Chapter 26
Captain’s Comedy Club is ten times bigger than McGuinn’s and smells half as bad.
The red curtain hangs without wrinkles. The square tables run in neat rows.
The patrons walking through the door look like alternate reality versions of the ones at McGuinn’s, like their more attractive cousins.
It’s a Thursday but everyone is acting like it’s Friday.
They’re ordering wine and seafood, and no one is asking about the required minimum.
From a stool at the end of the bar, Sal gives me a nod.
Andi, buzzed head shining, chats with Elijah at the center table.
I half expected Tony to come but he’s not here.
I picked him up for school like usual this morning, but we barely spoke.
During lunch, he went for extra math help.
I scan the room for Joe Johnson. I’d been holding out hope he’d come too, but I don’t see him.
It’s the empty seat next to Elijah that I keep staring at, though.
Show is starting soon! I text Mom, but she doesn’t reply, and I suddenly worry there isn’t enough parking, or I didn’t tell her the location enough times, or it’s too hard for her to drive this far west. She still wasn’t awake for work by the time I left this morning, and I’m kicking myself for not waking her.
The overhead lights flash to signal the show is about to start, and my lungs freeze. I remind myself that my set is in the middle of the show, so I won’t go up for a while, but I can still barely breathe.
I stand at the back wall and open my phone to the story about Christy.
I can’t get past the part where I told myself to be a man and do it.
Every time I try to think about what happened next, my brain goes blank.
This morning at school I asked Christy for permission to talk about that night and she said she trusts me. I guess I still don’t trust myself.
I type, I have this habit where I see women as perfect and men as awful, but I know the truth is more complicated.
Tony would say to include a punchline.
I write, The truth is that everyone is awful.
I delete this. Tony should be here. He should be scoping out the venue as research for his garage. He should be surreptitiously recording so he can tell me, in exacting detail, the places I could have been funnier.
I walk out of the main room and down a dark hallway. At the end is the greenroom where all the other comics are chatting. I stop at the bathroom door and write, The truth is that gender is a fantasy we cling to in an attempt to find meaning in an indifferent universe.
I delete this.
I message Tony, I’m sorry I was rude to you yesterday
I wish I hadn’t been
I’m telling a story tonight and I don’t know if other people will find it funny or not but I know it will be true and that means it includes humor.
I don’t know if it’s what Sal or Joe Johnson or anyone else might like, but I know it’s something only I can do.
You were right that I might not be a stand-up comic, and maybe that means you might not want to be my manager
But I wish you were here as my friend
He doesn’t reply.
Mom hasn’t replied either. I don’t write again to ask if she’s coming because I don’t want her to feel bad when she realizes she missed it.
I go into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall.
I type into my notes, The truth is that I miss my mother even though I see her almost every day.
I miss my childhood when she was happy even though she was probably stressed.
I miss a time that never happened and a person who never was.
I see women as perfect and men as awful but the truth is that I have emotional problems.
I delete this and drop my head against the door, close my eyes, and let out a long groan.
When I stop, the sound continues.
I still hear the groan, but it gets deeper and louder.
“Good God,” someone mumbles from the next stall.
I recognize the voice.
I watch through the crack in my stall’s door as Joe Johnson walks out. He’s wearing his standard blue T-shirt. His short hair is thinning and gray, and there are bags under his eyes. He looks like an aged child.
“All right.” He paces the room. “I don’t know what to do and panicking won’t help.”
His hands are shaking. He lets out pained sounds. It’s a side of him he’s never shown onstage. A side that reminds me…of me.
He stops and stares at the wall, and I find myself counting.
One.
He keeps staring.
Two.
I want him to move.
Three.
One year my school went on a field trip to a forest where we climbed rock walls and did rope courses and zip lines.
In one activity, you attach your harness to a sturdy rope, climb to a platform at the top of a tree, and jump off.
You fall through the air and the rope catches you at a safe distance from the ground.
Four.
I’m scared of heights but I told myself to do it. I wanted to prove that my fears were wrong.
Five.
I climbed to the top of the tree, my arms and legs shaking. I crawled to the edge of the platform. Everyone below shouted to jump, and I closed my eyes and let myself fall.
Six.
I screamed the whole way down. The rope caught me and held me safely suspended in the air, but I kept screaming. I couldn’t feel safe even when I was.
Seven.
I want Joe to feel okay. I want someone to help him.
Eight.
I’m a bit surprised to realize I could be that someone.
Nine.
And I don’t have to wait ten seconds.
My hand opens the lock on the stall door. “Joe—”
Two guys laugh their way into the bathroom.
Joe puts his head down and rushes out. I follow him at what I hope is a non-creepy pace, but when I get to the main room, I don’t see him.
The host is talking about how tonight the audience will decide who opens for Joe Johnson on Saturday at the Vanderbilt.
Something hot swirls inside me. I want to tell Joe I know how he feels. I want to tell him I feel it too.
I sit at a table in the back stacked with silverware and menus, and I open my set and write the rest of what happened with Christy. The part I haven’t been able to let myself think about.
The first comic comes out and I reread what I wrote. I rewrite the lines that present a caricature of Christy. The second comic comes out and I read it again. I rewrite lines that present a caricature of myself.
The host says, “Sean? O’Brien?”
“Sorry.” I stand. “Coming.”
He thrusts a hand toward me. “He’s alive! Ladies and gentlemen, Sean O’Brien.”
I rush to the stage, then realize every other comic entered from behind the curtain.
The entrance must be through the greenroom.
But here I am, so I jump up onstage and take the microphone.
I expect to see Joe looking up at me from the front row, but he’s nowhere.
I can’t see Andi and Elijah either. The lights are brighter than at McGuinn’s.
I can’t see Mom, but I know she isn’t here anyway.
“Hello,” I say, and in response someone coughs. “Cough to you as well.”
From the side of the room, a deep voice shouts, “This guy looks rock hard!”
A few people turn to look. I don’t need to, because I know the voice. It’s Jay. Maybe he heard about the show from Kaye, but however he heard, he’s here.
“Muscle man!”
It’s remarkable to me that he finds these things meaningful enough to shout.
He makes high-pitched moaning sounds. Some guys in the crowd laugh like this is ridiculous but they’re still entertained. More people from the crowd turn to look.
I look too, and I see Jay’s face smiling in the dark.
It shocks me awake.
I grip the mic. It’s not disdain for him I feel. It’s not frustration with him or wanting to defeat him. Jay is a false enemy. I’m not against him; I’m against the history and the culture that made him this way. And made me this way.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
“The night of my seventeenth birthday I message my girlfriend and tell her I’m ready to have sex.”
I open my eyes.
I talk about how I wished I had ten condoms and how I wished I could pre-condom. I talk about her butt when she leans against the kitchen counter. I talk about when she leads me to the bedroom but it’s me who’s walking in front but it doesn’t feel like I’m leading.
Everyone laughs at all of it, even the parts I didn’t think were funny. Not always at the same time, and not always with the same tone. Whatever it is, they’re with me.
I talk about how I put on the condom she brought and positioned myself over her but I wished I’d done more push-ups and felt like an extraterrestrial. I say, “She hasn’t pulled me in yet. My brain yells at me to be a man and do it, and I close my eyes and move my hips forward.”
My brain attempts to go blank.
But I keep talking.
“And I immediately freeze,” I say. “I hover above her. All the fear, all the panic, all the making fun of myself builds up inside me. If I say words, they’ll come out as cry-words.
I wish I were asleep, or better yet, away.
I wish my consciousness inhabited a different entity.
I wish I were a tree across the road, or an old woman in a boat somewhere.
I wish I were a duck living by a lake. Ducks don’t ever seem to know what’s going on. ”
Some people laugh uncomfortably while others simply look uncomfortable.
I adjust my hair. I give my eyebrow a scratch.
“And she says, ‘Sean?’ And the sounds in my head get louder and louder. And I say, ‘I don’t know why—’?”
Everyone is silent. They’re waiting for the punchline.
“I say, ‘I don’t know why I can’t let myself cry.’?”
Someone makes a quiet sound.
“And she takes me in her arms and places my head on her shoulder and says, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.’ And I feel safe.”
My face gets soft. My breath catches.
“And I say, ‘I thought I’d at least prematurely ejaculate.’?”
The tension breaks and the audience bursts into laughter.
I hold up a hand. “Thank you so much! My name is Sean O’Brien.”
I leave the stage and people keep applauding. They shout and whistle and clap long after I make it to the back corner. Elijah turns around and holds up his still-clapping hands. Andi doesn’t look, but—and now I really must be losing it—I feel close to them.
I get a text from Tony that says, Your best set yet
He’s at a faraway table tapping on his phone, almost definitely backing up a recording.
I’m so glad you’re here, I write. And I’m so sorry again for yesterday
The next comic goes up, and the next comic, and I replay my set in my head. I don’t even care about “winning” anymore. I already did what I came here to do.
The host returns to the stage and says, “And now, let’s bring all the comics back onstage.”
Maybe I care a little.
We line up in the order that we performed, and the host holds a hand over our heads as the audience applauds. It gets louder with each comic. I realize that the final comic will be the winner. The crowd enjoyed the show more and more as it went on, and the last comic will be their favorite.
The host holds his hand over my head and the room claps the loudest yet. Tony stands from a table in the back and cheers. From the end of the bar comes an enthusiastic howl. I look to see if it’s Joe, but it’s Sal. He has his hands cupped at the side of his mouth to make himself louder.
The host moves to the next comic and the next, and it sounds like the audience’s reaction may become more subdued, but it’s hard for me to tell because I keep looking for Joe.
Soon, the applause reaches a crescendo, and I realize the host is holding his hand over my head again.
“Sean O’Brien wins!” he calls.
The room erupts with cheers. I think I feel good. I hold a hand to my heart as I look at the room. Why would I not feel good?
The host turns away from the mic and says to me, “You want to get in some practice for Saturday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Introduce the surprise headliner.”
Joe Johnson waves to me from the side of the stage behind a curtain.
I wave back.
My hands tremble as I place them on the microphone. “We have some exciting news. I’d like to welcome to the stage someone we haven’t seen perform in years, who is the reason I fell in love with comedy. I’m shocked to be asking you all to welcome to the stage…Joe Johnson!”
The cheering is so loud I think I might never hear again.
Joe stops on his way to the mic and places a hand on my arm. He says in my ear, “Thank you for your story. I needed that.”
I give a dazed nod and I move to the spot behind the curtain.
Joe talks about dogs with short legs. He talks about the humanity of toothpaste dribble.
He talks about “cute-cumbers.” He doesn’t talk about panic attacks.
He doesn’t talk about feelings. He doesn’t talk about anything that might indicate he’s someone who nervously talks to himself while pacing back and forth in a public bathroom.
He tells jokes.
And it’s the funniest set I’ve ever heard. I laugh until I can barely breathe. I laugh until I almost cry.