by Lance Rubin
Leili, usually so unflappable, shoots me her wide-eyed Yeesh face.
“You got this,” I say. She and Molly bravely hop into the playing space, Leili nervously bouncing on the balls of her purple low-top Chuck Taylors.
“Can we get a word?” Mr. Martinez asks.
“Tunafish!” Dan Blern shouts.
“Okay then. This scene will be inspired somehow by the word tunafish. Take it away, ladies.”
Leili immediately springs into action, holding her hands together and flinging them forward. It takes me a second to realize she’s fishing. Molly doesn’t get it, though. “Hey,” she says. “What are you…Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Leili says. “Hoping to catch a big one today.”
“Oh,” Molly says, clearly still confused. “Me too.” She holds her hands together like Leili is, not having any idea why she’s doing it.
Leili tenses up her body. “I think I’m getting a bite!” she shouts, pulling back on her pretend fishing rod.
“Oh!” Molly says, the lightbulb finally turning on. “Like a fish?”
“Yes, I think I’m catching a fish!” Leili spells it out for her.
“What kind of fish is it?” Molly asks.
“Okay, let’s pause,” Mr. Martinez says. “This is actually a good educational moment. One of the major rules of improv is: Don’t ask questions. Because when you do that, as Molly did a few times, you’re forcing your partner to come up with everything in the scene. It’s much more helpful to invent and add information to the scene. Yes, AND, right? Do you see what I mean, Molly?”
“Totally,” Molly says, nodding a lot and seeming devastated.
“Don’t be discouraged. There really are no mistakes in improv—they’re all opportunities to take the scene in new directions. But asking questions is actually kind of a mistake. Don’t do that. Okay, great, continue.”
Molly stops asking questions, but the scene doesn’t get much better. Even Leili can’t save this one. After them, duo after duo does a scene that is sort of a sloppy mess. Without predetermined relationships, locations, whatever, everyone kind of flounders. People are trying to Yes, and, but lots of scenes devolve into long, boring conversations, like Shannon and Fletcher debating for a solid seven minutes about whether or not they should go get a sandwich.
Evan livens up his scene with Nicole by making some hammy jokes in goofy voices, which get some good laughs, but then a considerably-less-enthusiastic-than-he-was-an-hour-ago Mr. Martinez cuts them off. “Okay, that’s— Yes, let’s stop that one there. Thanks, guys.” He seems a little beaten down. I don’t think this is going how he imagined it would. “That actually reminds me of another important rule: Don’t try to be funny.”
If I hadn’t already read that improv book, I’d be a little confused right now. But I have, so I nod along with what he’s saying.
“I know that seems counterintuitive, but even though improv is often funny, you shouldn’t try to be funny. The laughs should come naturally by committing to the scene, by supporting your scene partner, not by interrupting the scene to tell a joke or do a silly voice.” He’s very obviously subtweeting Evan, who is staring straight ahead, possibly trying not to cry…? Yikes. “I guess what I’m saying is, just try and play the scene as real as possible, and that honesty will very likely be funny to the audience.”
I get what Mr. Martinez is saying, especially about not telling jokes, but Shannon and Fletcher were committed to their sandwich debate, and it was definitely not funny.
“And on that note, let’s bring up two performers who haven’t gone yet to demonstrate what an honest and real scene looks like. How about Jess and…Winnie.”
Okay. I don’t completely get long-form, but I sort of do, and hopefully that, plus whatever funny instincts I’ve been tapping into this past week, will take me through this. A few people cheer for me, which, not gonna lie, feels pretty fantastic.
Granted, Jess Yang isn’t the ideal scene partner, seeing as she’s continued to give me nothing but the cold shoulder, probably because she knows I’m text-flirting with her ex-boyfriend. She rolls her eyes as she walks toward me. Gimme a break.
“Hi,” I say once Jess is standing next to me.
No response. And an expression on her face best described as disgust.
“Can we get a word for these two?” Mr. Martinez asks.
I’m trying not to be intimidated, even though Jess is at least four inches taller than me and strikingly pretty, with thick black hair and black boots with heels.
“Sad,” Rashanda says, staring at me. I know she’s taking a dig, but I can’t think about that. I need to focus.
“Great. Sad,” Mr. Martinez says. “Remember: be honest, be real. Agree with each other. Cool?”
“Definitely,” Jess says.
“Sure,” I say.
“Okay, go for it.”
I’ve been thinking all rehearsal that I’m going to be this character I do for Dad called Sue the Super-Talkative Hygienist, based on, well, a super-talkative hygienist named Sue who works with my dentist, Dr. Rogers. (“Not to be confused with Mister Rogers!” is a nonfunny joke he makes more often than is comfortable.) Sue will always hit you with some serious TMI while you’ve got a sharp tool in your mouth and can’t possibly respond.
But by the time I lift my imaginary dental pick and turn to Jess, she’s quietly crying. I gotta say, she really is a good actress, because even though I know we’re about to do a scene, for a split second I wonder what happened. The crying actually works well for my bit, as I can pretend I accidentally hurt her while in the process of cleaning her teeth.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I say, channeling my best nasal Sue voice.
“No, I’m sorry,” Jess says, turning to me with actual freaking tears running down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
“What?” I say, completely thrown.
“I heard he died.”
You know how in the movies when a bomb explodes, and everything suddenly goes mute except for a high-pitched whistle sound, as if you’re actually experiencing what the exploding of a bomb does to your hearing?
Right now feels like that.
“It’s so terrible,” Jess continues. She does some more authentic crying.
I’m frozen.
Why did she say that? Does she know about my dad?
I catch Leili’s face, and she looks kind of stunned. If Jess knows, then who else does? I should say something, but not only have I dropped my Sue persona, I don’t have any words at all.
“Here,” Jess says, pretending to set something down in front of me. “I baked you a cake to make you feel better.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she says. “You’re speechless, I know. Your dad was a great man.” Why the hell is Jess Yang talking about my dead dad in an improv scene? Is this some kind of terrible coincidence?
“He was.” Jess stares, waiting for me to add more, but my mind is a black hole.
“Okay, let’s take a pause moment,” Mr. Martinez says, “so we can look at what’s happening. Jess, great job with a strong initiating line, bringing up Winnie’s dead father. Love that. But I still want to know more about who you are to each other.”
“I’m coming up with things,” Jess says, “but she’s not adding anything.”
“Right, sure,” Mr. Martinez says. “But improv isn’t about placing blame, it’s about working together. That said, Winnie, I would like to understand more about your father. How did he die? Did you know it was coming or was it sudden and shocking? What was your relationship with him like? What will happen to you now that he’s gone?”
I nod as I look down at my pink Vans, my vision blurred.
I can’t speak.
“But even more important,” Mr. Martinez says, “is the r
elationship between the two of you. Because that’s the relationship we’re watching onstage. What I’m extrapolating thus far is that there’s some animosity between your characters, so as we pick up the scene, let’s play with that.” He gestures for us to continue.
“You should have some cake,” Jess says. “It might make you feel better.”
I shake my head, eyes still on the floor.
“Come on, eat some,” Jess says, digging an imaginary fork into an imaginary cake and holding it in front of my face. “Take a bite.”
“I don’t…I can’t right now,” I say, somehow finding my voice.
“Way to lean into the animosity,” Mr. Martinez says, “but try to move the scene forward, too.”
“Okay,” I say to Jess. “I’ll have some.” I pretend-chew the pretend cake.
“Isn’t it delicious?” she asks.
I want this scene to be over. “It’s great cake.”
“No, it’s not. My baby brother made it. It’s terrible.”
“Oh,” I say, too bewildered to harness the anger that my shock and sadness have morphed into.
“I can’t believe you thought it was good,” Jess continues. Some people laugh.
“All right,” Mr. Martinez says. “Let’s stop right there. That, uh, was an interesting one.” I must be doing a good job at hiding how overwhelmed I am because Mr. Martinez doesn’t seem to have noticed. He just thinks I’m bad at improv.
“But okay!” Mr. Martinez says. “That’s it for today, but this, uh, this was a good start. We can work with this. You were all really brave, and, uh…yeah. See you next Thursday!”
You were all really brave, and, uh…yeah. Inspiring words from our leader.
“Oh! And for those who have been asking if there are any good videos online to see what a Harold is like, I answer: sort of. It’s really hard to capture on film the magic of being in that room during an incredible improv show. It’s ephemeral that way; you either were there to see it, or you weren’t. But, that said, if you insist on watching something, you should google the UCB show ASSSSCAT. That’s, uh, four Ss in ass.”
People laugh, but I’ve barely taken in any of what he’s said. As everyone steps down from the stage, gathering their bags and coats, I float toward Leili, who takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “Are you okay? That was so mean. She’s not usually like that.”
“Did you tell her?” I ask.
“Tell her what?” Leili asks.
“About my dad.”
“What? Of course not.”
“How did she know, then?”
“I don’t think she did,” Leili says. “It seemed like an awful coincidence.”
“Hey,” Evan says, appearing next to us. “Unbelievable, right?”
I nod, moved that he’s so definitively on my side in this.
“Like, what a dick, right?”
“I know,” I say, even though it’s odd that he’s calling Jess Yang a dick.
“Calling me out like that in front of everybody.” Evan shakes his head and purses his lips. “Just for making a few jokes. So out of line.”
And then it dawns on me: he’s not talking about my scene with Jess. He’s talking about Mr. Martinez. I’m kinda mad he’s so oblivious, and kinda glad he didn’t notice how bad my scene was.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I hate that, you know?” Evan says. “I’ve been in improv since day one last year, I’m one of the best performers—at least I happen to think so—and he has to make an example of me?”
“Not cool at all, bro,” Tim Stabisch chimes in, just as worked up as Evan, if not more so.
“Yeah,” Leili says. I can tell she’s saying it sarcastically, but most people wouldn’t know that.
“He probably used you as an example because he knows you can take it,” I say. “Because he knows you’re one of the best.”
Evan seems to like this rationale. “Maybe,” he says.
As the four of us walk out of the auditorium together, I see Dad’s gray Honda Civic parked at the curb outside, waiting for Leili and me.
I’m so sorry about your dad.
A golf ball forms in my throat. I swallow it away and ask Leili how Yearbook’s going, hoping I’ll be able to pull it together by the time we step into the car.
14
I derive immense comfort from the cereal aisle.
I’m standing in it now, letting the rainbow of cardboard and cartoons wash over me. It’s a simple place. A good place. Aisle 7 of Stop & Shop.
For years now, Dad and I have gone food shopping every Saturday morning. It might be my favorite tradition. (I live a wild and reckless life.) And within that tradition, this subtradition has sprung up of me taking a few minutes to absorb the view of all the cereals, as if mulling over my choices, even though I rarely deviate from the usual course: Life. Why? Uh, because it’s the best. Delicious and perfectly textured, sweet but not too sweet. Just like me!
Actually, I first tried it after Grandpa Harvey died when I was seven. His was the first death I’d experienced, and it really rocked me. I was scared my parents were next. Then me. So, when I saw it up there on the shelf, the word LIFE calling out to me in bright rainbow letters, of course I had to have it. This was the answer to all my problems! I would literally feed my parents and myself more life!
I’ve come to understand that isn’t actually how it works.
Though there’s still a small part of me that is thinking Dad should be eating at least a couple bowls of this a week.
“She’s thinking hard, ladies and gentlemen,” Dad says as he and his half-full shopping cart slowly turn the corner into my aisle. He’s wearing his faded T-shirt with this orange 1980s video game character called Q-Bert on it. “Could this be the day she chooses something other than Life? Let’s watch and find out.”
“You don’t know me,” I say with faux attitude. “It might be a Honey Nut Cheerios day.”
“Yeah, right,” Dad laughs. “I think the last day you enjoyed those you were still in a high chair.”
He is, as per most of the time, correct. “That may be, but I’m just saying, you never know. People change.”
“Sure they do,” Dad says.
I grab a box of Life and daintily place it in the cart in between two cartons of eggs and a jar of pickles. “Okay, my business is done here.”
“So much for People change,” Dad says.
“Well, that’s Life,” I say.
Dad boos me. “We all know you’re just in it for the puns.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Dad surveys the contents of his cart and checks it against the list on his phone. “I think we’ve got nearly everything…” Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday, so we’re having some people over for brunch to celebrate—including Grandma Mitzie (Dad’s mom)—none of whom know about his ALS. I know he’s anxious about it, but he’s trying to pretend he’s not. “I need you on cracker and pasta detail, I’ll go hit up the freezer, and then we’ll be good.”
“Perfect,” I say. “I’ll meet you up front.”
“BREAK,” we both say.
The cracker and pasta sections hold no emotional charge for me, so I move quickly, filling my arms with our usuals (Triscuits for Mom, rice crackers for Dad, Ritz for me, penne, spaghetti, and elbows for all of us) before heading to the front. Normally, whichever one of us is done first gets in line, but the lines are all pretty short this morning. So I awkwardly stand near a rack of gum, pretending I’m thinking really deep thoughts.
“Hey,” a voice says, and when I come out of my fake-deep-thought reverie, I see Fletcher Handy in a red vest pushing a dolly stacked high with packages of toilet paper.
“Oh, hey,” I say. He stops walking and nimbly steers the dolly so it’s not blocking the front aisle.
“Hey,
” he says again.
We stand there for a moment. I feel stupid that I’m holding so many boxes.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s…You know, it’s a job.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
He gestures to the dolly. “I’m on toilet paper duty.”
“I see that,” I say, trying not to laugh at that phrase. Because scatological puns, though not my preferred humor, can still be hilarious in the right context.
“What?” he asks, noticing the strange half smile I was unable to rein in.
“Oh no, it’s…” My face gets hot. Please, dear god, don’t force me to stand here and explain this. “Duty kind of sounded like…sorry…I’m a five-year-old.”
“Oh, toilet paper duty? Like, you heard it as doody, like poop, instead of duty, like work?”
“Right,” I say, mortified to have it spelled out like that.
“Oh yeah,” Fletcher says, barely smiling. “I never thought of it like that.”
Well, good, because now it doesn’t seem funny at all.
“But anyway,” I say, changing the subject in the hopes that my face might revert to a lighter shade of crimson, “are you liking Improv Trou—”
“Got a real carb situation going on here, huh?” Fletcher interrupts, pointing to all my boxes. Guess the crimson’s gonna stick around a little while longer.
I look down as if I had no idea there was anything in my arms. “Oh, uh…”
“I didn’t mean that in a dick way,” he says, shaking his head. “I just meant it as an observation.”
“Oh, of course, yeah.” I’m actually not offended. I just feel embarrassed that my stupid box-holding has been called out. “I, uh, it’s for my family. I’m on carb duty.”
“Carb duty. Ha, nice.” He smiles the first real smile I’ve ever seen him smile.
“I should actually go find my dad. He’s taking his sweet time.”
“Oh, sure, yeah, do what you gotta do.” He’s already maneuvering his dolly back into action. “See ya around.”
“See ya.” I’ve known Fletcher since the beginning of freshman year, but that’s the longest conversation we’ve ever had. By a long shot. My carb load and I move toward the other end of the supermarket.
