Chapter 12 Owen
OWEN
ME: Is this funny?
DYLAN: No.
ME: I haven’t gotten to the funny thing yet.
DYLAN: I’ve been waiting for you to get to the funny thing my whole life.
MILES: What’s funny is the fact that people pay to hear you tell them what you think about things and we’ve always had to listen to it for free. I would pay you to stop asking me if things are funny.
DYLAN:
ME: Assholes.
MILES: When were you planning on telling me you hired a nanny?
ME: Who told you?
MILES: I ran into Martin at Soho House. You hired his 26 yr old niece to travel with you? I really hope she isn’t hot.
DYLAN: Is she hot?
DYLAN: Uh oh.
DYLAN: She sounds hot, Miles.
MILES: Here’s some free legal, career, and life advice from your slightly older and much wiser brother--do not have sex with her.
DYLAN: Definitely have sex with her.
MILES: Yeah, definitely take advice from the brother who bangs all of his costars.
DYLAN: Not all of them. Apparently I’m not Maggie Smith’s type, which was very disappointing.
MILES: Oh hey, are you about to go on stage, Owen? Are you in Florida now?
DYLAN: Awww you’re nervous, aren’t you? What’s the joke?
MILES: Tell us the joke, buddy.
ME: Fuck off, both of you.
DYLAN: Break a leg, bro. See you soon, right?
MILES: You’ll kill. You’ve always been the second-funniest model I know. After me.
DYLAN: I’m definitely funnier than both of you, but break a leg.
Fuckers.
I’m not saying I get nervous before every show, because I’m a fucking badass.
But I do start to question my act, my decision to become a professional comedian, my ability to make anyone laugh or care about what I have to say about anything, and my very existence as a human—in a really confident, masculine way.
This is my first theater tour as a headliner, so it probably wasn’t a great idea to ask the Tampa Heckler to be in the audience, along with my son and over a thousand strangers.
If Frankie and Sam thought I was funny, it might be a different story.
If my son hadn’t barfed on me right after takeoff on the four-and-a-half hour flight from LA to Tampa this morning, I might be feeling a little more baller.
If I didn’t have to see my former in-laws when I drop my kid off with them after the show, I might be in a better mood.
If I didn’t know the Tampa Heckler’s parents were going to be in the audience, I might not be second-guessing every single one of my jokes.
But I have to get my head in the game. I’m playing my usual pre-show playlist on my phone.
All the songs are from various Rocky soundtracks.
Frankie’s going to be bringing Sam from the hotel back here to my dressing room soon, and I don’t even care that she’s going to give me shit about what I’m listening to.
I may not be a seasoned comedian yet, but I’ve learned enough as a model that you don’t put your shirt on until right before you have to perform. So I’m pacing around the room shirtless, listening to “Eye of the Tiger,” running through my act in my head. Trying to get Frankie out of it.
We flew business class, so I made Sam sit next to me when we boarded the plane. But after takeoff—after he hurled—he insisted on sitting next to Frankie. Which was fine with me because the guy sitting next to her was chatting her up. So I let her trade seats with me.
Side note—the seat did not smell like vomit.
I could tell Sam was nauseated, so I pulled the barf bag from the seat pocket in front of me.
While I was holding the bag open for him, he leaned over in my direction and vomited at the paper bag.
Bless his little heart, but it got on my arm and my shirt.
Missed the inside of the bag and any upholstery entirely. I was so proud of him.
When Frankie and I squeezed past each other in the aisle, she made eye contact with me as her tits brushed up against my chest. This was after I had retreated to the lavatory to change out of the vomit-y shirt and spritz on some travel-size cologne.
I stopped where I was. There was mild turbulence.
I put my hands on her arms to steady her. We maintained eye contact.
It was a moment.
I was about three feet away from my son and thinking about joining the Mile High Club with his new nanny.
And then the moment ended abruptly. I watched as she shook her head, as if physically trying to rid herself of whatever thoughts she was having about me.
She frowned, looked down at my hands, which were still holding her arms. I let go.
And she hasn’t made eye contact with me since then.
Not at the Tampa airport. Not when I drove the rental car to the hotel.
Not when we all had a bite to eat together in the hotel restaurant before I left to come to the theater.
Which is fine, I keep telling myself, because she’s my manager’s niece. She’s going to have to make eye contact with me again at some point, since I’m her employer, but no other part of her should be making contact with me. That’s a fact.
And almost as if he could read my thoughts from twenty-five hundred miles away, I get a text notification from Frankie’s uncle.
MARTIN HANCOCK: You right, mate? Checking in to see if you have everything you need for Tampa. I’m here on my mobile if you need anything. Break a leg.
ME: All good, thanks.
MARTIN HANCOCK: Good on ya. It’ll be a rip snorter of a show, I know it.
ME:
Half the time I have no fucking clue what my manager is saying, but he gets ten percent of my income to be supportive, so I’m guessing rip snorter is a good thing.
Also guessing I shouldn’t tell him about the rip snorter of a moment between his niece and me on the plane.
Or the rip snorter of a fantasy I had about her in the hotel shower before I came here today.
Or the one I’ll probably have when I get back to the hotel tonight, since Sam will be staying with the former in-laws and I’ll have the room to myself.
Frankie has a room across the hall. She said her parents turned her old room into a gym slash craft room. So I guess I’ll be driving us back to the hotel after I drop off Sam later.
And I need to get that out of my head.
My phone vibrates again, interrupting a James Brown song for a millisecond.
It’s a text from my mother. My parents have been back in Texas for a few years now, and they talk and text like they never left.
I was born in Houston, but when I talk and text with them now, I get a bit twangy too, even though we moved to LA when I was still in daycare.
MAMA brODIE: Ohhh sugar, I do apologize! I’ve just been runnin around like a chicken with my head cut off all day long and I almost forgot to wish you a happy show tonight. You in Florida right now, sweets?
ME: Yes ma’am. Tampa. Here with Sam. He’s coming to see the show.
MAMA brODIE: Awww you give my little doodlebug three big kisses for me.
I miss him so much. Now what’s this I hear about a new nanny for your tour?
You know your boy could of stayed here with us.
Y’all better plan on comin to the house for supper now you hear?
We’re comin to see your show in Houston, you know.
POPS brODIE: Let the man answer, woman.
ME: Yes ma’am. We’ll be there and I got you comps for Houston. Hey, Pops.
POPS brODIE: Hey, son. Now tell your mama about this nanny so I don’t have to hear her go on and on and on about it anymore.
MAMA brODIE: Oh hush you. But tell me, Owen. Tell me tell me. What’s her name? How old is this girl? Is she a professional caretaker? Does Sam like her? Is she pretty?
ME: Her name is Frankie, she is 26 and she is certified by the Red Cross for first aid and CPR. So Sam is basically safer with her than he is with me and he likes her a lot. But she’s actually also a comedian. And my manager’s niece.
MAMA brODIE: Oh my goodness! Well now how do you like that? Another comedian. You must have so much fun together.
POPS brODIE: Sounds to me like she’s real pretty. What say you, Mama?
MAMA brODIE: She sounds awful pretty like Miles said and I just cannot wait to meet her. Is she from LA? Do you think she’ll eat chicken fried steak? I am just pleased as all git-out you finally found a nice girl for both of you boys.
ME: Okay I actually have to start getting dressed for the show now.
MAMA brODIE: I love you to bits, you hear?
POPS brODIE: Break a leg, son. Say hey to Sam for me.
ME: Love y’all bye.
Two seconds after I put my phone back down, I get a text from my dad that’s not a part of the group chat with my mother.
POPS brODIE: I agree with Miles. Do not have sex with the nanny.
POPS brODIE: Break a leg.
ME:
Fuck me, I should have hired the old German lady with the swollen ankles who smelled like menthol. Sam was scared of her, but at least everyone, including me, would agree that I shouldn’t have sex with her and I wouldn’t have to do any eggplant emoji math in my head.
There’s a knock at my dressing room door, and it’s so sarcastic and judgmental, I don’t have to ask who it is.
I open the door and find Frankie there, all glossy-lipped, wearing a pretty blouse and dark skinny jeans with sandals…holding hands with my son. My heart squeezes in my chest. She held his hand when we walked through the airport too. I don’t know why it gets to me, but it does.
She’s still not making eye contact with me though.
“Hey, buddy. You have a good nap?”
“Yeah. Hey.”
“Come on in.” I gesture for them to enter. “Welcome, Frankie,” I say, daring her to look at me. “Thanks for coming.”
“Uh-huh. Dressing room, huh?” She lets Sam’s hand slide from hers as she looks around, at everything but my face. Or my bare chest. Because I’m still shirtless. “Nice. The room. Good size. Clean.” She’s blushing. And glancing at my reflection in the mirror behind me.
I’m winning this moment.
“Yeah, it’s better than waiting at the bar at some comedy club. Have a seat.”