Chapter Twenty-One
I’ve forced my shaky limbs up to the stage, but I’m struggling to follow through on stepping into the spotlight.
Are my breaths seriously that loud, or does it only sound that way in my head?
And how much louder is it going to get when the microphone amplifies every shaky exhale? It’d be great if my body wouldn’t forget how to function during the times I need it most.
Whoops of encouragement pierce the air, and how embarrassing is it going to be when Noah has to carry me off the stage because I passed out?
This is for Bette; do it for her.
The instant I step into the spotlight, it’s all I can see, so I resort to my other senses to ground me.
Four things I can touch are the cool metal of the microphone stand, the rim of a glass I hazily make out in my peripheral, the polyester pleats of my skirt, and a floor that’d be sticky, so I won’t actually touch it.
I hear the rustle of audience members, the clink of glasses against tabletops, and yep, the microphone is amplifying each of the breaths that saw in and out of my bone-dry mouth.
Taste is the last sense, as well as the easiest, because I’d give anything to be back at the table sipping another rum and Coke.
Feedback screeches as I step closer and clear my throat, and with my eyes slowly readjusting, I’m able to distinguish vague profiles and faces dimly lit by battery-powered candlelight or the glow of their phone screens.
I swear I catch concern in a few expressions, whether for me or my act I can’t tell, but there’s a strong chance I’m also projecting.
The situation’s funny in all the wrong ways, the awkward tension choking the air and rendering me incapable of speech. I think it goes without saying that’s rather detrimental to a comedy routine.
“Wahoo, Mia! You’ve got this,” Wanda calls.
Rita whistles. “Let’s go, Mia Mija.”
The rest of the table erupts, my personal cheering squad raising the energy of the entire room, and Grandma Helen’s voice lifts above the rest. “That’s my granddaughter! Give her some extra encouragement, will ya?”
It takes the Cronies less than a minute to get the entire crowd on my team, and while I’m terrified everyone’s about to be disappointed by my delivery, their encouragement boosts my courage enough to grip the metal microphone stand, which is downright icy from the beam of A/C pointed directly at me.
Good. I need a little jolt.
“Come on, Mia.” Noah’s voice cuts through the din, huskier than the rest, and my pulse skitters like a squirrel on Red Bull.
I remind my racing heart rate we don’t have time to examine the dizzying meld of gratitude and attraction as his next words cause a whole-body flush.
“Aim that pretty little mouth my way and hit me with it.”
That sparks something within me, the undiluted sass that he brings out in me rising to the occasion.
Oh, I’ll let him have it—my jokes, my nerves, my body.
Whoops, too far, and ohmygod, say something before you’re booed off the stage.
Then again, that’d probably get it over with faster.
“In case you can’t tell, this is my first time.” I flatten a hand to my brow, shielding my eyes with my hand, and whoever’s working the spotlight lowers it enough I can semi-see the crowd.
Shakily, I lift the microphone to my lips and mention these jokes come courtesy of one of my many grandmothers. “If you’ve ever dealt with incredibly brilliant, slightly obtrusive grandparents, just imagine having ten of them…”
I pace toward the other side of the stage and flick the microphone wire, alternatively in awe that cords are still a thing while holding on to the words for the rest of this unscripted aside.
“That’s not a punchline or a joke. It’s just my life, and if anyone out there is single, my grandmothers would like to hook us up. ”
That earns me sniggers, along with a whoop from the back and a few comments I can’t quite sort from the other. There’s also a request from a scrawny dude seated at the bar for me to hook him up with one of my grandmas.
To which I reply, “Sorry, dude. There’s a reason they’re focused on my love life, and that’s because theirs is booming already.”
“They don’t call us boomers for nothing,” Bette hollers, earning more laughter, boosting the energy in the room, and creating the perfect opportunity to deliver a joke I’m 100 percent behind, despite being the wrong comedienne to tell it.
“Lately, I’ve been attending a lot of surprise parties.” I hesitate for the three seconds, as per Bette’s precise instructions.
Two…
One.
“Since my memory’s also not what it used to be, I forget where I am and who I’m visiting, so we’re all pretty shocked when I jump out from behind the couch.”
While my age doesn’t quite line up with the material, the crowd erupts.
My face is on fire and the rapid beats of my heart echo through my limbs, but I relax into the role and become surer in my words and myself. “It’s why I’ve started making friends with chiropractors and doctors—that way they can fix whatever hip I throw out.”
More laughter, and this is the exact high I was hoping for in order for my side scheme to work.
Doubt flickers, but if the shoe were on any of my grandmothers’ feet, they’d do it to me in a heartbeat. “With that, I’d like to introduce everyone to the real comedienne behind these jokes. Please join me in welcoming Bette Friedman to the stage!”
There’s movement, and the spotlight swings from me to the Cronies.
Bette stands, grousing and waving her bejeweled cane at me. As she shuffles toward the stage, she high-fives members of the audience who extend their palms.
I’m about to descend the five steps to fetch her, but a bouncer with more shoulders than neck extends a hand and escorts her to the base of the squat staircase.
“Don’t you dare,” she huffs at my outstretched arm, grinning ear-to-ear as she wraps her fingers around the bouncer’s biceps and bats her eyelashes. “I’d rather have… What’s your name, young man?”
“You can call me whatever you’d like.” He adds a wink, relishing the moment as much as Bette.
Leave it to her to have the audience eating from her palm before she even reaches the microphone.
“Well then, Fabio.” Bette pats his chest, leaning heavily against his side, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she insists he recreate a cover from the romance novels I discovered in her library and devoured the summer before college.
“Do me a favor and carry me onstage. I just want to know what it feels like.”
I open my mouth to apologize on her behalf and explain there are certain questions we don’t ask of strangers, regardless of beefcake status.
Fabio, however, has already lifted her into his arms with ease, and Bette’s thrown back her head as if shaking out pale blond curls that remain perfectly in place.
The crowd eats it up and cheers, fueling that mischievous gleam of hers that lives within.
I loosen my grip on the microphone, eager to hand it over, but the intensity of Bette’s glare doesn’t fade when Fabio lowers her to her feet next to me.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper.
Placing a trembling hand atop the microphone, Bette lowers it to her belly and says, “What if I don’t? I’m not used to”—she swallows—“all these people, and last time, they booed me off the stage, Mia.”
“I’ll remain here beside you for as long as you need me, I promise.
” I grip both of her hands in mine, minding the microphone and her cane, and let my confidence pour over the woman who taught me the joy of reading.
Anne with an E, broody, unapologetically murderous vampires who gave interviews instead of going to therapy, and pirates who plundered and swashbuckled gave me an escape during my sleepless nights and loneliest stretches.
I could never thank her enough for that, so instead I’m throwing her into the deep end of a comedy stage to swim.
I sweep a hand in her direction and say, “Here she is! Bette Friedman—the woman, the myth, the comedy legend!”
…
“Dating in your platinum years is a lot like a slow cooker,” Bette delivers the line with a chuckle, and I take a large step backward and stage right, about an inch outside the puddle of golden spotlight.
She might’ve needed me and her friends’ support to conquer her stage fright, but there’s value in realizing you can stand on your own, too.
And for the past three minutes, she’s been rocking it.
She pauses in front of a table with several heads of salt-and-pepper hair, extra saucy when she delivers the punchline. “Everything takes longer, but you’re just happy it’s still working.”
The lady directly in front of her spits her drink, and Bette doesn’t just walk back to center stage, she sashays.
“It’s true, dating can feel like such a waste of time when you’re as far over the hill as I am.
Much like a busy mall parking lot at Christmas, all the good ones are taken, and you’re not sure if the rest are worth the walk. ”
There’s a twinkle in her eye that says she owns this crowd and she knows it, and it’s glorious. I feel as high as I did in the parking lot earlier, without the muffling haze and struggling for words.
A red light flashes, warning our time is up.
I’m not sure whether Bette saw it or knows what it means, and I debate stepping in, but she lifts the microphone to her mauve lips once again.
“Now, that’s not to say plenty of senior citizens aren’t falling in love again and even getting married for the second or third time, only that looks a lot different at our age as well… ”
Crackling, snapping energy fires through the room, and Bette harnesses it like she’s Thor, Goddess of Thunder. “For one thing, we ask the guests that in lieu of wedding gifts…”
She pops the microphone neatly in place and delivers her final punchline right on time. “Send lube.”
…
By the time our celebratory afterparty winds down, the bartenders are announcing last call.