Chapter 1 Frankie
FRANKIE
*Around Three Totally Crappy Years Later*
I know I’ve said this infinity times before, but this time I really mean it: I will never consume alcohol again.
Ever.
Ever.
Ever again.
I will not drink on New Year’s Eve.
I will not drink on Super Bowl Sunday with Steve.
Not even if the world should end,
I will not do shots with all my friends…
It certainly feels like it’s ending, so I’m just going to lie here and wait for the zombies to put me out of my misery. I just hope they’re really quiet.
I will not mix a Coke with rum.
Why, even cough syrup I will abstain from.
I will not drink mimosas with Mum.
I will not swallow a drunk guy’s—
Why is Dr. Seuss writing my thoughts now?
Maybe I’m dead?
If so, this is not the least respectable way for a twenty-six-year-old woman to die in LA.
At least I’m wearing pants. I’m wearing everything I was wearing last night, in fact.
Including one of my shoes. Minus whatever dignity I still had when yesterday began.
It’s a relief, really, if I am dead. I will never have to go on a date again.
I won’t have to find another horrible job to pay the bills.
I won’t have to go to any more demoralizing cattle calls for tiny parts in awful shows.
I won’t have to spend another three hours of my life trying to find parking at Trader Joe’s.
I won’t have to pretend to like avocado toast anymore.
Maybe an angel will close the curtains so that fucking Los Angeles morning sun will get out of my fucking face.
Ugh.
Maybe if I try really hard I can telepathically communicate with Mia and get her to come in here to close the curtains.
Nope. I don’t think I have any brain cells left.
“Mia…” Shit. Clint Eastwood moved into my voice box while I was sleeping. I’ll never be able to call out to her, and I can’t move any part of my body to find my phone.
But miracle of miracles—there’s a dainty rap on my bedroom door, and then it opens and Mia pokes her glow-y, smiling face through it. “You’re up!”
“Nuhhh.”
She lowers her voice. “Sorry.”
I snap my eyes shut and point in the general direction of the offending window with the stupid curtains that are letting the shitty sunbeams blast my face.
“Yeah, I’ll get that,” she whispers.
Most of the time, I wonder if I was some kind of baby-murdering war criminal in my past lives because my karma is pretty terrible.
But Mia is one shiny blonde glimmering piece of evidence that I was probably nice to a puppy once or something.
Because she’s the kindest, most innocent person in Los Angeles and she somehow agreed to let me be her roommate, even though I’m the sort of person who usually wants to throw things at happy people like her.
But I love her a lot, and never more than I do right now because the room is darker and I smell coffee and waffles and bacon.
She has brought me a breakfast tray.
“Can you sit up?” she asks gently.
“It might take me half an hour to lift my head, but I’m going to do it.”
“Okay.” She giggles. “Take your time. Well, not really, because the coffee and food will get cold. I also brought Advil and water.”
“Did you bring breakfast for yourself too?”
“I already had my smoothie and went jogging and showered!”
Of course she did.
I manage to slowly raise my torso up higher than my lower body, and my head isn’t throbbing as much up here as it was down there—no wait, yes it is.
Mia is holding the bottle of water and the Advil out to me, trying not to smile because she doesn’t want to annoy me by being chipper. “You can go ahead and be your happy self,” I mutter before tossing the pills into my mouth.
She pulls her phone out from her back pocket, grinning. “Good.”
“Question… Did I lick the entire floor of a distillery last night?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
I take a sip of coffee and a bite of plain, dry waffle before answering. “I remember bits and pieces of yesterday. I remember getting fired for writing something hilarious and awesome.”
“Such bullshit. You should call HR and complain.”
“I remember being dumped via text by a guy I didn’t even like very much.”
“Such an asshole. You’re better off without him.”
“I remember going to the open mic night and I remember bombing, and the rest is a blur.”
She holds up her phone and taps the YouTube app. “But you didn’t bomb! You just thought you did. Look—I uploaded the video I shot of your set, and it already had five likes and six comments this morning!”
Mia acts as though she’s my assistant, even though I never hired her and I certainly don’t pay her, but she set up a YouTube account for me as a comedian because she wants me to get discovered.
This is all just so I can afford to move out of her apartment and she never has to see me again, I think.
“How many of the comments were my mother?”
“Only four of them. And they were all positive! Look—you’ve had thirty-seven views already and seven likes! Watch the video—you were really funny.”
I hate seeing myself on camera, and the sound of my recorded voice makes me cringe. But I take the phone from her and watch the video anyway because I don’t have the energy to argue with a positive person who’s trying to cheer me up right now.
It was my first time signing up for open mic at this legendary bar and grill on Sunset.
Normally, I would never get up and tell jokes while people are eating unless I was getting paid, but I’d just gotten fired and dumped, so I was like—fuck it, let’s see if this day can get any worse. And it is still my belief that it did.
The place was half full of mostly middle-aged rocker types.
Not really my target audience, but I had already had a beer and a half by the time I took the stage, so it didn’t matter.
Mia was slapping one hand on the tabletop and yelling “Yay, Frankie!” while holding her phone up to film me, and maybe five other people clapped.
But I still looked fairly upbeat and my hair looked less terrible than usual.
I placed my ukulele on top of the stool, took the microphone from the stand, and just launched right into it: “Hey, thank you so much. Anyone here living happily ever after with the love of their life? Anyone? Anyone? You, sir? Is that your wife you’re holding hands with?
She’s lovely. Your wife’s at home? Never mind. ”
That got a few laughs.
“So I’m super happy for everyone who’s married and stuff, but I just got dumped by yet another boyfriend. I would sincerely love to be one of those girls who’s all…” And this is where I started mumble-singing into the mic.
“And I will always be grateful for the five times you attempted
cunnilingus
and that time you brought me a red velvet cupcake
even though I prefer carrot cake
but whatever, thanks for everything, let’s be friends
foreverrrrr!
“But I’m way more like…”
And then I placed the mic back on the stand, picked up my ukulele, strummed a few chords just for effect, stored the ukulele between my legs, and basically yelled into the mic in the key of mid-‘90s Alanis Morrissette.
“I want you to know that I faked every orgasm I ever had with you
I hope the next girl finally teaches you how to kiss
and where the clitoris is
and where the G-spot is actually located
I mean your butt looks great in jeans, I guess
And you have pretty good taste in music
But fuck you, asshole—your show is overrated
And you’re way too opinionated
about dumb things like socks
And you never appreciated it
when I blew you!
And by the way, you left your vintage Star Wars T-shirt at my place
and I’m keeping it because you’re a fake nerd and it fits me!”
And then I strummed the ukulele again, and you can hear Mia laughing and slapping the tabletop, bless her big, beautiful heart. I put the uke back down on the stool, held the mic again, and started pacing around a bit on the tiny stage area.
“Little bit about me—I’ve dated nine different guys named Justin.
After every breakup with every guy, no matter what his name is, my girlfriends get all Lizzo on my ass and they’re like, ‘Baby, we goin out. That man no longer exists on this planet, and if you don’t believe me—ask these five shots of tequila.
’ I put on a huge pair of hoop earrings, crop top, faux-leather pants, and five-inch heels.
I attempt eyeliner and then remove it because fuck you, eyeliner.
I put on a hat that I bought at the flea market, but my roommate’s like, ‘Mmmm. No.’”
And then Mia went “Woohoooo!” from behind the shaky camera because I talked about her in my act and she was hoping I wouldn’t notice that she was basically the only person in the place who was paying attention to me.
I continued with my bit. “In the Uber on the way to the club, in my mind I look like Alicia Keys, and in my heart I know that this badass, ragtag gang of female dorks are all I really need in life. And then I make out with the first guy who talks to me, post a selfie of myself HAVING THE BEST TIME EVERRRRRR on Insta, and then I vomit into a public toilet (if I’m lucky) and get my hand stuck in one of my hoop earrings.
And then I leave early, go home by myself barefoot—because fuck you, five-inch heels.
And then I order pizza, cry while watching whatever Bill Murray movie is on Netflix—because why can’t everyone be him? ”
That’s when a few random people finally acknowledged my existence by cheering, and you can just see from the expression on my face how surprised and grateful I was. It’s so sad.
“Yeah! Bill Murray! Am I right?”
Silence. I had them for one second, and then I lost them again.
That’s where the YouTube video cuts—very abruptly—to me doing a bunch of random Bill Murray impressions, including my personal favorite from Ghostbusters: “We came. We saw. We kicked its ass!” And they got laughs.
I don’t remember what it felt like to get those laughs, unfortunately, but it’s nice to see it on YouTube, I guess.