Chapter 12
“Are you kidding?” Tony says. “Stick to the old set.”
We’re at his kitchen table with our phones out.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he has transcripts of everything I’ve ever said onstage, with punchlines highlighted in varying shades of green depending on how many laughs they got.
Tony’s two little brothers are playing video games next to us with the same soundtracks going at different times.
Mrs.?Z puts a plate of warm cookies between us. “I’ve got a batch of chocolate chipless ones coming right up, Seanathan.”
She has sleek hair and nails that clack against each other when she talks. Her eyebrows are perfectly shaped because the skin under them is tattooed brown.
“No thanks, Other Mother.”
“But I already scooped out the chips.”
Tony doesn’t look up. “He can’t eat, Ma.”
She motions at me. “But you’re so skinny.”
“I get nervous before going onstage,” I say.
“Performance anxiety affects at least twenty-five percent of men,” Tony declares. “Closer to ninety percent based on polling in certain forums.”
I bite a cookie and I bite it again. The chocolate chips are horrible but I don’t want to be in the twenty-five to ninety percent of anxious men. “After you called I spent the rest of my shift revising this new set. I can’t help but think it could be infinitely better than the old one.”
“But is it already? How many PPM?”
I give a face like, Huh?
“Punchlines per minute.”
“That’s not a unit of measurement.”
“It is for me and it is for Sal.”
Mr.?Z coughs his way in and gives me a nod, his shaved head shiny over his pointy beard. He’s wearing a tank top of Darth Vader carrying an American flag. “Wazzap?”
He pours a bowl of super cereal, a combination of the last bits of the three almost-empty boxes left out on the counter. The other time I saw him do this, he said it was a dad’s job.
“You really believe the new set is better?” Tony says.
“I believe it could be.”
“Let me read it,” Tony says.
“Absolutely not.”
Mr.?Z sits beside me and takes an enormous bite of cereal. He talks with his mouth full. “Sal used to be a real jerk.”
Mrs.?Z wipes down the counter. “Anyone want pretzels? Soda?”
Tony looks at his dad. “Sal?”
“I’ve worked with him over the years.” Mr.?Z is a criminal defense attorney. He’s sometimes on local news saying his client denies all allegations. “He used to be a jerk but then he had a stroke.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“Exactly.” He points his spoon at me. “He goes to church now. Make sure your cross is out and he’ll put you on the show.”
He untucks his gold crucifix.
“Shouldn’t the work be the only thing that matters?” I ask.
“Sean doesn’t have a cross,” Tony says.
“No?” Mr.?Z takes his off. I expect him to show it to me, but he drapes it over my neck. “Bring it back when you’re done.”
“That’s—”
“Sean doesn’t like Jesus,” Tony says.
I look down at the crucified man.
“I never met the guy,” I say, which isn’t entirely true. I got my Communion with Tony, but after we moved farther away I stopped going to Religion and never got my confirmation. I went to enough church to learn to feel guilty but not enough to learn how to feel better.
“Jesus is very nice!” Mrs.?Z says as she opens wet food for their big sausage dog, Daisy. Daisy barks at the food until it’s in her mouth.
“I go to church for the free snack,” Mr.?Z says. “The body of Christ is delicious.”
“Gay,” Tony declares. “Non-derogatorily, that is.”
“I go proud homo for Jesus,” Mr.?Z replies.
Tony laughs.
I take out my phone and I write in NEW STAND-UP about how Mr.?Z brought us to Hooters for Tony’s thirteenth birthday.
I had to get a permission slip signed by Mom.
Tony dared me to leave my phone number for the server, and I did, and I felt proud.
Then I pointed out how you could see the top of a thong on a woman at a nearby table, and Mr.?Z shook his head at me very seriously and I felt ashamed.
Why am I writing any of this down? I shouldn’t do a new set.
I write how one weekend Mr.?Z shuffled Tony and me into the bathroom and showed us how to shave. He even kissed the top of my head when we were done. I drew him a Father’s Day card that year.
Why am I writing this when it’s not at all funny?
“Four o’clock.” Tony leaps out of his chair. “We gotta go.”
He likes to arrive two hours before a show to be safe.
I check for a message from Andi. Nothing. There’s no reason they would have written again but I still wish they had.
I message them, Can I send you the new set I’m working on?
They don’t reply.
My face twitches.
Mrs.?Z hustles over and hands Tony and me each a bag of mini muffins. “For later.”
Tony heads to the door and takes a white button-down off the railing of the stairs and hands it to me.
“Your uniform,” he says.
“This won’t fit me. I should get my own button-down from my house.”
I put the shirt on. It looks like I’m wearing a large square.
He loops a pre-knotted tie over my neck. “Here.”
It’s a black-and-green geometric design.
“I don’t know if this is my vibe,” I say.
“What are you talking about? Shirt and tie.”
“Yeah, but…” Not this shirt and tie. “I’ll be right back.”
I go to the bathroom and lock the door.
I open my notes and try to take whatever’s stuck in my head and write it down, but my thumbs won’t move. These thoughts aren’t funny and I was wrong to think I should try a new set.
I don’t choose to cut myself off from myself.
I simply float on, away, to a place where everything is quiet and I feel nothing.
I pee for the first of a hundred times before tonight’s show, and I consider my penis.
It’s strange to be both ashamed of this instrument of aggression and ashamed that mine isn’t aggressive enough.
I roll up some toilet paper and scrub the sink until it shines. The mirror too. I lift the toilet seat and clean where Tony or his dad got drops of pee.
Outside, the sun is so bright I have to shield my eyes. The air smells like chlorine and grass.
“I hope there’s no heaven,” Tony says as we get into his car. “I’ll be pissed if I have to spend eternity with this family.”
“You can always go to hell.”
“I appreciate that!” He squishes all his muffins into one monster muffin and bites it.
I poke my muffins around the bag, possibly feeling something I don’t know the word for. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Stick to your old set.”
“Maybe. It’s safe.”
Why am I even still contemplating this?
My phone buzzes. I pull it out to see what Andi says.
Christy says, I can be there tonight!
YAY , I write back.
I would like to smash my face into the window.
“Your old set is perfect.” Tony starts the car and reverses very slowly out of the driveway. “Everyone likes hearing about a boy getting beat up by a girl.”
“It’s not even true,” I say, and I feel like I’m channeling Elijah critiquing my story. “She kissed me and then pushed me down but she never kicked me. Maybe she knew she was gay and was frustrated by everyone seeing her as someone she wasn’t.”
Tony drives silently. His seat is moved so far up he’s almost pressed against the steering wheel.
I check my phone. Nothing from Andi.
I copy the entirety of my new set and paste it into a message to them.
If you have even sixty seconds to look at the beginning and tell me what you think, I write. Please
I’d be so grateful
I wish I had Elijah’s contact info. If he were there tonight I would feel more able to be…I don’t know. I don’t have the stamina to keep thinking about it.
I tell myself to talk without thinking. “The real question is why does everyone like a story about a boy getting beat up by a girl? Why do people think that’s funny?”
Tony doesn’t reply, and it’s the kind of not-reply that means to stop talking.
I try putting the crucifix under my shirt and then above it. How are you supposed to style a martyred son of God? “I have no idea what she was feeling. All I felt was embarrassed.”
Tony doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Can I be honest with you, man?”
“Please.”
He speaks gently. “When you’re onstage, you’re like everyone’s little brother. Keep it that way. Don’t talk about the girl’s sexuality.”
This makes me sad.
I hear my voice say, “Joe Johnson does say the only goal is to be funny.”
This makes me even sadder.
“And this is for his competition.” Tony holds out a wad of napkins. “Now put your pee tissues down your pants and pray.”