This Will Be Funny Someday

by Katie Henry

  She sighs. “Look. I know how embarrassed you are. I know it hurts to bomb. But this is going to happen again. I’m sorry, but it’s not the last time, not by a long shot, and I’m trying to tell you how to deal with it.”

  “But I can’t do that!”

  “Fight back? Why not?”

  “Because . . .” I look down at my shoes. “They’ll get mad at me.”

  Mo is quiet for a moment. “Izzy,” she says. When I look up, her eyes are fixed on me. “Why do you need everyone to like you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do,” she insists, “because if you need that brainless potato to like you, then you need everyone on this planet to like you.”

  “Isn’t that the point? Isn’t the point to make people laugh and like you and come back and see you?”

  “People,” she says. “Not every single person. Of course you want people to like your set. But you aren’t your set. And not everyone is going to like it. Or you.”

  “So I’m not supposed to take criticism?”

  “From that guy? No.”

  “He’s an audience member.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Doesn’t mean their opinion is worth anything. That guy—”

  “Yeah, he’s a jerk, I get it.” I sigh, ready for this conversation to be over, ready to get off this bathroom floor.

  “No,” she says firmly. “Let me tell you about that guy. He sits in his chair, pounds Jäger shots, and thinks, ‘Oh, I could do that. I could get up on stage and be funny. I could do it better than her.’ But he never will. All he can do is tear down something you were brave enough to put out there and wish he had your figurative balls.” She runs her hand through her hair. “And besides that, so what if he doesn’t like you? So what that some dick with a mouth doesn’t think you’re the greatest? Who cares?”

  “I care.”

  “That’s not your job.”

  “What isn’t?”

  Mo looks me straight in the eyes. “It is not your job to make everyone happy. Especially not if it makes you miserable.”

  Is she right? I don’t know. Even if it’s not my job, I want it. I want to make people happy. What’s so terrible about that?

  “This is good for you,” she declares. I resist rolling my eyes at the idea she knows what’s good for me. “Getting onstage. Even when it stings.” She pauses. “If you really think about it, stand-up is the ultimate fuck-you to the patriarchy.”

  That time, I can’t help rolling my eyes.

  Mo purses her lips. “I’m serious.”

  “The ultimate fuck-you, Mo? More than, like, the first female president?”

  She holds up a hand. “Okay.”

  “More than closing the wage gap?” I ask. “More than the Eighteenth Amendment?”

  “Izzy, honey, that one was for Prohibition.”

  Shit. Well, I’ll try to remember that for the AP US History test in May.

  “I’m saying for you, the individual human girl you are, stand-up comedy is your ultimate fuck-you.”

  I shrug. She frowns.

  “What?” she says. “You don’t buy that?”

  “It seems kind of dramatic.”

  She leans forward. “What does the world want from girls?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” she presses me. “Of course you know.”

  I huff. “Fine. Prettiness, I guess. Girls are supposed to be pretty.”

  “Decorative,” Mo agrees. “We’re supposed to be decorations, something to make the place look nice. Like a painting. Or a lamp.”

  “Who looks at a lamp?”

  Mo keeps going. “When you’re onstage, are you a decoration? Does it matter what you’re wearing?”

  “It mattered to him.”

  “Because he’s a dick, Izzy. He would’ve made fun of my bow tie if I’d gone up.” She takes a beat. “I’ll put it to you this way. If you got up, as pretty as you are, if you got onstage and just smiled and said nothing, would the audience be happy?”

  “No.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the point is what I say.” I pause with the weight of that. It’s so simple. But it’s so rare. “They want to hear what I have to say.”

  “How often does that happen for you? A lot?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not fair.”

  “It’s not. And it’s hard, to unlearn all the terrible, unfair stuff the world has worked so hard to teach you. But comedy makes you do it. To do stand-up, you have to demand attention for yourself.”

  “You have to be loud,” I add.

  She nods. “You have to take risks.”

  “You have to not give a shit what anyone thinks of you.”

  “The world wants girls to be pretty and polite,” Mo says. “And careful and deferential and selfless. You can’t be any of those things onstage. The world is a better place when you’re onstage.”

  “When any of us are.”

  “Yes. So let’s make a pact. What do we say, all of us, to that guy tonight, or the guy tomorrow night—because there will be other guys just like him—what do we say to all of them?”

  There’s only one answer.

  “Fuck you,” I say.

  “Fuck you,” she agrees.

  Chapter 12

  “I’M NOT JUST an introvert,” I say to the audience. “I’m also a pessimist.”

  But not so introverted it’s stopped me from doing this set a dozen times now. And not so pessimistic I worry I’ll fail every time now. I won’t say it gets better each time, because it doesn’t. Some nights are good and some are bad, and you can’t guess which. It’s a roller coaster, not a steadily upward slope.

  “People are always saying to me, you know, ‘Be positive.’ And I find that really frustrating, because I just”—I take a split-second breath—“can’t figure out how they know my blood type.”

  But it does gets more familiar, each time. And the more familiar it gets, the more risks I take. Tonight, I decide I’ll try to use the space during this next bit, the way I’ve seen Jonah do. It gives everything more energy.

  “That really is my blood type, by the way,” I tell the audience, then shake my head. “It’s so funny, there are so many personal details you would never tell a group of strangers, but that’s not one of them.” I lock eyes with a man in the front row. “Because what are you going to do, ask me for a kidney?” Then, to the whole audience, conceding: “I mean, I know I have two. But that’s only because I harvested one from that man I lured into my car.” I take a beat. “No, I’m totally kidding.” I take another. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  As they laugh, I see the red light go on—right on time.

  “So I can tell you my blood type, but like, I wouldn’t tell you my birthday. Or my address, or my phone number, or even the name of my childhood pet because that’s what everybody uses as their password, right?”

  There’s a murmur of agreement, and I nod along.

  “Which is kind of weird, that this is how we choose to honor our deceased pets.” I look to the ceiling, as if really seeing something up there. “Sometimes I think about them, looking down at us from pet heaven.” My voice gets slower, more serene. “Mr. Muffins on his cloud, just already pissed, because he’s a cat, but then also like: ‘Oh, goddamnit, Kyle! I’ve been dead for five fucking years and my ashes are still in that paw-shaped urn you got from the vet, you dick.’”

  It took me forever to come up with a voice for dead Mr. Muffins, but I like this one I’ve settled on. It’s nasally and grumpy, like everyone’s least favorite grandpa. “‘You said you were going to plant a tree in my honor, but sure, go ahead and use my name to register for that Pornhub account.’” I spread my arms wide. “What a legacy!”

  I grin, and then put my hands out in mock apology. “I’m sorry. I should not have implied your dead pets are watching you masturbate. They’re definitely not.” I pause. “But your dead grandparents are.�
�

  Through the last laugh, I start my goodbyes.

  “That’s my time, thanks so much, everybody!” I wave to an audience I can’t see, but I can hear them all clapping and one person—almost definitely Mo—gives a piercing whistle. “You’ve been great, and I’ve been Izzy V.”

  After my set, I go back to the bar and flag down Colin.

  “Can I get a Coke?” I ask him.

  “You like the ones with the real sugar?”

  “Yeah, I’m not a monster.” I pause. “Or a diabetic.”

  “We just got the ones in the glass from Mexico.” Colin pushes himself off the bar. “Let me get one for you.”

  “Thank you!” I call down the bar as he goes.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. A man, tall and dressed much better than anyone else in this bar.

  “Hard to get your attention,” he says. Oh. He must’ve said something I didn’t hear.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got a—” I gesture vaguely toward my ear. That’s usually enough for people to understand. A vague “thing” that means whatever I did to annoy them isn’t my fault.

  “This seat taken?” he asks. I shake my head and smile back, just for a moment. Just long enough not to seem rude. Then I turn my head back to the door, where Colin should be coming through again.

  “You were very funny,” he says.

  “Oh,” I reply, startled. I guess I assumed he was going to hit on me. Which isn’t fair. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve seen you before. Haven’t I?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I think I have,” he says. “You’ve got one of those faces.”

  Oh no, is he one of my dad’s friends, or something? Does he know me from real life?

  “I’m pretty new,” I say quickly. “To this whole . . .” I wave in the direction of the stage. “Thing.”

  Colin returns with my Coke. The man nods at him.

  “How’s it hanging, Colin?”

  “You tell me,” Colin replies, wiping down the bar. “Then we’ll both know.”

  “Ha. You should get up on stage,” the man says.

  “Can’t,” Colin says. “Bad knees.” He walks away.

  “So, what’s your name again?” the man asks me.

  “Izzy,” I say. “Izzy V.”

  “Mitch.” He holds out his hand and I shake it.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I say, more out of habit than truth. Mom was always big on manners.

  “Good grip,” he says. Mom was always big on strong handshakes, too. Everything she taught us—me and Charlotte, anyway—seemed to swing back and forth. Be nice, but don’t be a doormat. Be sweet, but don’t seem stupid. She made it look easy, but it’s not. It’s hard work, that delicate seesaw of politeness and power.

  “Can I buy you some whiskey to go in that, Izzy V.?”

  “Oh, no thank you,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “You are good,” he agrees. “Have you ever heard of Stage 312?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s a club. I do booking for them.” He holds out a business card. I hesitate. He laughs. “I’m not scamming you. Go ahead, you can google it.”

  I accept the card and type the information into my phone. Stage 312. Wells Street. It pops right up—a comedy club in Old Town.

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling bad I doubted him. “I don’t know all the clubs. My friends pick the open mics.”

  He chuckles. “That explains it. We don’t do open mics. Invited shows only.”

  “Invited shows,” I repeat.

  “Yeah, you know. Actual comedy shows, not this bush-league stuff. No offense to Colin.”

  I don’t think Colin would take offense, but I do. This is the place that made me feel safe, and welcome, and . . . good at something.

  “You’re too pretty to play a dive bar,” he continues. “You’re wasted on this crowd.”

  “The light isn’t very flattering,” I concede.

  “How’d you like a better stage?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’d like to book you for a show. At my club.”

  The eyebrows go up. “Really?”

  “Really,” he says. “You’ve got a tight five, right?”

  “I have a tight . . . three a half.”

  “Look, as long as you’ve got a tight something.” He winks. I must look horrified, because he holds up both hands. “Oh, come on, I’m just kidding. You’re a comedian, you know how it is.”

  I do not know how it is. I do not know how anything is.

  “So what do you say?”

  I think: This feels cool, but this also feels . . . weird.

  I think: But I don’t know if this only feels weird because it’s never happened to me before, and I don’t know what questions I’m supposed to ask, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask questions in the first place, and I don’t know anything at all.

  I say: “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Great. Let me get your contact info and we’ll set it up.” He holds out his phone.

  I take it but then hesitate. “Um. Is email okay?”

  “As long as you check it.”

  I set up a fake email weeks ago, right after the night at Mo’s dorm. I figured I might need it, in case any of them asked for one, but I haven’t used it until now. I type what I hope is the right address into Mitch’s phone.

  “It’s a bringer show, of course,” he says, sliding his phone back into his jacket. “Five people but no drink minimum, so that should make it easier.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You won’t get your time until day of, so block off the whole night.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, there we go, doll,” he says. I wonder if he forgot my name so quickly. “I’ll be in touch with more details.”

  This is weird. I don’t know what exactly I signed up for, but I do know there’s no way I’m going by myself.

  “Wait,” I call after him. He turns. “Do you think my friend could come?”

  “Like I said, it’s a bringer show,” he says. “Bring anyone you want.”

  “No, I mean, as a—she performed tonight, too. She’s really good. A lot better than me. Not that I’m not—I just—”

  He looks amused. “Oh, you’re very new, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Which one was she?” He scans the crowd of people.

  “The girl with dark hair who went third. She was wearing suspenders.”

  “Ah,” he says. Then shrugs. “Takes all kinds. I guess.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I just smile and nod. He swirls the ice in his drink around, like he’s considering.

  “Sure,” Mitch says, almost tossing the word away. “Why not? She brings ten, though.”

  I have no idea what that means. “Okay.”

  He puts his hand on my back, right below the middle seam of my dress. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

  Chapter 13

  IT’S THE WEIRDEST thing.

  Mo shakes the booker’s hand. She says all the right things, laughs at all the right moments, is as effortlessly charming as a human being can be. But I know Mo. So I know when she’s faking.

  Will and Jonah smile, too, flanking Mo like bodyguards she doesn’t need. But there’s something so off. Even when Mo enthusiastically agrees to do the show, even when the boys congratulate her as the booker walks away—it’s like they’re performing happiness. Not feeling it.

  Jonah waits a full five seconds before making his opinions known.

  “What bullshit,” he says, sharp and hot, looking around at everyone. Except me. “What fucking bullshit.”

  “Look, it’s . . .” Will stumbles for words. “It is what it is.”

  “It’s fine,” Mo says to them. But not me. “Let’s not make a thing about it.”

  “Don’t do that,” Jonah snaps at Mo. “Don’t lie to her.”

  “Jonah . . . ,” she sighs.

  “We all k
now it. You aren’t doing her any favors.”

  Mo shakes her head at him. Jonah glares at her. I wonder whether everyone’s forgotten I’m still standing here.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry about it—” Mo starts, but Jonah is louder and quicker.

  “That guy didn’t pick you because he liked your set,” Jonah tells me in bitten-off words. “He didn’t pick you because he saw your potential. He picked you because he enjoys looking at you.”

  Oh.

  Ugh.

  I stare straight ahead, through Jonah’s chest. I need a second before I can look him in the eye. I need a moment to shove all the pain I don’t want him to see. Honestly, he might as well have stomped on my foot. It would have hurt less, and then I’d have an excuse to kick him back. I breathe in through my nose and tilt my chin up.

  “The audience is supposed to want to look at the people onstage.” I blink at him with doe eyes and baby-bunny innocence. “I’m sorry. Do you feel like no one wants to look at you?”

  Mo discreetly coughs into her hand. And maybe Jonah just wants to twist the knife, because he says: “You aren’t as good as the rest of us, and you know it. He only invited you because you’re a pretty little white girl who gives him a great big hard-on. And I bet you know that, too.”

  “Screw.” I take a deep breath in. “You.”

  “Do you know how hard it is for a person of color to get booked?” Jonah says. “They’ll take one, for a show. Maybe. But not two, never two! Will knows.”

  “Please leave me out of this,” Will mumbles. But he doesn’t say Jonah’s wrong.

  “But you just waltz in with your big blue eyes and your”—he puts on a Shirley Temple kind of voice, high and innocent—“‘Aw shucks, mister, what’s a joke?’ The rest of us have been working for almost a year at this, and what, you skip the line? Because you’ve got tits?”

  “Stop,” Will says.

  “I also have tits,” Mo points out.

  “At least you cover yours up,” Jonah says.

  “Jonah, seriously, stop,” Will says.

  This is basically a turtleneck, I think. What do you want me to wear, a bedsheet? But the words stick in my throat. It burns.

  “You’re being really shitty,” Mo tells him. “I know why you’re mad. But that doesn’t give you the right to be a dick.”