Chapter 44 Three Days till New Year’s Eve
44.
Three days till New Year’s Eve
At brunch around the kitchen island on Saturday, there was once again soda in Birdie’s glass, met with encouraging smiles from her family.
“Another night working on your show?” Liz forked a mouthful of gooey huevos rancheros as she nodded at Birdie’s notebook, full of pages of scribbled ideas. “Can’t wait to see some of it.”
Birdie flushed with pride and inhaled a tentative breath. “Well, you won’t have to wait long. I’m actually doing a work in progress, um, tonight.”
“ Tonight? ” Rafi and Liz spoke as one.
“So soon?” Babs added.
“I was just in touch with Sydney.” The booker for Fox & Fawn. The 9:00 p.m. slot had still been open—late December was the quietest time of year. “It’s just a first draft, super rough.” Birdie explained she’d spent the last few days stitching together all the work she’d done before Christmas. “It won’t even be a full hour yet, probably half that. But I’d love it if you could all be there.”
She met her mother’s gaze. In the past, Birdie had mixed feelings about Babs’s attendance. It could distract the audience. It could distract her. She’d always wanted to be recognized independently of her mother. But now that seemed ridiculous. Who cared what other people thought? Birdie wanted her mom in the audience tonight. She reached across the table to pat her mom’s hand. “Especially you, Ma.”
“Of course I’ll be there.” Babs nodded decisively. “We all will.”
—
Birdie arrived at Fox & Fawn well ahead of showtime. The stage was in the back, a postage stamp–sized area with a stool and mic, facing rows of empty chairs. To most people, less than ordinary. To Birdie, Mecca.
It was hard to walk past the bar. To consider that bars, in general, might not offer the comfort they always had.
Birdie put this out of her mind, sequestering herself in the green room to go over her notes. Usually, she was late to her slots and unprepared, with most of her success coming from winging it. But tonight, a cool certainty filled her, a seriousness of intent. She’d worked for this. She wanted this.
The room started to fill. About thirty people, sitting or standing in the back. In the front row, Liz and Rafi flanked their mother, who was dressed simply in her pink velour tracksuit.
Birdie had wondered if Jecka might’ve seen her sole social media post or a last-minute local listing, but she wasn’t in the crowd. Birdie shook it off, trying to quell her nerves as Sydney introduced her. She walked on to a swell of applause, waving hello with a pounding heart and sweaty palms. Birdie had been in front of countless audiences before, but this one felt different. This one was important.
Birdie took the mic off the stand, moved it aside. Took a moment to let the attention settle on her. Her voice sounded over the speakers, clear and honest. “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad.”
Birdie started her show with a joke-heavy sketch of Stanley, for those unfamiliar with him as a public figure. A director of nineties rom-coms—“the ones where every meet-cute involved spilled coffee, taxi snafus, and everyone is aggressively white?” She made fun of his less successful films, including the box office stinker Kisses on Cloud Nine —“it was so bad, Cupid actually sued us.”
Then she widened the lens to roast Stanley as a father: “the man who made Darth Vader look like a great dad.” The show painted a portrait of a talented but troubled man who was “stitched together from red flags.” Self-centered, arrogant, notoriously forgetful. “I remember when he called to wish me a happy seventh birthday. I was eleven.” She told her wildest anecdotes of his worst parenting. The gasps of shock from the audience cemented her relationship with them. Their surprise and empathy assured Birdie they were with her, bolstering her confidence. She wasn’t alone.
Out of respect for her mom, Birdie didn’t discuss her parents’ relationship. “Let’s just say after their conscious uncoupling, Dad proceeded to do a lot of unconscious coupling with half the actresses in L.A.” She paused. “And the fact that my own dance card has always been pretty full? Obviously unrelated.”
She pointed out more similarities between herself and her father: how they were both born entertainers, good at winning people over, bad at commitment and at parking.
The jokes gave way to deeper introspection. This was uncharted territory. Birdie’s grip on the mic tightened. “Just like his films, my memories of Dad are a mix of the good and the truly terrible. But I’m not here to spit on his grave. I’m here because I realized something recently. Something that took my little snow-globe world and gave it a good shake.”
She paused to take a steadying breath.
“I’m not my father. I’m not his flaws, or his triumphs, his best self or his worst. I’m not destined to follow in his footsteps.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I don’t need to push people away for fear of hurting them like he hurt me, or pull them in to distract me from my own troubles. And if that’s what I’ve done in the past, that’s okay. Because every rom-com makeover montage will show you, people can change. I can change. I’m seeing a therapist, actually. I’m giving sobriety a go. Me? Can you—” She was cut off by unexpected applause. The sound almost had her tearing up. “Guys, I’m just doing it to win back my ex,” she riffed. “Just kidding, just kidding: I’m doing it for me. But seriously, can someone please tell my ex?”
The audience laughed, and it sounded different. Generous, understanding. Her fingers relaxed their grip on the mic.
“This past month, I learned that success isn’t about something out there. It’s something in here.” Birdie tapped her chest. “Something I get to decide.”
The room was completely quiet. Birdie recalled the silence at Jecka’s art opening at the beginning of the month, after her mulled wine mistake. The bad sort of silence. Now, two days away from the end of the year, this silence was the good kind.
“I’m up here tonight to remind myself that I’m just me, and I’m still a work in progress. And if you haven’t seen Kisses on Cloud Nine, please don’t: we are still in an active lawsuit with Cupid. Thank you.”
Birdie had never felt a greater sense of accomplishment than when she placed the microphone back in its stand. She had the bones of a new hour, something she could continue fleshing out over the coming year. More than that, she had a new version of her story. A new version of herself. From now on things were going to be different for her. She was going to make sure of that.
The small audience erupted into applause. Even Babs got to her feet with her cane, hooting and cheering loudest of all.
Birdie just stood there, tears glistening in her eyes, her heart flung open.
Then she left the stage, trotting down its few steps to greet her people, their smiling faces flushed from laughter and emotion.
“Squeak, it was brilliant !” Liz said, bursting with admiration. “So funny and so deep. You really nailed Stanley, but I actually thought it was very generous. I can’t believe he abandoned you at Disneyland to hook up with Minnie Mouse? I’ve never heard that story! That whole bit about if his bow ties could talk—I was crying. God, it was so good. Your best yet!”
Ash was still in New York, so it was just Rafi who threw his arm around her shoulder, beaming with pride. “You made the Black Hearts Club proud, sis.”
Babs approached, and Birdie suddenly felt nervous. “I hope it wasn’t too personal,” Birdie said, earnestly. “If you want me to cut anything, I will.”
“Absolutely not. No.” Babs grasped Birdie’s arm. Her gaze was full of wonder. “What a gift you’ve given us all tonight. Especially me. Oh, sweetheart: I had no idea how much he hurt you. Thank you for telling me. You are so clever…and so brave.”
Birdie hugged her mother, feeling the weight of their shared experience. It wasn’t just about the show. It was everything that had brought them to this moment. It was the fact that she still had a mother.
“Thanks for being here.” Birdie pulled back, bashing away a tear. “Love ya, Ma.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.” Babs smiled, the laugh lines around her eyes deepening. “I will never miss your opening night.”
The reference to Stanley’s absence all those years ago almost choked Birdie up, but she kept it together to greet the next audience member, a smiling guy in a plaid shirt who introduced himself as Josh.
Josh was effusive about her performance. “Very funny stuff. You crushed it.” He handed her an embossed business card. “If you’re in the market for a manager, I’d love to talk.”
Josh Salzburg was a manager at UTA. U-T-fucking-A. “Holy shit. Okay. How’d you hear about the show?” Birdie asked, glancing over at her mom, assuming it had something to do with Babs.
“Instagram,” Josh replied. “Your post.”
“Oh.” She’d landed this fish all by herself. Birdie rocked back on her heels, a happy blush rising in her cheeks. “Sweet.”
—
Babs faded early, so Rafi took her home. Birdie said hi to everyone she knew, then sat at the bar with Liz, chatting until almost midnight.
Liz yawned, sliding off her stool. “Ready to go, Squeakie?”
“Yep.” Birdie drained her third Diet Coke and gazed around the empty back room, a smile on her lips.
“How do you feel?” Liz asked, slipping on her coat.
“Amazing.” Light. Free. Seen. Heard. “I had fun. I know this is going to sound extremely tragic, but I didn’t actually think I could have fun without being blitzed or caught up in sexy gay chaos. But I had a blast tonight, stone-cold sober, with zero chaos. That’s huge.”
Liz wrapped her arms around Birdie, squeezing her tight. Her sister had gotten a lot more touchy-feely these holidays. Birdie wasn’t mad about it. “I am so proud of you, Birds.” Liz’s expression was tender and protective. “I’m sorry Jecka wasn’t here.”
Pain bloomed in Birdie’s chest. In the past, that was a sign to order a double. Now she let the uncomfortable feeling spread, then settle. She could handle it. “Me too.” Birdie zipped up her neon-orange puffy. “But if it’s meant to be, we’ll cross paths again.”