Chapter 28 Owen
OWEN
I have never been so nervous for another person in my life.
That’s not true.
I was exactly this nervous when Sam had to recite three lines as a turkey in his school play last year. But he did fine. So will Frankie. Better than fine, I’m sure of it.
I didn’t tell her, but I just started following her on Twitter finally. People won’t think I’m banging her just because I’m following her on there. It’s not like I’m boning Amy Schumer or Ricky Gervais—not that they follow me back. Assholes.
She takes the stage, holding her ukulele.
I stand offstage, in the wings, watching her.
I can see Sam and Grammie in the front row.
Grammie has my video camera. She agreed to film Frankie’s act.
That was really great of her, but I should have asked Martin to make sure Grammie Todd sits somewhere I can’t see her because I’ll probably spend my entire act stressing out because the woman never laughs.
She’s worse than a heckler because she just quietly judges me while smirking.
Ever since I was a kid. But I kind of love her anyway, and I really love that Frankie loves her.
And I love that the local comedian got food poisoning so Frankie can replace him.
I love that I could give her this opportunity.
I love that Sam gets to watch her do her thing on a big stage, in front of a big audience.
I just love everything about this.
And her.
She places her uke on top of the stool and picks up the microphone. “Hello, Detroit? Am I in the right place? This is Detroit, right?”
She gets a lot of cheers and claps for that.
“I’m so happy to be here. I actually have an ex-boyfriend from Detroit.” She peers out into the audience. “You here, Justin?”
Several dudes who may or may not be named Justin call out, “Yeah, baby!”
“Right, well, I don’t know if you know this about me—strangers who have no idea who I am and those guys who just said Yeah, baby!
—but I have nine ex-boyfriends named Justin.
Justin Number Six was the best…to mess around with after he broke up with me.
This was in LA, where I live. He was an actor who had bit parts in, like, seventy thousand terrible shows and movies, but he was a fun guy—just ask him—and he was friends with a lot of famous people.
So when we were dating we’d be at a coffee shop or whatever, talking about him and all seventy thousand of the terrible shows and movies he was in and how he’s obsessed with one day being in a Marvel movie, and his cell phone would ring.
He’d always get this look on his face when he looked at the Caller ID, and then he’d hold his finger up to me and say, ‘I gotta take this, babe. It’s Liam Hemsworth.
We’ve been playing phone tag. It’s a whole thing.
’ Or ‘I gotta take this. It’s Jennifer Love Hewitt.
She wants to know about a cleanse I just did.
’ But it was always these—forgive me—B-list celebrities.
“So after we broke up, I’d call him from restaurant phones or a couple of burner phones I bought just for this, and I’d leave voice messages and be like…
‘G’day, Justin. This is Chris Hemsworth.
The bettah Hemsworth. Stop wasting your time slummin’ with my brothah, mate.
I had my guys write a paht for you in my next movie, Thor: Clash of the Thunderfahts.
Call the chairman of Disney to let him know you want the job.
He’s expecting your call. The name of the guy you’ll play is Nevah Gonnabee.
So just give the chairman of Disney a ring and tell him you’re the guy Chris Hemsworth said is Nevah Gonnabee in the next Thor movie. ”
She has to pause for the laughter to subside before continuing.
“And then right after that message I left this one: ‘Hello, Justin? This is Taika Waititi, directah of the next Thor movie which has just been given the new title of Thor: Blast of the Air Biscuit. I just heard what Chris told you, and I’m afraid he got it wrong. You need to call me back to let me know that you want the paht we had written for you. The name of the charactah you’d play is Idiot Loserdick.
So find my private numbah, call me back, tell me you’re the Idiot Loserdick who thinks he should be in a Mahvel movie, and we’ll set you up. ”
She gets a lot of applause and laughs for that.
She really is killing, and she looks so comfortable out there.
“Yeah, I mostly left messages from celebrities with Aussie or Kiwi accents because my mum’s from Australia…”
She does her bit about emails her mom’s sent her with joke ideas, which is so cute.
Then she segues with: “Speaking of songs my mum used to listen to that don’t sound too much like the one I’m about to sing…
here’s a little something I wrote about Justin Number Six after getting a booty text from him a couple of months following our breakup. ”
She puts the mic back on the stand, picks up her ukulele, strums it a few times, then starts singing like Carly Simon.
Sort of.
“You showed up on my cell phone
Like you fully expected to bone
Even though it was just two months ago
You dumped me to date Emma Stone
You’re such a cocky arrogant conceited asshole douche
Who will never be in a Marvel movie
Or series
And you will also never be in me again
Never be in me again
But
I can’t complain
At least I got a funny bit out of it
You’re such a cocky arrogant conceited asshole douche
At least I got a half-decent song out of it
Didn’t I?
Did I?
I did
I had some drinks– they were very alcoholic
So alcoholic
And
You can kiss my ass
But not really because I won’t let you near it
Kiss my ass
You probably really want to, don’t you?
But I won’t let you
Let you
Won’t let you.”
Five minutes later, she’s basically brought the house down.
If I weren’t so happy for her, I really would be pissed at her for making me look bad.
Or sound bad.
And worried about what kind of song she’d write about me for her act if things end between us.
Not that I want things to end for us.
Not that they’ve officially started.
But I don’t even have time to think about any of that because she walks off stage and straight into my arms.
She’s glowing.
“That was such a rush!” she says.
“You totally killed.”
“I know! Who even am I?”
“You’re a superstar.”
“I think I might be!”
“I know you are. I’m so happy for you.”
“Oh my God, I love you!”
Is what I think I hear her say just as I realize someone could see us hugging like this, pull away from her, and tell her, “We can’t let anyone see us together—I’ll meet you in my dressing room after. Wait—what?”
“Nothing. Shut up! Go!”
She looks horrified.
Like her life is over.
And then she turns and walks away from me, toward backstage.
I have to do around seventy minutes of material, make people laugh, and not wonder if I just fucked up a really important moment with the most important woman in my life right now.
Lady Hilarious McFunnyPants, ladies and gentlemen.
Always finding fresh new ways to ruin my act.
On with the show.