Chapter 23
At home I put on Joe Johnson’s second special, Mean Bowl o’ Cereal .
This is the one with the folk singer as the opener.
It was shot in a club in Greenwich Village in front of an audience of regular patrons as well as actors in historical garb.
Joe released it for free online and it was his last indie weirdo before the mainstream success of his third special.
I watch with a pencil and paper so I can map the major thematic movements of the special.
Mom makes us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and watches with me. She laughs the whole hour.
When it ends, my paper is still blank. There’s no arc to map. No deeper message. Is the special lacking something or was Tony right—am I no longer interested in comedy?
“He is good,” Mom says, and carries our crumpled paper towels to the kitchen. Cat Cat hops off the couch and trots behind her.
I message Andi, Do you have a minute to help with this set?
They reply, Still with Elijah
You should come hang!
I should probably keep working, I write back.
I tap my foot and look at the blank paper. Why was this special so disappointing?
From the back of my head comes a whispered reply, but it’s too quiet to hear. My subconscious is telling me something. I snap my fingers beside my ear as though this might help discern the words.
It’s moments like these when I’m unsure of the line between mental illness and artistic inspiration.
“I saw this girl tell a story the other day,” I call to Mom.
“Okay,” she calls back.
And now I speak faster than my brain can follow.
“It showed how the truth includes both humor and emotion, but I think it also showed that the form of the story is the most effective way to carry that truth. More than the amorphous blob of stand-up.” My face twitches and my mouth keeps moving.
“I think I have to tell a story at Captain’s. A new story.”
Mom comes back with a box of cookies. “Whatever you do is going to be great.”
I open a blank document. It’s like there are sparks in the corners of my eyes and I’m trying to catch them.
My phone buzzes.
Leaving Andi’s, Elijah writes. They said you’re working but do you want to go for a drive?
My whole body surges with energy. I think, for a second, that panic and excitement are the same thing. I’m terrified of life and I want it.
YES, I tell him.
On my way, he replies.
My chest pangs and I look around, blinking. I want to start doing push-ups. I want to tidy my room even though he’s not coming in. It’s like a feeling flashback.
As though controlled by some force outside of myself, I turn to the blank document on my phone and write: The night of my seventeenth birthday, I message Christy and tell her I’m ready to have sex.
I reread the line. It’s the kind of story that doesn’t feel like it’s allowed anywhere.
I don’t even want to allow it inside myself.
Although maybe that means I have to let it out.
I write what happened next, how I got down on the floor and did three and a half push-ups. When I reread the line, I laugh.
“Mom,” I say, almost frightened. “I think I have a good idea for Captain’s.”
“That’s fun,” she says with her mouth full.
I stand up. “I think I’m excited.”
“Really?”
“Usually I’m only nervous. This is a very strange feeling.”
She puts the cookies down. “Can I come? I’ve never seen you perform.”
I hesitate. “It’s about sex.”
“Are you having sex?”
“It’s about failing to have sex. Intercourse.”
She looks disturbed. “When is the show?”
“It’s tomorrow night. I think you should come. Wow, it’s really bizarre to feel this confident.”
“I’ll be there.” She stands. “I feel like we should be celebrating.”
I laugh. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“But you have!” She looks from side to side. “I haven’t gone out in a while. I feel like I need to start getting ready if I want to make it in time.”
“Let’s get dressed and go sleep outside of the club,” I joke.
She heads to her room. “Should I wear a ball gown?”
“Wear a tux!”
I can’t help but smile. Then I remember Elijah is on his way, and I start doing push-ups. I get all the way up to five.
Mom comes in carrying a spray bottle and reading from her phone. “They have a fried clam platter. Yum.” She sprays the end tables and the coffee table. Her voice is high and her words come out fast. “Fried pickles? What do you think those are?”
“My guess is fried pickles.”
She wipes the tables with an old T-shirt. “Can I bring a friend? Oh, and can I record it? And what is it—that comedian is gonna be there?”
I’m reminded of how she gets like this sometimes: excited, happy, like the opposite of zoning out.
Not unlike how I’m feeling. Though it can become too much.
Once she got into running and she ran for so many miles that she broke a foot and couldn’t walk on it for six weeks.
Once she came home with a Lexus and tried to return it the next day but wasn’t allowed to.
“It’s not sold out, so you can bring anyone you’d like, you can probably record it, and we’re not sure if Joe Johnson will be there.
” I should be helping to clean, I decide, and it’s possible Elijah will come to the door, so I pick up some socks and a bin of winter clothes and a very small screwdriver and carry them into my room. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”
I take three T-shirts off my floor and bring them to the bathroom to see which is the most clean and least wrinkled.
“He’ll be there,” Mom calls, “I know it.” She plays Billy Joel from her phone and starts going through the junk in the hall closet. “So, how does it work? Do you just have funny thoughts all day?”
“Not at all.” I scrutinize my face in the mirror. “I think I don’t know how to wash properly.”
“Huh?” She comes in carrying a cowboy boot.
“What the hell is that?”
“Is it yours?”
“Is that cowboy boot mine? No.”
She holds it higher. “I have never seen this before in my life.”
We both burst out laughing.
Her phone lets out a loud sound of birds chirping, interrupting Billy Joel. It’s time for her to leave to do deliveries. She lets out a long exhale. The birds keep chirping.
“All right, all right,” she groans, and turns the alarm off. She goes to the front door and shoves her feet into her boots and stomps until they go over her heels. “I really don’t feel like working right now.”
I watch out the window for Elijah’s car. “You can do it!”
“Oh!” She claps her hands. “Do you want to come keep me company?”
Her eyes are wide, like a child, energetic and needy. When she zones out, I can make a joke to wake her up. When she spins out like this, though, I’ve never known what to do. Stay home so I can watch her?
“I have plans tonight,” my voice says. The guilt is immediate. The worry is overwhelming. But I continue: “With my new friend. Who is also my boyfriend.”
“Wait. Is Christy—”
“We broke up. This is someone else. Elijah.”
“Elijah.” She says it like an idea she never considered. “Did I know you were gay?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Oh.”
“I’m queer. I’m bi.”
“Oh!”
Headlights flash across the living room as Elijah pulls into the driveway.
Mom turns to me with the biggest smile. “Can I meet him?”
I try to maintain a steady voice when I say, “How about tomorrow night at the show?”
I pretend not to see how her face sinks.
I give her a kiss on the cheek and pretend not to notice that she doesn’t kiss me back.
When I walk out the door, I tell myself not to turn around.
But I can’t help it. I stop in the middle of the lawn and watch through the screen door as she kicks off her boots and disappears into her bedroom.