping his mouth as well. “You too, huh? I’ve done this competition four years in a row...you’d think it’d get easier.”
As I splashed cold water on my face, the realization that I had just yakked on Laura hit me full force. Slimy beer was one thing, but a recycled egg salad sandwich was something else. I hurried out of the bathroom, but the hallway was empty.
Okay, I’d worry about it later. For now, Travis was counting on me.
“Feeling better?” he asked as I returned to the backstage area.
I gave him a thumbs-up sign. “Just a little panic attack.”
“What was that shouting I heard outside?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. Nothing worth thinking about. Really.”
A few minutes later, Jim waved his hands for attention. “All right everyone, listen up. We’re starting in ten minutes. I want you all to line up according to your numbers, and as Mr. Rawlins does his spiel you’re going to file across the stage. If you want to laugh at Mr. Rawlins’ material feel free, but you’re not obligated to.”
Travis elbowed me in the side. “Laugh at it.”
We lined up at stage right. Hold For Laughter, who’d been unfortunate enough to pick #1, peeked out into the audience. “Wow, there must be two hundred people out there!”
“I think attendance is a requirement for Public Speaking 101,” said Flaming Hair.
A few minutes later, Saul Rawlins himself came backstage. He was a heavyset, ruddy-featured man in a nice-fitting tuxedo. “I wish all of you the best of luck,” he said, walking down our line. “I mean that.”
“Why is he here?” Travis whispered to me. “I thought this was a nationwide competition.”
“It is,” said Tampon Man. “Each of the semifinals takes place on a different day during the fall semester. He goes to all of them. It’s the only thing he does. He likes the attention.”
The lights in the theatre dimmed, and Saul went onstage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” a perky announcer said over the sound system. “Welcome to the Trade Point University semifinal round of the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition! And here’s your master of ceremonies...Saul Rawlins!”
There was enthusiastic applause as the stage lights brightened. Saul waved to the audience. “Are you ready to laugh?”
The audience cheered its assent.
“Well, then, let’s meet our contestants!” announced Saul.
“Okay, go!” Jim told us. “Walk slowly. Don’t look up at the stage lights or they’ll blind you.”
As the line of comedians began to walk onto the stage, an upbeat rock-and-roll melody played. The audience applauded loudly. “Here they are!” said Saul. “The eleven comedians who are going to make you howl with laughter...or make you sit through some really uncomfortable silences! Each of them has the chance to go to the finals, where they can win ten thousand dollars!”
Just as I made it on-stage, the music abruptly switched to a funeral march. “But comedy is a
cutthroat business,” Saul told the audience. “It can chew you up, spit you out, and trample you into the ground. It can crush you like a bug. It can burn you like a kerosene-soaked rag. These men and women are the truly brave. Look at them, walking across the stage like cattle to the slaughter. They are comedians. Pray for them.”
The music regained its upbeat tempo, and we filed off the stage. “Last time he had a guillotine,” said Tampon Man. “It was pretty cool.”
A few of the contestants went off to practice some more, while the rest of us stayed near the curtain so we could hopefully watch the competition botch their routines. Hold For Laughter squeezed his eyes shut and whispered “You’re funny, you’re funny, you’re funny,” until he was introduced as Jason Kierar.
“Wish me luck,” he said, stepping onto the stage.
No amount of luck I could impart upon him would have helped. It was gruesome. I don’t think I’d ever witnessed anything more painful than watching the poor soul hold for laughter when there were no laughs forthcoming.
A minute into the routine, Tampon Man smiled at me and made a sound like a bomb dropping and exploding.
“You’d think after twenty years of buying clothes, she’d know which ones to pick,” said Jason, stumbling over his words. The audience was dead silent.
“Someone find him a noose,” one of the contestants said. There was some chuckling from the others.
I didn’t chuckle. This was no longer a simple case of pre-show jitters. I was absolutely terrified. All of my fantasies about this event had involved giving a slam-bang performance and having the crowd roar with laughter. I didn’t until that moment realize that this could be a nightmare. An audience will applaud a bad singer out of politeness, but they won’t laugh at a bad comedian just to be nice.
Five minutes alone with a silent audience is a long time.
“Oh, God, make it stop,” wailed Tampon Man in mock agony.
Some sweat from my forehead ran down into my eyes. I wiped it away and continued to watch Jason, who was no longer even trying. He ran his lines together without any inflection or sense of timing. He finished and quickly strode off the stage to lackluster applause.
As he walked past me, I reached out and touched his shoulder. “Hey, you sounded pretty good out there. Not your fault the audience was dead.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” he said, his voice cracking a bit. “Jesus, I can’t believe I asked all my relatives to come see this.”
“Well, it’s hard to be the first one.”
“Especially if you suck.” Jason turned and headed for the exit. I watched him go, feeling sick to my stomach.
“I really feel sorry for him,” Flaming Hair told me. “I know him pretty well. He’s been wanting to do stand-up for as long as he can remember, but this is the first time he’s ever worked up the courage to actually get up on stage. I guarantee he’ll never do it again.”
“That’s horrible,” I said.
Flaming Hair nodded, then shrugged. “It’s sad, but let’s face it, he didn’t have any talent. I don’t care how much you want to be a comedian, if you’re not funny, you’re not going to make it. At least now he doesn’t have to wonder any more.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Our First Performance”
The next two performers also did stand-up comedy, and though they fared much better than Jason, they didn’t get anything more than some decent chuckles from the audience. I don’t know how good their material was, because at this point I wasn’t hearing much else beyond the voice in my head shouting “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!”
Now, after countless hours of rehearsal, I was starting to doubt whether our skit was any good. However, expressing these doubts to Travis was not one of my more astute tactical moves.
“What do you mean, is our skit any good?” he demanded. “Of course it’s good!”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, there’s nothing wrong with a little healthy tension,” he said. “But take some deep breaths, count to ten, think of a happy time in your childhood, and get the hell over it. It’s getting close to our turn.”
Number four was currently on stage, doing a song and dance number where the “humor” was dependent on singing very, very badly. Even though the audience wasn’t responding, this guy was tough to feel sorry for. I wanted something very heavy to fall on him.
“Should we go over the skit one more time?” I asked.
“No, we should not. You need to relax. Seth, we really have a chance at this! So far everyone else has been pathetic!”
The song ended, and after making an anti-witty joke about the president, Saul introduced Flaming Hair. She strode onto stage with a confidence that made me jealous. To this day I’m positive that she was a confidence-sucking vampire who’d made me her victim.
Her routine was about the trials of visiting a hairdresser, and she got a big laugh right away. The laughs kept coming as Travis looked at me with genuine concern.
“Seth, you’re green. I didn’t even know that people could actually turn green, but you are one green person.”
“Is he all right?” said another girl who hadn’t performed yet. “His face is all grey.”
“It’s green,” Travis corrected.
“No, it’s a dull grey.”
“That’s just the light back here. If you look closely, it’s green.”
The girl looked closely and shook her head. “Grey.”
“Yeah, whatever, you go ahead and believe that.” He looked me in the eye. “Seth, we’re going to do a green-removal exercise, okay?”
I nodded.
“Now, I want you to breathe in, slowly and deeply.”
I breathed in, slowly and deeply.
“Now, I want you to exhale the entire breath, slowly.”
I exhaled the entire breath, slowly.
“Now, I want you to breathe in, once again slowly and deeply.”
I hiccupped.
Travis raised an eyebrow. “Did you just hiccup?”
I hiccupped in response.
Genuine panic filled Travis’ features. “You have to talk out there! We can’t do our skit with you hiccupping!”
Flaming Hair’s routine ended with a huge laugh and loud applause from the audience. She walked off stage, grinning.
“They’re on number six now,” Travis told me. “I need you to get rid of those things pronto!” He gestured to Awful Singer. “Could you get us a cup of water?”
“Sure, no problem.” Awful Singer hurried over to the stage exit.
I tried to hold my breath, but the hiccups burst through. The second performer approached us. “You should scare him,” he said, helpfully.
“How about this?” asked Travis, glaring at me. “If your hiccups don’t stop, I’m going to murder you in your sleep. Is that scary enough?”
Flaming Hair walked over to me. “What you should do is grab that little dangly thing in the back of your throat and give it a nice tug. Cures them every time.”
“Swallowing sugar works,” said the guy who was last in the lineup.
“Do you have any?” Travis asked.
“No.”
“Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup,” I remarked.
“Listen to me, Seth,” said Travis. “I can understand you being nervous and wanting to ralph all over the place. But if you screw this up because of a case of hiccups, I will destroy you and everything you stand for.”
“It’s not my—hiccup—fault!”
“Get him a paper bag to breathe into,” Flaming Hair suggested.
Tampon Man was watching the proceedings with amusement. “I think if you punch him in the stomach they’ll go away.”
Awful Singer returned with a Styrofoam cup of water. “You need to drink this upside-down,” he said.
“Say—hiccup—what?” I asked.
“No, really, it works. Can you do a handstand?”
“Oh, sure, have him do a handstand while he’s hiccupping so he can break his n
eck,” muttered Travis.
“Well, I guess he can put his head between his legs and drink it,” Awful Singer said.
“I think it’s supposed to be seven sips of water, followed by seven more sips,” said Flaming Hair.
“While you recite dirty limericks,” added Tampon Man.
I let out an exceptionally loud hiccup that hurt my throat.
Travis looked at the guy with number ten. “Do you want to trade us numbers?”
The guy shook his head. “No way.”
“It’ll give the judges time to forget if you bomb.”
“Nope. You know, I think if you try to do fake hiccups, it makes the real ones stop.”
“Shut the—hiccup—up,” I told him, taking the cup of water. As I took a drink, I hiccupped and sprayed water all over my shirt.
“I’m almost up,” said Tampon Man. “Hope you get those taken care of in time.”
I hiccupped a couple more times. I tried to use Jedi mind tricks to make them go away, but nothing was working. I didn’t want to cancel, but what were we going to do?
“Seth, we’re good friends, right?” Travis asked.
I nodded with a hiccup.
“And so we can have rough times and sometimes hurt each other and still come out of it friends, right?”
I nodded without the hiccup. On-stage, Saul was introducing Tampon Man.
“Good. So you’ll get over this.” He drew back his hand and slapped me hard across the face, nearly knocking me out of the chair.
Several of the other competitors winced. Tampon Man looked shocked, then hurried on-stage to do his routine. I glared at Travis and massaged my stinging cheek as I did a missing tooth check.
“How are the hiccups?” Travis asked.
I waited for a moment. “I think they’re gone.”
“Are you positive? I’d be more than happy to smack you again to make sure.”
“No, they’re gone. Thanks. We’d better get ready.”
I stood up and we walked over to the other side of the stage, where the desks we had procured to use in our skit were waiting. Although, to be completely accurate, I’d have to revise that last sentence to read “were supposed to be waiting.”
“Where the hell are the desks?” Travis demanded.
