Chapter 36
The stage at the Vanderbilt is wide and shining, with velvet curtains at the sides.
It smells like wood and dust, like a hundred years of audiences and entertainers.
Murals stretch across the high walls showing vaudeville groups, scenes from early films, and orchestras.
A crystal chandelier hangs over the balcony and the thousand empty seats.
“You’ll want to get right up into it,” the sound guy calls.
I hold the mic closer to my mouth. “Like this?”
“Great,” he calls back. “Now, tell me what you had for breakfast.”
“I’m sorry?” My voice booms from the speakers.
“So I can test the sound.”
“Right.”
I spend a full minute recounting the details of a bowl of cereal, and any confidence I had slips away.
Tony shouts from the balcony, “Can you run through the transition too?”
I extend a hand to the side of the stage and recite the lines Tony prepared for me: “I’d like to bring out the star of the show. He has released three incredible specials and he’s making his long-awaited return with us tonight. Joe Johnson!”
Nobody comes out. Instead, the house lights go up, someone says, “Doors in five,” and staff members spread out with walkie-talkies. The speakers switch to old-timey jazz.
I go behind the curtains to the dark backstage and follow the fluorescent tape on the ground through a heavy door to a bright hallway.
Framed photos along the white walls tell how the theater was converted into three movie screens in the 1980s, shut down when a multiplex opened nearby, and recently reopened and restored to its original state.
A metal door from the lobby opens. I watch for Elijah, but it’s Mom.
“I just wanted to say break a leg,” she whispers.
Tony bursts through the door, out of breath, and immediately slows his pace.
“A small film crew is here,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth. “Quite a bit of press as well. My online sources say the creator of the gourmet pizza bagel is here. Culinary isn’t our target market, but…” He raises his eyebrows.
The metal door opens again, slowly, and this time it’s Andi.
“Whoa. Backstage party.”
I can’t help it, I keep watching the door.
Andi looks down. “Elijah told me he’s not coming.”
I fake a smile. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“No, it’s—” But what is it? This is exactly what I don’t want to avoid. “I guess I was still expecting him to come.”
Andi turns their eyes to mine, and I try to figure out if their silence means they understand.
Tony stamps his foot. “That guy is not a patriot!”
Mom makes a sound of agreement. “I’m glad I never met him.”
I definitely prefer the silence.
“Thank you all for being here. I appreciate you.” I put my hands together like I’m praying? “And now I’m going to take some time alone to prepare.”
“Your dressing room is the second door on the left,” Tony says.
He gives me a fist bump, Mom gives me a hug, Andi gives a nod, and I stumble away as they go through the metal door to the lobby.
When I get to the second door on the left, I keep walking.
I pace up and down the hallway, telling myself to practice my set but never getting past the first few words.
Eventually my face starts to twitch and I figure that’s a sign to move somewhere private.
I duck into the dressing room, close the door behind me, and close my eyes. A sharp pain cuts across my chest.
I was really hoping Elijah would come.
“Nice to—”
I open my eyes.
“Sorry.” Joe Johnson, in his classic blue T-shirt, holds out a hand. “Nice to officially meet you. I’m Joe.”
“Hi.” I stick out my numb arm. “Sean.”
The room is shabby and luxurious. Puffy armchairs sit beside a dining table with rows of fancy snacks and a bouquet of drooping flowers. A lamp with a tilted shade stands beside an ornate gold mirror. There’s a long couch so big and fluffy it could be a bed.
Joe’s light hair is neatly combed, but his eyes and cheeks are red. He turns to the wall and turns back. “Sorry, I’m kind of having a…”
His lips keep moving.
I can’t help but ask, “Why don’t you talk onstage about feeling like this?”
He laughs. “Because I don’t find it funny.”
“Valid.”
“I tried one time.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “I led the crowd in a guided meditation of a panic attack.”
“Terrifying.”
“The lack of laughter was.” He exhales. “Anyway. Thank you for opening tonight. I loved your set at Captain’s.
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how this whole contest would go.
I liked the idea of a hyper local competition that you’d only be able to do if you lived here, but I didn’t expect to find someone whose work I genuinely admire. And feel some kind of connection to.”
My face buzzes. “You felt a connection to my set?”
“Absolutely.” He looks at the ceiling. “In the ninth grade I dated a girl who I was too nervous to kiss, and one night she very angrily said to me, ‘I gave my last boyfriend a blowjob, y’know.’?”
“Y’know.”
“Y’know!” He picks up a water bottle and steps from side to side.
“One time a French woman came up after a show and invited me back to her hotel room. So I went, and we were making out, and when she reached for my pants—” He holds up a hand.
“I feel comfortable sharing this because of the story you shared in your set, but is this okay with you?”
“Oh. I want to keep making art if only so I can keep having conversations like this with artists, with other people who also want to talk about the things no one talks about. So, yes.”
He smiles. “So she reached to take off my pants, and I asked what her favorite book was. After ten minutes of conversation she said to me, ‘Don’t you think just having sex would be less awkward than all this talking?’ To which I replied, ‘I’m really not sure.’?”
“So good.”
“Right? I’d send every girl I’ve ever kissed an apology card, but I don’t want to exhaust them any further.”
“I dunno. People like snail mail.”
“Maybe if the graphic design was good enough.”
“Probably if the graphic design was good enough.”
Joe doesn’t immediately reply, and I become aware that our time is limited, that at any moment he may say he needs to get ready, and that there’s a chance I will never speak to him again.
When Tony first saw the info for this show, he was excited about the opportunity to open for a thousand people, but I was excited about the chance to meet Joe.
I put a hand on a chair. “Can I ask a ridiculous question?”
“Please.”
“How do you help yourself to feel okay?”
He smiles. “I have a really stupid answer for you.”
“That is my dream response.”
He looks me in the eyes, possibly for the first time.
“I used to think if I performed in bigger rooms and got bigger laughs, then I would feel good. Then I performed in bigger rooms and got bigger laughs, and I still felt bad. I learned that there is no amount of applause that will make me feel okay.”
“That’s not a stupid answer at all.”
“Well, let me tell you what I do. When I’m feeling down, or anxious, I close my eyes and I start clapping. I applaud myself. I go, ‘Woo! You’re doing great, Joe! I believe in you, Joe!’?”
“You become your own standing ovation.”
Someone knocks on the door and says, “This is your ten-minute call. Ten minutes, please. Also, have you seen the opener?”
I look at Joe. “I’m in your dressing room.”
“You are.”
“And I need to pee.”
Joe’s bathroom has a shower in the corner and a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
It’s rare I see my whole body. I’m wearing my barbaric yawp T-shirt.
In one of my back pockets is Elijah’s note.
That note made me realize I was already okay, until it didn’t anymore.
Laughing with friends, being entertaining onstage, having honest conversations, they all made everything okay, until they didn’t.
Should I start applauding?
I close my eyes.
I’m always wishing for someone else to come and make everything okay.
I ask myself now to become the person I wished for.
I open my eyes.
There’s a knock at the door. “This is your five-minute call.”
Time moves quickly. A woman with a headset leads me to the side of the stage and I stand in the darkness.
Under the closed curtains is a sliver of light from the auditorium.
The woman says we have one minute. The sliver of light under the closed curtains darkens.
The curtains open and the stage lights go up. The woman tells me I’m on.
I step out to loud conversation and scattered applause. The spotlight hits me and I take the mic. There’s more applause but mostly more conversation. Christy’s cheering cuts through the noise.
“Good evening. My name is Sean O’Brien. This is a big room and it would take a while to get to everyone’s names individually, so would you please all shout them out?”
A couple people shout their names, followed by a couple more, and more, until the sound builds to a chaotic roar, daring me to be louder.
I wait until the room quiets. “Nice to meet you.”
There’s a little laughter. Then silence.
In the first few rows I see Mr.?Mazzei, and Mom with Mr.?and Mrs.?Z. Near them are Christy and Andi and Tony, and an empty seat.
“When I was a kid,” I say, walking across the long stage, “a girl would tell a guy she liked him by beating him up. And let’s just say all the girls liked me. A fair number of the boys did too. One boy liked me so much he gave me a chipped tooth.”
This seems to be a successful opening, and I smile.
“I came home and told my mom I had to go to the dentist, and she looked in my mouth and said, ‘Eh, it’s a baby tooth.’ Money was tight in our family.
The tooth fairy usually left me two dollars, but one morning I woke up and the tooth fairy had left me twenty-one.
I told my mom and she was like—” I pull the mic away as I curse.