42. Aarti
AARTI
“The ratings are tanking again!” Madge spits at me.
In fairness, I did ask her to “spit it out” but didn’t expect her to do it so literally.
I haven’t seen her this stressed since launching the show, and while I find it unfortunate, I can hardly say I’m surprised.
The original viewers stuck around for a few weeks, hoping to see more of the chemistry that came with the Noa segments, but eventually tuned out when they realized she wasn’t coming back.
The flood of Gramsta comments made it clear that at least some of the audience preferred the scandal of me queerbaiting to me just being straight and boring.
Even the novelty of the signature ice cream has worn off and Jen & Mary’s decided to make it a “Special Edition”–a.k.a it’s not selling–despite good reviews.
Part of me wonders if Noa had any say in the ice cream’s cancellation. I doubt it, but I can’t help looping her into my thoughts these days however I can.
I lean back in my office chair and casually wipe the spittle from my face, but Madge doesn’t notice anyway because old habits die hard, and she’s pacing the fuck out of the office.
“Madge,” I say, trying to grab her attention.
“Gretchen is right, we should’ve gotten her under a longer contract,” she grumbles, and I shoot her a look. “Sorry, I know that’s not helping.”
She collapses into a chair. “All right, let’s wipe our brains and start fresh. What can we do to bring the audience back?”
“Be funny again,” I say, equal parts sarcastic and the most serious I’ve ever been in my whole life.
She chides me with her big doe eyes. “You will never not be funny, Aarti.”
“Tell that to the comments section,” I shrug. “It’s late. I’ll figure something out. Go home and take a load off.”
She’s unsure, but I stand and force her out with me.
When I get home, I am alone. Diti has been even more absent than usual and I can’t stifle the feeling that I’m a failure in every avenue of my life.
I abandoned her for my work, and now I can’t say I’ve succeeded at either my goal of helping my sister get it together or having a hit show.
I’m bombing at my job, my career, my romantic life, my family life…
Sometimes I just wish someone would give me a report card with big red-circled Fs so I could at least have a memento to document the downfall of my existence.
I sink deep into the couch and check my Gramsta.
On my home page is a post of Brigitte with her new girlfriend, which I like.
I'm genuinely happy for her, and maybe–obviously–envious that she found someone who stayed.
I keep scrolling, passing a post from The Laugh Track about a comedy storytelling event. I go back and read. Tonight. Nine p.m.
It takes everything to pull myself out of the upholstery and get ready to go back out of the house, but I know if anything will make me feel better, it’s a good old-fashioned comedy show.
“Soda water, please,” I say to the bartender who doesn’t recognize me. He shoots me an annoyed look until I place a ten-dollar tip by my free drink.
I pull up my hood and sit at an empty table behind the back row of seats. I stir my little black straw until the baby-faced host hops onstage.
“Welcome out to The Laugh Track, everybody!” he shouts to a smattering of applause. “That’s a Tuesday for ya,” he laughs. “All right, we have a great show for you tonight, please welcome to the stage…”
And for an hour, I get to return to being Little Aarti. I get to hear hilarious stories from comedians of all kinds, and for the first time in a long time, not feel the pressure to be funny.
Until the host comes back out.
“Thank you, thank you! Now I did see that we have a legendary guest in the house tonight. Someone who is one of my personal comedy heroes, who inspired me to be here on this stage today…” He uses a hand to shield his eyes from the spotlight and the crowd murmurs.
What A-lister shows up to a Tuesday night crowd?
“There she is! Aarti Nair, everyone!”
Aw, fuck.
Everyone in the crowd turns to me. I sink into my seat with a little wave.
“We know you’ve got some stories to tell, and we’d be honored if you could share a little something with us. Whaddya say?”
The small but sure audience claps and whoops, and now, I have no choice.
Pulling my hoodie off, I walk up to the stage and take the mic.
“Thank you, man who is now my mortal enemy,” I half-joke. “My name is Aarti Nair, some of you probably know me from being on TV.”
That gets a whoop.
“I’m glad someone is still watching. Based on my ratings, it’s literally one person. Mom, you can stop clearing your browser history–I know it’s you.”
The audience laughs and I feel myself begin to loosen up. I pace the small stage, feeling the eyes of the intimate crowd, no cue cards or teleprompters or producers in sight.
“This is less of a story, more of a random question: has anyone here ever gotten everything they ever wanted?”
A few hands go up.
“Cool, cool… Did it fucking suck? ”
Some claps and laughter.
“Glad it’s not just me. Because I’m living the dream right now. I got the job I’ve wanted since I was thirteen years old. The job half of you probably want, too.”
I get another laugh.
“Everyone is like ‘you’ve got it so good, I wish I was you!’ You don’t.
I promise,” I breathe into the mic. “Sure, I eat LA’s most expensive takeout on my overpriced white sofa–because I can afford infinite Tide Pens–but you know what’s happening while I’m doing that?
I’m hate-watching my own TV show. My internal monologue is like Inside Out , but it's all anxiety and they're debating whether I'm too much of everything or not enough of anything.”
The crowd likes that one.
“My predecessor, Guy Morrison–remember him? He used to say that comedy comes from truth. The deeper you dig, the funnier it gets.” I shake my head.
“Guy got fired for telling too much truth. So I thought, well, I’ll just tell the committee-approved truths.
But truth by omission has never been a thing. ”
Staring into the tiny audience makes me nostalgic for the period of my life where I did this every night of the week.
“When I was a teenager, I would sneak out to perform here. Three buses each way to tell jokes to seven people who were literally just too drunk to leave. And I was happy. You know why? Because when I bombed, at least it was my truth failing. Now, I’m noted to death by the network like, ‘don’t mention existential dread, it tested poorly in Ohio.
’ Glad you’re so happy that the rest of us can’t even bitch about it, Ohio . ”
I look around the intimate space.
“But tonight? In this room that definitely violates several fire codes? You twelve people aren’t here for the focus-grouped version. You’re here for the truth. And I think, finally, so am I. So thanks for reminding me that bombing as yourself beats killing as someone else.”
I grin.
“I’m Aarti Nair, and this is the most honest I’ve been in months. Thank you and goodnight!”
Before I can set the mic back in its stand, the crowd is on its feet, and I’m on a high that I haven’t felt since the last time I kissed Noa Hart.