“Could you please step out of the car?”
“Are you asking if you can borrow my car?” Boom.
“Do you have a good lawyer?”
And onward, until someone breaks. It’s fast-paced with a ton of room to build comedy, and I took to it immediately. I was getting laughs. Not “Steve, please” laughs, but real laughs. The kind of laughs I’d grown up watching stand-up comedians get. The years I’d spent making up stories with my sister Beth had prepared me for this.
For the first time, I saw hope of being truly good at something. I was a decent card player. I was adequate at guitar. I even had just enough hand-eye coordination to be a passable athlete (though not a decent pitcher). This was different. Improv was mine from word one.
After the scene, the club dispersed and I rushed over to talk to Sheryl. I had so many questions. Did I do it right? Was there anything I could improve on? Is there any good way to practice at home? Was there a resource I could study between now and next week? How do I make sure I get chosen for more scenes in the future? Sheryl answered as much as she could and then politely told me she had to get to class and she’d see me next Monday.
Because my mind and mouth were racing, I didn’t notice that the rest of the club had gone. I was so filled with adrenaline, I wasn’t thinking about Elaine. Elaine had been the entire reason I went to that club, but in the excitement, I’d forgotten about her. It turned out I liked improv way more than I liked Elaine Audley.
I ran through the halls and got to my next class just in time. The seats near Elaine were already taken, so I grabbed the last empty chair on the other side of the room, gave Elaine a smile, and pulled out my notebook.
Elaine and I had gone to lunch as friends after all. And I’d had a wonderful time.
FEATURE
LOOK AT THIS GIANT KINNUS
United Synagogue Youth (or USY as it’s commonly called) is an international organization for Jewish kids in high school. There are about three hundred chapters around North America with a membership of about fifteen thousand kids total. While I was the first Hofstetter to go to Hunter, I was a legacy in USY. My parents were very active in our synagogue—that was their social life, and it was expected to be ours as well. My siblings had all been USY members before me. I don’t recall my mother ever asking me if I wanted to join USY. It was more her telling me when we were leaving to go there.
Unlike high school, a youth group is a self-selecting crowd because it’s a nerdy activity. You’re not going to find many hooligans meeting every Wednesday night to make potato latkes and Puffy Paint shirts with motivational phrases. We were at Hunter because we had to be. No matter how much anyone enjoyed their extracurricular activities or valued what they learned in class, we went to high school because the state gave us no choice.
When it came to USY, my mother was my personal truancy officer. We were all there because we chose to be or because our parents chose it for us. Either way, there were no hooligans—if hooligans listened to their parents, they wouldn’t be hooligans. Maybe rapscallions or no-goodniks, but certainly not hooligans.
A few weekends each year, USY has something called a Kinnus. Kinnus is a Hebrew word for gathering. But it also rhymes with penis and I found that hilarious. I didn’t go to the first one that year—there was a registration fee, so I didn’t even bother to ask my parents. Also, I was intimidated by the idea of socializing for an entire weekend. An hour on a Wednesday, that I could handle. But for an introvert, a whole weekend was overwhelming.
As the second Kinnus approached, my chapter advisor asked me if I was going. I told her I couldn’t: there was a registration fee, and my parents didn’t have the money. That was an excuse that no person in authority would challenge without risking sounding like an asshole.
My advisor responded that two members from our chapter got to go for free, and she offered me one of the spots. She was not an asshole.
The thought of representing the chapter overwhelmed me even more than simply attending. What a responsibility! Was I worthy of such an honor? What if I embarrassed everyone? This kind of thing should go to the chapter president and vice president, not me.
My advisor then elaborated: No one else was able to go, and she needed someone to represent the chapter. Oh—so this wasn’t an honor at all. This was a desperate plea from my advisor. That, I could handle.
“What goes on there? What do people do all weekend?” I asked.
“Well, you’d stay in someone’s house,” she replied. “Volunteers from the community house the members, and they make sure you get back and forth to all the events.”
So you sleep on some dingy floor? I assumed, given the general scarcity of beds in my own home. Maybe not even a floor. Maybe I’d have to sleep on a bolt of denim. Sounds terrible.
“It’s usually people who have extra rooms to put you up, so the more well-off members of the community.”
Big rich houses? Without stuff all over them? I perked up. Okay, I’m listening.
“Friday night, there’s a big dinner,” my advisor went on. “Usually there’s an icebreaker of some sort so you can meet people. They try to make sure that the guys and the girls are interacting.”
Girls who are forced to talk to me? Go on. This scenario was getting better and better.
Finally, she clinched the deal. “Then Saturday there’s an activity,” she said. “It’s cold out, so you’ll probably do something indoors, like a discussion group or a talent show.”
I asked my advisor to clarify if I might be able to do improv at this talent show.
“Sure. I don’t see why not.”
I was in.
I took the registration materials home that night and asked my mother to fill them out and send them in. When I arrived at the meeting the following week, I excitedly told my advisor that everything was all set.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I talked to them yesterday and they said they didn’t have anything from you.”
When my mother picked me up after the meeting, I begged her to tell me that my advisor was wrong and that everything was in place for me to do improv in front of girls. I didn’t phrase it that way out loud, I promise.
My mother told me that she hadn’t sent in the forms yet, and she didn’t understand why I was in such a hurry since the event wasn’t for another two weeks. I tried to explain that the whole point of having the registration forms was the ability to register ahead of time. I kept it to myself that she may have ruined my chance to do improv in front of girls.
Growing up, my parents’ lack of urgency was a common theme. I assume it’s difficult to raise four children, especially four children with mouths like ours. But my parents were late for everything. I once got to a Little League playoff game an hour after it started, which is two hours after we were asked to get there. And the game was only ten minutes from my house. When I learned the term fashionably late, I remarked that my parents must be the most fashionable people in the world. If a rapper had asked my parents, “y’all ready for this?” they would have needed another hour to answer.
I finally got my mother to send in the form, and I called daily for the next three days to make sure it arrived and was processed. When I finally got confirmation that the form was in, I was told I was on the waiting list. The event had already filled up.
That was it. My dreams of impressing strange girls with my newfound comedy skills were gone. And then, something incredible happened.
There hadn’t been much snow that winter in New York City. Rain, sleet, ice, sure—but no snow. That Tuesday, it started snowing and it didn’t stop. The predicted two inches became four and then six and then ten. The city completely shut down in a way New York rarely does. And when the storm finally subsided, a new deluge hit the northeast less than twenty-four hours later. I was so wrapped up in not having to go to school that week that I didn’t even think of the ramifications that a historically bad blizzard would have on the Kinnus.
Due to the snow, the Kinnus
had to be postponed until two weeks later. And, because some of the previously registered members couldn’t attend on the rescheduled date, I was bumped up from the waiting list.
The weekend was everything I’d hoped for. Everyone was friendly. There were no bullies. I didn’t have to be quiet there; people introduced themselves to me instead of just walking by. Since everyone had already met the rest of the freshmen at the first Kinnus, they actually seemed excited to meet the mysterious new redhead.
When the advisors announced the surprise event, it was not a talent show. It was an improv show from Second City. Had this been a movie, the script would have been rejected for being too unbelievable. But there was no script. This was improv.
When Second City took volunteers for a game, I ripped my arm off my shoulder and threw it at the improvisers with my remaining hand. At least, that is the force and speed with which I volunteered. They called on me, and I used everything I’d learned in the improv club to own that scene like my mom owned a bolt of denim.
The scene was a doctor’s office, and it opened with one of the improvisers portraying a patient complaining that they were homesick.
“Yes, and,” I replied, drawing on my training. “How long have you been sick of being home?”
The improviser built off my idea and told me that the problem is they come from a big family and can never get any privacy.
“I know how that is,” I said, miming writing on a clip board. “My family is enormous. Seven mothers and three dads.”
“Now take this cup,” I continued, “and go in the other room and give me a semen sample.”
There was a shocked murmer in the crowd. This was a religious youth group, and I was up there doing a dick joke.
“How will that help cure my homesickness?” The improviser responded, caught off guard by me going dirty and trying to get the scene back on track.
“It won’t,” I countered. “But you have a big family. It’s probably your only chance.”
The crowd went crazy, and the improviser said, “Goodnight, everybody!” Maybe he wanted to end on a laugh, or maybe he was preventing the scene from getting bluer. I was happy it was over without a misstep. Unlike when I played baseball, I was three for three. I walked back to my seat no longer the mysterious new redhead. Now everyone knew me as the funny kid.
After that, my insecurity vanished, at least at my USY meetings. Hunter was the same as it had been before USY. I was still quiet there, outside of the improv club. I went to class, played guitar with Jacob, and talked baseball if the subject came up. But I kept my secret youth group life to myself. Over the next few months, I went to every USY event I could. I didn’t care if it was a Kinnus or a boat ride or a meeting or a dance. I went. I boated. I danced. It turns out that years of playing guitar in your room by yourself can give you rhythm. Objectively, I wasn’t a great dancer. But in a room full of Jewish teenagers, I was Beyoncé. That is a strange sentence to write, but you get the idea.
By the end of the year, I’d made friends, including a close friend named Mason who came with me to every event. I don’t remember how I became friends with Mason because it was so instant and effortless. One day we had never met each other, then suddenly we were talking about baseball and stand-up and which event we’d go to next. Some people you just vibe with.
With my newfound feeling of belonging, I did what I never thought I’d do—I entered a popularity contest. I decided to run for vice president of my USY chapter. If I was going to be the dancing funny kid, I should at least have a formal title. I made sure to get the paperwork in the first day I could—I wasn’t going to be waitlisted for this one.
The thought of losing worried me because I still feared rejection. I remembered my brother’s advice and how I’d have to risk losing in order to win. I figured if I lost to whichever challenger might come forward, at least I’d have tried. And then no one else came forward.
Every other position was contested except for mine. The other members running for office assumed I couldn’t be beat and decided they were better off not trying. I didn’t just win—the rest of the chapter forfeited. This wasn’t a huge victory; my chapter only had about twenty members. But I could not have imagined wanting a leadership position even a year prior, let alone winning one uncontested.
I often think about how much that snowstorm changed my life. And not just because it gave me a few days off from school.
THE MARVELOUS INTERNSHIP
One day, as I continued my tradition of walking through Hunter’s halls silently, an opportunity for change presented itself. I found seventy-five cents in one of the stairwells. But I mean change in the other sense, too.
I picked up the quarters, put them in my pocket, and walked downstairs to get lunch. As I got to the basement, a younger student approached me.
“Would you like to buy some comic books?” he asked someone who’d never bought a comic book.
“No thanks,” I said. “Not my thing.”
It is strange that I wasn’t into comic books, as I was the target audience. I was nerdy, I loved to read, and most of all, I enjoyed escapism. A world where heroes always won should have been pretty appealing to someone frustrated by defeat. But comic books cost money, and I didn’t have money.
“Come on. I’m selling them for just twenty-five cents each.”
I thought about the change in my pocket and saw that the cover price on each of the comics was well more than twenty-five cents each. These weren’t just comic books—these were heavily discounted comic books. This was an investment.
I don’t know why the kid was selling them for pennies on the dollar. But I’d just found seventy-five cents, and I could turn that into three shiny new comic books. If I’d found three comic books, I’d probably have been happier than if I’d found seventy-five cents. So I bought them, and my appreciation for all things Marvel began.
Before those books, the only superhero I cared much about was Batman. I’d always liked Batman because he had no super-powers. Sure, he had unlimited wealth, but when you get down to it, Batman was a superhero because he wanted to be one and he put the work in.
Over the next few months, I fell in love with superheroes. I babysat every weekend to make enough money to buy as many comic books as I could. I became obsessed with popular stalwarts like the X-Men and Spider-Man, found more esoteric heroes like Darkhawk, and even got into the super-cheesy Captain America.
I loved the teamwork of the X-Men, that Spider-Man was a dork (and Mary Jane was a redhead!), that Darkhawk was a troubled teenager who didn’t fit in, and that Captain America had a tremendous sense of what was right. I dreamed of waking up and learning I was a mutant, and I tried to figure out what power would be best to defeat Tommy and Theo. Super-strength is the obvious choice, but tossing a web over their mouths was also a wonderful idea.
I developed strong opinions on who was the best Silver Surfer artist (Ron Lim) and which was the most pointless superhero team (Alpha Flight). And I started drawing (poorly). A world where heroes always won was pretty appealing to me after all.
I should have found this years prior. Some of my fellow Freak Hallway-ers were artists and welcomed me as I learned to be one of them. I wasn’t a very good artist, though I got better as I practiced. My fellow freaks taught me techniques like cross-hatching and stippling and laughed with me at my mistakes instead of mocking me. But no matter how good I got, looking at the work of my classmates let me know how good I wasn’t by comparison.
These kids were truly talented artists. It occurred to me that they had spent their years of not fitting in learning how to express themselves non-verbally, while I wasted mine worrying about not fitting in. Some of their work was just stunning. My work, on the other hand, was okay for someone who’d never drawn anything before.
A senior named Ciro petitioned Hunter to let him start a comic book club that would meet once a week. And at the end of the semester, the club planned to print its own comic book. By comic book, I mean “
photocopied black-and-white cheap-looking thing with some clever stories in it.”
I was interested immediately. I’d learned to be more confident in my creativity through improv, and I’d learned how to make friends through USY. Working on that comic book was a combination of the two.
One day after school, Ciro had an idea. “Why don’t we take the subway to Marvel?”
Could we do that? Sure, anyone who owned any comic book Marvel ever published knew their address. It was right there in the front of each book: 387 Park Avenue South. Door to door, Marvel was less than twenty minutes by subway. I was in.
I wondered what we would do when we got there. Was Marvel open to the public? Did they have a museum and gift shop with lots of wonderful things I couldn’t afford? Were there people dressed like superheroes everywhere? Did Ron Lim have an office just twenty minutes from my high school?
As we approached the Marvel building, I got nervous. Luckily, we were able to get inside without buzzing by, sidling in as someone else was sidling out. I’m sure we fit right in—two pimply, overexcited boys with backpacks. Given that Marvel is a comic book company, we probably did fit in.
Quickly, my anxiety was replaced by a feeling of overwhelming awe. The lobby had framed prints of classic covers and a rack with the new issue of just about every title—including ones that hadn’t even hit stores yet.
“Can I help you?” The woman at the front desk broke through our bewildered haze.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, my improv training kicking in. “Our school has an internship program, and we were wondering if you had any positions open for the spring semester.”
This ruse worked way better than as friends had. The woman at the desk said that she’d be happy to pass on the information about their program to the internship coordinator. Then she offered us a tour.
The obvious answer was yes. Or, as far as suddenly silent Ciro was concerned, a bewildered nod.
Ginger Kid Page 7
