“Don’t get cocky, Cornball. This earns you nothing. Besides, you left my two beach buddies behind.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know their actual names. Besides, none of that stuff on the boardwalk with my wheelchair ever happened. Remember?”
“Shuddup. I’ll see you at home. And, you’ll see me in your nightmares!”
The guy is totally gloating.
I nod and give him a weak little wave.
“Right,” I say. “Looking forward to it. Can’t wait. Counting the seconds.”
Can you imagine living in the same house with that guy? Even in the adjoining garage?
No. You. Can’t.
Chapter 32
MY MYSTERY GIRL
While I’m sitting there in the hall, an extremely cool-looking girl comes strolling by—and then she stops right in front of me. What’s this all about?
She’s holding a stack of books.
And that’s about all she’s doing, besides grinning and silently checking me out. Very silently. It’s so quiet in the hall, I can hear crickets—and we’re nowhere near the science lab.
I’m also extremely nervous. As nervous as a weatherman with a bad comb-over who’s doing typhoon coverage.
I’ve accidentally added a fourth P to “practice, prepare, and perform”—perspire.
Finally, since I’ve had so much practice at it, I say my name. “Um, hi. I’m Jamie Grimm.”
“I know who you are,” says the cool girl.
And then it’s crickets time again. Only now I can hear a drop of my flop sweat plinking to the floor, too.
“So, that’s a lot of books,” I say because I can’t think of anything else to say. “Can I help you carry them?”
“Sure. Why not?”
She plops her books in my lap, turns, and walks away.
One of them is a physics book, and I suddenly realize this is the girl I’ve been accused of gawking at.
“Just leave them at locker 219,” she says over her shoulder.
Okay. That’s pretty cool. Dumping her books in my lap. Sashaying away. Not a care in the world.
Suddenly, she stops and pivots on her heel, like she’s this supercool supermodel.
Then she ambles back toward me, slow and easy. In my head, I’m hearing a jazz saxophone solo. And not the kind the guy in the school’s marching band honks out. A good one. Like Lisa Simpson would play.
Because this girl, as I’ve said, is extremely cool. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wears sunglasses when she goes to sleep.
“I know your name,” she says, “because I voted for you, Jamie Grimm.”
“F-f-for student council?” I stammer.
“Yes. Were you running for something else?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
Okay. Mystery solved. This cool girl is the third person who voted for me.
New mystery: Why did she vote for me?
“Not that you asked,” she says, “but my name is Suzie Orolvsky.”
“Cool,” I say. I don’t mention anything about how it won’t fit on my knuckles.
And even though I know her real name, I don’t think I’ll be calling her Suzie too often.
For me, she will always be Cool Girl.
Chapter 33
CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF BRAINSTORMS
Inspired by the small confidence boost during my post-detention moment with Cool Girl, I have a brainstorm.
And, not to brag, but it’s kind of almost genius!
I know how to nail that final perform P—where to try out my act to see if I’m worthy of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest.
This will be a true torture test. But: I have to make the Smileys laugh!
Wish me luck. Concrete statues in bird fountains chuckle more often than these people.
Chapter 34
HOME IS WHERE THE LAUGHS AREN’T
I give it my best shot.
At the dinner table, I tell food jokes.
“What do you call cheese that isn’t your own?”
They just stare. So I hit them with the punch line: “Nacho cheese.”
Nothing. Not even a baby nose snort.
I try again when they’re all watching television.
“So, did you hear about the guy who spent all day watching football and fell asleep in front of the television? The next morning, his wife wakes him up. ‘Get up, honey,’ she says. ‘It’s twenty to seven.’ ‘Really?’ says the guy. ‘Who’s winning?’ ”
Again, I get nothing. Not even a whimper from the dog.
So I try some bathroom humor.
“Why did Piglet, Eeyore, and Christopher Robin stick their heads down the toilet? Easy. They were looking for Pooh.”
Nada. Zip. Zero.
But I don’t give up.
Later, I try out a middle-of-the-night joke.
“Hey, did you hear about the dummy who sat up all night wondering where the sun had gone? The next morning, it dawned on him.”
They don’t laugh. They tell me to go to bed.
I try one more time. I give Ol’ Smiler a command performance.
“So, did you hear about the dog who went to the flea circus? He stole the whole show. Say, why do dogs wag their tails? Because no one else will do it for them.”
I finally get a response.
It’s a growl.
I give up. Forget the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest.
I wasn’t even the funniest kid in the backyard.
Chapter 35
FINALLY, A GOOD DREAM
But that same night, I have a dream.
And it’s not my usual nightmare about Stevie punching me in the nose until my head explodes like the balloon over the clown’s face in the water-gun arcade.
This is a good dream. I’m talking with one of my idols, comedy legend Billy Crystal.
“I grew up on Long Island, too,” he says.
“I know.”
“In high school, I was the class comedian as opposed to the class clown. The difference is, the class clown is the guy who drops his pants at the football game; the class comedian is the guy who talked him into it.”
“I tried being the class clown.”
“I know. I saw. That bit with the Statue of Liberty crown. You don’t have to try so hard to be funny because, trust me, Jamie, you are funny.”
“I funny.”
“What? Are we doing foreign dialects now?”
“It’s something a customer, Mr. Burdzecki, said to me at the diner. He’s Russian. He said, ‘You funny.’ ”
“Da,” says Billy. “I agree. You funny. I sleepy. Go knock ’em dead up in Ronkonkoma, kid. Just let you be you. Let people see how you see the world.”
I wake up. It’s the middle of the night. Eureka! I know what I must do.
That dream was a sign.
I am definitely going to enter the contest in Ronkonkoma and take my shot at being crowned Long Island’s Funniest Kid Comic!
Yes, it’s the stupidest thing anybody has ever done.
Yes, I’ll probably be crushed and humiliated and suffer greatly.
Yes, I will probably ruin my best shirt with permanent sweat stains.
But I’m going to do it anyway because, to mangle a line from one of Billy Crystal’s movies, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life doing something, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
Of course, I won’t tell anybody my plans. I’m too embarrassed. Too scared. What if they want to come watch me? What if I’m terrible?
I won’t even tell Uncle Frankie. And I feel super guilty about it. He’s always been my biggest fan. Heck, he’s the one who told me about the comedy contest in the first place. But I just can’t have him there. What if it turns out I not funny? I don’t want to break his heart. If I lose, I’ll stick with just breaking my own.
I check the website one last time. The Long Island contest is Saturday, less than a week away. How can I possibly get myself ready by then? W
hat if I choke? What if I get the yips?
When I leave the house the next morning, I am a man on a mission: I am determined that before this week is over, I will be named Long Island’s Funniest Kid Comic!
Chapter 36
HOW DO YOU GET TO RONKONKOMA? PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE
I spend the rest of the week worrying about the upcoming competition.
Do I have enough material? Is it funny enough? Am I funny enough?
I work up a whole bit about a small town called Grossville and try it out on Gaynor and Pierce:
“The other day, the kid sitting behind me in class sneezed all over the back of my head. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not contagious. It’s just allergies.’ Actually, I was more worried about the boogers in my hair than my health. Then I found out this kid, he lives in Grossville. You guys ever been there?”
Gaynor and Pierce play along. They shake their heads and yell, “NO!” like they’re my rowdy audience in a comedy club.
“Oh, let me tell you, in Grossville they sneeze on each other all the time. It’s why everybody’s hair is so green. Yeah, you think it’s funny, but it’s snot. When kids in Grossville say, ‘Mommy, can I lick the bowl?’ their mothers say, ‘Be quiet, dear, and just flush.’ ”
My test audience is cracking up.
But I don’t stop. All over Long Beach, I’m trying out lines—on myself, total strangers, even a few seagulls I bribe with bread crumbs.
I really want to do a bit about political correctness. That means using soft and fuzzy words to make sure you never say anything that’ll hurt anybody’s feelings by telling them the cold, hard truth. For instance, instead of calling the food in the cafeteria “crap,” you could call it “digestively challenging.” And I’m not crippled or handicapped; I’m “differently abled.”
I even riff with this guy Squeegee, who hangs out near a Dumpster behind the bait shop.
“My school is so politically correct, nobody’s fat anymore. Everyone is just ‘horizontally expanded.’ ”
“That’s really funny, kid,” he says. “You’re a stitch. Spare a dollar for a cup of coffee?”
Chapter 37
SNEAKING OUT OF TOWN
The big day is finally here!
I want to get an early start. Ronkonkoma is forty miles east of Long Beach, so I’ve got a bit of a trip ahead of me.
And I don’t want any of the Smileys (especially Stevie) to know where I’m going. Yes, I’m taking full advantage of my garage door bedroom. I’m sneaking out of the house.
Since the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest is a special event at the comedy club, showtime is slated for pretty early (for a nightclub): 2 PM.
I hope I live that long.
I’m a nervous wreck. My toes are trembling. My teeth are chattering. My heart is pounding so loudly, it’s like somebody’s jackhammering inside my rib cage.
I wonder if I’ll be the first kid to die of a heart attack.
What if they have to give me CPR while I’m onstage? If they do, I hope I at least make funny squeak-toy noises when they thump on my chest.
It’s way early, but I see this scraggly guy walking up the street holding a sign announcing the end of the world.
Yeah, right. Everybody’s a comedian.
I check my bags one last time to make sure I have all my props and junk.
The cab I called is waiting for me at the corner. But the driver almost pulls away when he sees my wheelchair.
“Don’t worry!” I shout. “You can just toss a lot of this crap in the trunk.”
“Fine. That takes care of you and the bags. But what am I gonna do with the freakin’ wheelchair?”
Yep. Everybody’s a comedian.
Chapter 38
YIKES! IT’S SHOWTIME!
Finally, I’m onstage.
The place is packed. I guess the twelve other contestants invited their entire families—from grandparents to third cousins—plus all their friends from school.
And all I can think is, “Where’d that guy say the nearest fire exit is?”
I want to bolt because I am freaked out beyond belief. If there’s something worse than choking (backward barfing, perhaps?), I’m doing it.
My mind is a total and complete blank.
All I can remember are the punch lines from my jokes, none of the setups.
(Yeah, this is where you came in.)
I close my eyes. Just for a second. I think about Uncle Frankie, my biggest fan (who, thankfully, isn’t here to see me, live onstage and dying). I concentrate on the three Ps. I think about my Billy Crystal dream: “You don’t have to try so hard to be funny because, trust me, Jamie, you are funny.” And Mr. Burdzecki: “You funny boy!”
Right. I funny.
I open my eyes. Take a deep breath.
Here goes everything.
“Um, hi,” I squeak out. “The other day at school we had this substitute teacher. Very tough. Sort of like Mrs. Darth Vader. Had the heavy breathing, the deep voice. During roll call, she said, ‘Are you chewing gum, young man?’ And I said, ‘No, I’m Jamie Grimm.’ ”
Yes! I remembered the punch line and the setup. And the audience is actually chuckling.
Okay. Time to address the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. Not the club’s bouncer. My wheelchair.
I hit them with my second joke.
“Wow, what a crowd,” I say, surveying the packed audience. “Standing room only. Good thing I brought my own chair.”
It takes a second, but they laugh—right after I let them know it’s okay to laugh because I’m smiling. The laugh builds. I even get a smattering of applause. On my second joke! That could be some kind of new indoor record.
I just hope the applause lasts. For, like, ten more minutes.
Because, sorry—I’m choking again. I can’t remember the setup to joke number three. Or four, five, six—any of them. Now I’m hoping I do have a heart attack so I’ll be dead before I totally bomb.
The three judges are sitting at the table closest to the stage.
One of them, a very sweet woman with funky red glasses, leans forward a little and whispers, “Don’t worry, Jamie. You’re already a winner in my book. It took a lot of courage for you to get up on that stage.”
Okay. I’m sure Ms. Redglasses Nicelady means well. But she’s judging me by my wheelchair, not by who I am or what I might have to say.
She’s treating me special.
And, as you know, I hate when that happens!
This comedy competition is in danger of turning into a pity party.
And so I let ’em have it. With both barrels.
Chapter 39
TAKING NO PRISONERS
Suddenly, I remember every punch line and every setup from every joke I ever read or wrote!
“So,” I say, “can you believe it? I got a ticket for parking out front in the handicapped parking space.”
The audience groans in sympathy.
“Yeah. I know. It was horrible. Of course, the ticket wasn’t so much for where I parked. I think it had more to do with the whole ‘underage driving’ thing. Yeah, according to the cop, I have to be old enough for a driver’s license before I can park anywhere.
“So, I live down in Long Beach, also known as the land of the living dead. Every morning there are all these zombies roaming the streets. Well, I call them zombies. You probably call them ‘commuters.’ This one zombie has a new girlfriend. He introduced her to his buddy, and the guy said, ‘Wow, she’s a hottie. Where’d you dig her up?’
“Anyway, it’s good to be here for the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest. It was either this or Dancing with the Stars. I can tango, but my fox-trot stinks.”
They laugh louder. I’m actually on a roll.
I take them on a funny tour of United Nations Beach. I do a quick bit about living in a snow-globe city and trying to buy flood insurance. We discuss the Statue of Liberty’s body-odor issues. We head down to Grossville for a few booger jo
kes.
And then I launch into my closer. My anti–political correctness piece.
“At my school everybody works hard at being PC. You know, ‘politically correct.’ They try to soften their words so they never blurt out the cold, hard truth. Nobody farts anymore. We just ‘expel alternative fuels.’ Kids in kindergarten don’t listen to ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ either. It’s now ‘Jack and the Dangers of Genetically Engineered Bean Seeds.’ ”
I look right at my sympathetic judge (who, BTW, is laughing so hard, the tears in her eyes have fogged up her glasses).
“And, as you know, I’m not handicapped, I’m ‘differently abled.’ That’s why I feel sorry for you guys. You’re all so ‘ordinarily abled.’ Bor-ring.”
I toss in a quick Church Lady voice from Saturday Night Live reruns.
“ ‘Now isn’t that special?’ You ‘ordinary’ people still have to use your legs to get around. Me? I just sit on my butt. I can be a couch potato twenty-four/seven—at home and on the go. You guys have to stand up when you ride an elevator. When the sidewalk slants downhill, you don’t get to coast. You have to feel guilty if you use the handicap stall when the tiny one right next to it is empty. Not me.
“You know, with all my different abilities, I’m sort of like Superman or Spider-Man—I just don’t have to wear a mask or funny tights. ‘Now isn’t that special?’ ”
They’re really cheering now. Some people are even standing up to applaud. It’s time to get offstage. I throw them all a huge wave.
I, Funny Page 5
