Gotta be realistic.
Stomping out of my room, I moved toward my coffee table and picked up a spiral bound notebook and a pen. With writing utensils in hand, I traipsed down the hallway and to the kitchen, flicking the light on as I entered. I tossed the notebook and pen on the table and then put water on for tea. There was no way I’d be able to sleep well tonight.
With a mug of tea in front of me on the table, I sat cross-legged in a chair, notebook open, chewing the pen cap, anxiously tapping the pen onto the paper. If I wasn’t going to sleep I had might as well write. My brain was speeding through thoughts, mostly criticizing myself, but also dwelling on George, how much I liked her, and also how much I didn’t like her.
I quickly scribbled down a few lines in my notebook, scratching some words out, reworking, furiously writing as the thoughts came to me. There’s a reason why you see so many angry comics. Most of us are angry at ourselves in some form or another. Me, I let myself get yanked around by girls. I put up a good front, like any comic with a strong personality would, but that front is really just a protective shell I use to guard my emotions. Anger, self-loathing, destructive actions, the perfect recipe for a successful comedian.
“This one’s for the ladies,” I said aloud, reading along with my notes. “Why is it so hard to get a girl to commit?” Then I paused and sighed, quickly scratching out ‘girl’ and writing ‘guy.’ “They say men are dogs, but I find that they’re more like cats. ‘Come ‘ere!,’” I called in an excited baby voice, as though I were talking to a cat. “‘Come ‘ere, kitty!’ And the cat just sits there, blankly staring at you, cocking its head to the side, thinking ‘what the hell does this weirdo want?’ At least a dog’ll come when you call it. Guys only come when they’re ready, and usually… eh, it’s too quick.”
I turned my lips down and reread my joke in my head. It could use some work. It was a start, at least. But the straight girl thing, this act, was really wearing on me. I knew it all rung false, I knew I was hiding from who I really was. Why did it have to work so well for me? Why was it what the audience wanted so bad? Picking up my mug, I sipped from my tea and thought more about George. Why did she have to be so stupid hot? Why did she have to be so my type? Why did I do this to myself? As much as this reminded me of past experiences I’d had, I just knew that I was going to keep following her down the rabbit hole, allowing her deep into my own rabbit hole, until the whole thing worked itself out as it usually did. Me mad and single.
It was times like this that I really missed the guidance that only a mother could give. I hadn’t had that kind of guidance in far too long. Maybe I wouldn’t go for these types of chicks if Mom was still here. I mean, my Mom found a nice guy in my Dad, I’m sure she would have steered me away from girls like George and convinced me to shack up with someone who was a little better for me. It’s so shitty that I can have these thoughts, that I can logically know that I’m doing myself a disservice by falling for George, yet when I’m out there in the world, walking around, saying stuff, living life, spreading my legs, I just can’t seem to say no to girls like her. It’s a total mindfuck. I growled at myself and scribbled more notes down.
Ideas began to flow and my pen could barely keep up.
I woke up the next morning with my head atop my notebook, sun shining through the window, still sitting at the kitchen table, shaken by the vibration of my phone. The phone buzzed against the table and as I lifted my head up, I reached over and took it into my hand. Unlocking it, I saw that George had texted me and I felt that familiar flutter in my heart, that excitement, that anxiety. As I opened up her message, my attitude changed to disappointment.
“Can’t do tonight,” George texted. “Editor needs stuff by tomorrow.”
I began angrily typing something into my phone, accusing George of using me, telling her she was just like all the other girls that had screwed with me, that she was a jerk and a bitch and that she should just lose my number and… then another message came through.
“Sorry about last night,” she typed. “We can talk about that GF thing sometime.”
I felt haggard, having run the gamut of emotions, flip-flopping in my feelings far too fast. I took a deep breath and erased all the nasty stuff I had been typing. Wanting to text George back but not wanting to appear too available, I dropped my phone to the table and instead turned my attention to my notes from last night.
“Smeared,” I mused, looking down to the paper and making a face. While the ink had been smeared somewhat, my jokes were still legible enough.
I grabbed my notebook, stood up from the table, and tightened my robe. Wandering from the kitchen, I stopped in the hallway and looked at myself in the mirror. Ink was smeared across my cheek. Ugh. I needed a shower.
Two
About a week later, I met up with my friend Lucy at a local diner for brunch. Lucy was a bit of a firecracker, loud and opinionated, and the perfect person to talk to whenever you were working through “issues.” During the past week, George and I had met up once more, again ending in sex, and again she had to leave afterward. Still, she had been acting sweet, but in a cool and disaffected sort of way. Sort of like she cared but didn’t really, you know, that weird dichotomy of “does she or doesn’t she,” the kind of thing that keeps you guessing. Although she’d said we could talk about it, any mention of us becoming more than just fingerbang buddies never really came up. I didn’t want to bring it up again, at least not yet. I wanted to hear it from George herself.
I continued going to the comedy club as per usual, but Petra and I had been avoiding each other. I mean, we’d see each other there and say hello, but something had definitely changed between us. Both of us were pretty hard-headed. I had ceased taking notes on her set and was instead leaving the club after my own, opting to scurry over to another club to see if I could get a few minutes to do my routine elsewhere. I was eager to get my name known throughout the city, feeling like things were looking up for me with my comedy career. I still hadn’t called Mark Feinstein, the Comedy Junction guy, because I was admittedly a bit afraid of contacting him without having an agent.
Lucy eagerly sliced into her pancakes with a fork and knife, pushing the forkful into her mouth and grinning happily at me.
“This place has the best pancakes,” she said as she chewed. “I’d come here and eat them every day if I didn’t think it would turn me into a cow.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down at my pancakes, the same as Lucy, as she goaded me into ordering them. It turned out I wasn’t all that hungry.
“C’mon,” she said, putting another bite into her mouth. “Dig in.”
“I think I shoulda got the eggs or something,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for sweet anymore.”
“Just eat!” said Lucy in a commanding tone. I looked up to her and she grinned innocently. She pointed to my plate with her fork and nodded her head.
“Fine,” I said, beginning to eat.
“So what’s going on?” asked Lucy. “You’re obviously not your normal animated self.”
“I really should be,” I said, picking at my pancake. “I was asked to do a special for Comedy Junction.”
“Shut up!” exclaimed Lucy, pounding her hand down on the table and rattling her plate. “Dude, that’s phenomenal.”
“I still need to give them a call, though,” I said. “I haven’t really booked it yet.”
“Get on that shit,” said Lucy. “You don’t want them to change their minds.”
“The guy asked me to have my agent call him,” I said. “But I don’t have an agent.”
“Why don’t you get one?” said Lucy. “I mean, you have to have one eventually anyway, right?”
“Right,” I said. “I’ve just been dragging ass lately. Man, I feel all goofy in the head.”
“What did you do?” asked Lucy through another bite of her breakfast. “Screw some chick and get your heart broken?”
“Well, similar,” I said. “Not exactly. I�
�m still screwing her and she’s yanking me around.”
“Oh, one of those,” she said. “Fuck people like that,” she said, loud enough that most people in the restaurant probably heard her. That was just the Lucy way. “I mean, you gotta get the upper hand with people like that. You gotta call the shots.”
“Ugh, I know,” I said. “I always do this to myself. I always let my stupid love life dictate my attitude rather than base my happiness off my career.”
“Why don’t you not let anything dictate your happiness?” said Lucy. “Why not just be happy regardless?”
“You just have all the answers, don’t you Lucy?” I said with a smirk. “If it were really that easy, don’t you think we’d have world peace by now?”
“Tell me about this girl,” she said. “I bet she’s like some of the others you’ve played around with. I bet she’s like Rachel.”
“I don’t want to talk about Rachel,” I said.
“Ooooh,” Lucy said with a wide grin. “She’s just like Rachel! Busted Macy, busted!”
“Yeah,” I said, looking off. “A little. Rachel was an actor, though. This one’s a writer.”
“Same shit, different ass,” said Lucy. “You go for these artist types and you know they’re all messed up in the head. Any chick who wants to devote herself to a one in a million shot at making a career out of something is obviously working through their own issues.”
“Look at me, though!” I protested. “This comedy shit is happening.”
“Eh, you’re different,” said Lucy. “You’re funny.”
“So who do you suggest I go for?” I asked. “A scientist like you?”
“Exactly,” she said, smiling innocently. “Scientists have their heads screwed on straight.”
“I tried before,” I said. “Remember when you set me up with that girl from your lab?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Lucy, giving me a bit of an annoyed look. “You totally made me look like an idiot for setting the two of you up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, furrowing my brow and narrowing my eyes. “She was a total dweeb. When she came and saw me at the club, she totally corrected my friend’s usage of the word ‘hypothesis’ in her act. ‘I believe you meant theory,’” I said in a geeky voice. “‘A hypothesis is a suggested explanation for an observable phenomenon while a theory is a well-substantiated—‘“
Lucy interrupted me with laughter. I smiled at her as she laughed and then took a sip of my coffee.
“Well, at least she didn’t say that when your friend was actually performing,” said Lucy. “That was, uh, that girl, right? That comedy girl you’re always hanging out with?”
“Petra,” I said. “Yeah, it was her who didn’t know the difference between theory and hypothesis.”
“That chick totally sweats you,” said Lucy.
“Whatever,” I said. “We’re kinda on the outs.”
“She’s cute,” said Lucy. “You should give me her number.”
“I thought you didn’t like artist types?” I droned on dramatically. “And Lucy, hate to break it to you, you’re straight.”
“Well, whatever,” said Lucy, shrugging. “Sometimes you gotta make concessions for a good person.”
“You think Petra’s a good person?” I said. “I mean, she is a good person. Like, almost too good. Too nice or something.”
“Get over it,” said Lucy. “Are you still chasing after these bad girl types? Is that what this chick you’re seeing is all about?”
“Well, it’s not like she has a motorcycle or anything,” I said. “She’s just a little absent.”
“Don’t let me stop you from finding love,” said Lucy, giving me a stupid look. She picked up the last bit of her pancake stack with her fork and shoved it into her mouth, chewing with a smile. “I might end up eating some of yours if you don’t dig in soon.”
“I think I can make it work with George,” I said, retreating into my own head and averting my eyes from Lucy. “I mean, I don’t think she’s seeing anybody else and she seems to have a good time with me.”
“Macy’s gonna do what Macy’s gonna do,” said Lucy. “So let’s go back to this comedy thing. What’s up with that?”
“Oh, um, well I’m not totally sure,” I said. “But it’s for the Funny Thirty. It’s a show on Comedy Junction. I think they record, like, 45 minutes of your stand up, then cut it down to 20 minutes or so.”
“Cut it down to 20?” asked Lucy. “Then why’s it called the Funny Thirty?”
“Commercials,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” said Lucy. “That makes sense.”
“So I gotta call this dude,” I went on. “Or have the agent I don’t have call this dude. Then I’ll know what’s really going on with it. They record it in Boston, I know that much.”
“Exciting!” beamed Lucy. “I can’t wait to see my friend on TV.”
“One more minor hiccup,” I said. “I mean, I’ve got a lot of material but I’m not used to doing that long of a set. Usually I get up there for 10 minutes, do my thing, and get off. I did 15 minutes before and that was stretching it a bit. So, like, 30 or 45, or God forbid an entire hour, I don’t even know what I would say for that long.”
“You could break into a dance number,” said Lucy, smiling and shrugging.
“Maybe I’ll just have you come out and dance for the second half of my set,” I said.
“You don’t want to see me dance,” said Lucy. “America doesn’t want to see me dance.”
As I vocalized it to Lucy, the reality of doing that long of a set for the TV show really began to sink in. I’m not sure how familiar you are with the comedy world, but time is a crazy thing to us. When you’re first starting out at open mic nights, you’re lucky if you get 5 minutes. And most of the time that’s in front of a crowd that’s really only there to perform themselves. And they’re not all comedians. It’s a lot of musicians, performance artists, and certifiably crazy people who are just there to spout their own nonsense while ignoring yours. Once you become a regular at a club like me, you get a little bit more time, but unless you’re headlining or featured or something, you rarely get more than 10 minutes or so to get up there, do your schtick, and get down. True, I had been getting more time at the Stand Up Affiliate and I could certainly talk to Howie about my problem, but the idea of being up on stage for 45 minutes kinda scared me.
“Well, look,” said Lucy, taking the check from the waiter as he walked by. With her wallet in one hand, she inspected the bill and pulled out her credit card. “The most important thing for you right now isn’t this chick dilemma. It’s getting your pretty little face on the TV screen.”
“Let me get that,” I said, reaching for the check.
“No,” said Lucy firmly. “You got it last time.”
“Yeah, but you know,” I said, with a hint of guilt.
“Just because you’ve got a little money,” said Lucy in a firm murmur. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have to pay my own way.”
“Just give me the check, Luc’,” I said, trying again to grab it. Lucy immediately smacked my hand.
“Once you’re a famous comedian you can buy me all the brunches you like,” she said. “But until then hold on to your dead momma money. If this shit doesn’t work out for you, you’re going to wake up at 40 broke with no job history and no prospects.”
“Well, then I’ll just move in with you!” I said brightly.
“Yeah, we’ll be like Laverne and Shirley,” she said sarcastically.
“I’m Laverne,” I said.
“No, I’m Laverne,” said Lucy, handing the check and her credit card to the waiter. “You think that just because you get up on stage every night that you’re the funny one. I’ve got a newsflash for you, Connie Chung… you aren’t.”
“Did you just co-opt a Zoolander joke?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“I almost said Walter Cronkite,” she said, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. I shook my he
ad disapprovingly.
“You get up on stage with that material and you’re going to get your ass skinned,” I said. “If you’re going to steal from a movie, it better be something really esoteric.”
“I’m not getting up on stage,” said Lucy. “Unless I’m presenting a paper to group of esteemed scientists.”
“You sound like Shirley,” I said.
“I’ll knock you out of your chair,” said Lucy. “If you hit 40, go broke, fail at stand up, and move in with me,” she said. “That means you have to be Shirley, got it?” The waiter came and delivered Lucy’s credit card to her, prompting Lucy to quickly sign the receipt.
“Well, Shirley’s pretty,” I said. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“Grab your purse, Shirl’,” said Lucy, standing up. “Let’s get out of here.” Lucy, with her own bag in her hand, began to walk away from the table and toward the door.
“Hey, wait up!” I called, quickly following after her. “Are you going to come to my show tonight?”
“Macy Maxwell for Mark Feinstein,” I said into my phone, sitting on the edge of my couch, fingering a pen and staring down into my open notebook. “Yes, I can hold,” I said.
I could feel myself growing nervous as I listened to the quiet hold music. I wondered if Mark Feinstein had ever had a comedian like me just call him directly. He probably had, and I had nothing to worry about. Still, I felt a little bush league not having an agent yet. The way he talked to me when we met, it was like some foregone conclusion. “Yeah, have your agent call me.” I didn’t think I was at that point in my career where I needed an agent but I guess I was, calling some executive at Comedy Junction on my own. I wouldn’t know how to negotiate anything. Accommodations, pay, royalties, the little Macy Maxwell action figures they were bound to produce when I hit it big. Suddenly I’ve got my own sketch comedy show on Comedy Junction, making minimum wage while all those fat cats at the top stuff themselves with shrimp and white wine.
“Macy!” I heard as the music suddenly clicked off. “I didn’t expect to get a call from you.”
Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22) Page 6
