Chapter 37 Frankie
FRANKIE
I look over at Mia, who’s clutching her heart and pouting. It’s the first time I’ve let her hear that voicemail. I myself have now heard it seventeen times.
“Awwww. Frankie. That’s the cutest message I’ve ever heard. You have to call him back!”
“Hang on, there’s another one.”
I play her the next voicemail on speakerphone too. This one’s in Owen’s regular voice.
“Hey, I just want to clarify that I had never really seen The Nanny until an hour ago when I watched a bunch of clips on YouTube. So if my Maxwell impression was a little off—that’s why.
And also because I’m not as good at impressions as you are.
But get over yourself. But it’s actually a pretty funny show. I was surprised. But call me back.”
“Frankie!” She jumps up and down. “Call him back call him back call him back! When did he leave those messages?”
“A couple of days ago. He also sent a text yesterday.”
I show her the text message.
OWEN: I know I screwed up. I just need to know that I can try to make this up to you. Give me the green light. If not, I’ll back off. But I miss you. Sam misses you. My schlong misses you.
OWEN: That felt all kinds of wrong, writing Sam and schlong in the same text.
OWEN: Shit. Did it again.
OWEN: Let me know.
Mia looks like she’s about to have an actual breakdown. “Frankie! What are you waiting for?! You’ve been so sad. Just give him the green light. You don’t mind people at work knowing you’re dating, right?”
“I mean. They seem pretty cool. But who knows how they’d react. I mean, if I pitch a story idea and get to write it, somebody might think I only got the chance because I’m getting the hot beef injection from the star of the show.”
“Yeah, but some jealous asshole is always going to think something bad no matter what. That’s not just show business—that’s any business.”
“Wow. That’s the most cynical thing you’ve ever said. I love it.”
“Well, it’s not even cynical unfortunately. That’s just the way the world works. Ohhhh, call him! Text him! Do something!”
“I have to get ready for a show tonight. I need to get into performance mode. I already have my set worked out, and I need to get into that headspace.”
She pouts again. She’s very good at it. But not good enough.
“I have to get ready.”
She huffs. “Fine!”
I get a notification on my phone. It’s from Twitter. I have a direct message from Owen Brodie.
OWEN brODIE: I know you have a show tonight, so you’re probably busy. I’m dying over here, baby. Just give me a sign.
Mia watches me staring at my phone. Perhaps it’s the tiny high-pitched kitten-like sound I make that tips her off as to what I’m reading. “He sent you another text, didn’t he?”
“Twitter DM.”
I mean, I don’t want him to die over this or anything. Especially since he called me “baby.”
ME:
I put my phone on Silent Mode, then place it on top of my dresser, facedown, and start to get ready for my show at the comedy club on Sunset.
“Yayyyyy.” Mia claps her hands. “I’m so excited for you. I’ll go charge my phone so I can record your act.”
“Thank you. You’re the actual best, Mia.”
She smiles and shrugs as she walks out. “I know.”
About two minutes later, I hear her yelling from her room. “Frankie! Frankie! Check your Twitter! Check your Twitter!”
I do.
I check my Twitter.
I’ve been at-mentioned.
Owen Brodie @theowenbrodie
I ducking love you, @frankiesayrelax . But don’t let it go to your head or anything ;)
What a maniac.
That tweet has already been “liked” and retweeted by Mia and Mama Brodie.
And gotten over five hundred likes total.
I have no idea how to respond to this, so I just “like” the tweet and put my phone away again.
I can’t walk into a twenty-one-and-over comedy club and tell jokes about my screwed-up love life with a big dumb grin on my face! That’s not my style. I might have to change my style eventually—soon, even. But not yet.
I am not, in fact, going to let this go to my head.
It’s going to my heart and my lady bits but not my head.
I know I’ve performed for nearly two thousand people in a theater, but this is my first time being a part of an official comedy lineup in LA.
I’m nervous. Not bad-nervous, but I have the pre-show jitters, and that’s a good thing.
All comedians get them, I’ve heard, no matter how long they’ve been doing this for.
The guy who was on before me killed—and I’m happy for him—but I also hate him a little bit because he got the crowd a little too warmed up.
What if they’re tired of laughing already?
The owner of the club signals at me to get ready to take the stage, but I’m ready.
The host finishes up his bit. “And ever since then, our safe word has been: ‘seriously?’ Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first time our next comic is performing on the Comedy Shop stage. She hails from Tampa, Florida, she’s performed to a sold-out crowd in Detroit, she’s the writer’s assistant on a forthcoming sitcom called Funny Business, and she drove herself here all the way from Pico Boulevard.
Let’s give a warm but mildly sarcastic welcome to the very amusing Frankie Hogan. ”
I get a pretty good round of applause from the audience as my ukulele and I take the stage.
The whole interior of this place is painted black and there are spotlights in my eyes, so I can hardly see the audience from here, but it looked pretty full when I was waiting over by the bar.
I know Mia is out there, of course. I can still hear her yelling out my name and woohoo-ing.
Right before the applause dies down, I pick up the mic and launch right into it.
“Hello, Comedy Shop audience! I love this location because I can stop by Target and Pink Taco on the way home. What a great-looking crowd of people that I can’t see at all because of the lights in my eyes.
It’s Los Angeles, so I can safely assume that you’re all hot. ”
From the back of the room, a man yells out with a slightly muffled voice, “You got that right!”
“Well now, someone thinks pretty highly of himself. Good for you, sir!”
“You think pretty highly of myself too, baby!” he says.
Shit.
I know that voice.
My heart and my lady bits know that voice.
But my head will stay in the game.
“Gotta love those cocky hot guys. Speaking of pink tacos and Target—anyone here ever been so attracted to someone even though you know it couldn’t possibly work out with them, but you’re like, ‘Let’s just have sex one time to get each other out of our systems’?”
There’s plenty of clapping and hollering.
“Sure, a lot of us have said that. Let’s hear from those of you who’ve had sex with someone you’re super attracted to one time and actually gotten them out of your systems…”
Laughter and no applause.
“Yeah, that’s because it’s like walking into Target and saying you’re just going to buy the one thing on your shopping list.”
“I fucking love that joke!” Owen yells out from the back of the room. “You’re brilliant!”
What is he doing?
Reverse-heckling me?
“Keep going!” he calls out, clapping. “You’re doing great!”
He knows the owner of this club. He’s performed here tons of times. No one’s going to tell him to shut up. I can actually hear some ladies giggling, probably because they can see him.
“You’re ruining my set, sir!” I say into the mic.
“No I’m not! We make comedy magic happen—keep going!”
“I just forgot all the bits I had planned!”
“Do anything! Do your mum’s joke suggestions! They’ll kill!”
I’m going to kill him.
Is he drunk?
He doesn’t sound drunk.
“This is very weird, Owen.”
“I fucking love you, Frankie Hogan, and so will everyone else—just say anything!” I can hear him getting closer.
“Fine!” My love-addled brain somehow manages to find what I’m looking for, so I pull my phone out, pretending to read from it, and I do my most recent Donna Hogan joke suggestions, even though I wasn’t planning on doing them tonight.
They actually do kill.
I can hear Owen yelping from about ten feet away now. “I love your mum, and I can’t wait for her to be my mother-in-law!”
Whaaaaat?
“Too soon?” he says.
“No, she would totally marry you!” Mia yells out.
“If you propose to me during my first set at the Comedy Shop, I will never speak to you again.”
“Fair enough!” he says. “Sing a cute, funny song now, babe. You got this.”
“Yeah, I was going to sing a cute, funny song now and I know I’ve got this. Thanks.”
I put the mic back on the stand and pick up my uke.
This guy is out of his mind.
But I’m not going to let him derail my act.
I got this.
“This is a little song I wrote before the person I wrote the song about actually became the thing that I said I was hoping he’d become in the song…
But now, all of a sudden, he’s back to not being that thing anymore—sort of.
But I guess that also means he’s actually being the thing that I said I wanted him to be, so… Never mind! Please enjoy this song.”
I pluck at a few strings on the ukulele and then sing in a raspy Bonnie Tyler-type voice.
“Be a dick…
Every now and then I get a little uninspired
And I blame it all on you
Be a dick…
Every now and then I get a little uncomfortable
Because you’re being so nice to me
Be a dick…
Every now and then I get a little bit angry
That you aren’t the dickhead I thought you’d be
Be a dick…
Every now and then I get so pissed off you’re around
’Cuz now I can’t even compartmentalize
Be a dick, Blue Eyes
Stop being so damn good to all my lady parts
Be a dick, Blue Eyes
Seriously how am I supposed to write a funny song about our breakup if you’re being so awesome?
Once upon a time my love life was a joke
But now I’m filling two shopping carts
There’s nothing I can sing
Total eclipse of the fart…jokes
Once upon a time there were dicks in my life
But now there’s just a beautiful cock
There’s nothing to complain about
Total eclipse of the fart…jokes.”
I had a couple more verses written, but I think this audience has gotten enough entertainment from my love life tonight, and I don’t think I can wait two more minutes before running off this stage into Owen Brodie’s arms.
Or possibly running off the stage to slap his stupid obnoxious handsome face.
I haven’t decided yet.
Either way, he’d better brace himself.