Chapter 11
When I was a kid, the ceilings of the Paumanok Public Library looked so high it seemed like clouds might gather at the top. I’m a foot and a half taller now and every time I go in for work I’m shocked by how low the ceilings are.
“It’s five after nine, Sean.” Warren doesn’t look up from the front desk. Warren Williams, a junior from another school, was just promoted from my position—a page—to assistant to the assistant director. He’s very proud of himself.
“Mornin’, Warren.”
I grab the squeaky cart and roll it toward the shelves.
The library is empty on Saturday mornings and this cart only has three books, so I put my phone on top and open to my blank stand-up document.
I’ve still got nothing. I try listening to old interviews with Joe Johnson.
He says a comic only wants laughter, not applause, because laughter comes from the body and applause comes from the brain.
This makes sense and does not help me write anything.
When I turn to my English homework, though, every passing thought and memory flows out.
I spend an hour pushing the cart at a snail’s pace while writing about the pickup truck that drove around me on the way to school, my search for porn that isn’t terrifying, and meeting Elijah in the bathroom during a casual panic attack.
I feel a little guilty thinking about him after such a good night with Christy, but why should I? They’re separate things.
Thinking of you, I message Christy. She doesn’t reply but she’s probably still asleep.
“Eyes up, Sean.” Warren walks past with a terrifying thumbs-up.
I shake out the thoughts and get to work.
The first two books on my cart are political essays from a guy who has a popular podcast about being an outsider.
The last book I’ve never seen in our library, but it’s the writer Christy said I’d like: James Baldwin.
It’s a seven-hundred-page collection of his nonfiction called The Price of the Ticket .
I take the elevator to the second floor, where rows of graphic novels line the balcony overlooking the tables on the first floor.
I push my cart to a spot where I can’t be seen and I flip through the massive book and stop at an essay called “Here Be Dragons,” mostly because it mentions dragons.
It’s about how people are both masculine and feminine but America’s idea of sexuality comes from a rigid version of masculinity in which being a man meant owning and conquering.
He tells a long, personal story about growing up poor in Harlem, and hooking up with men and women in Greenwich Village.
He says old maps warned “Here Be Dragons” where the Americas were, and even if there weren’t dragons then, there sure are now.
I can’t say I understand every sentence, but when I’m done I feel like I can barely stand.
Everything I’ve been writing for English is about the weirdness of masculinity, but I’m not going nearly as deep on it as this essay goes on…everything.
I head to the section that’s supposed to carry books on race, but the only one on the shelf is about “the end of racial politics,” which I think is the opposite of what I’m looking for.
I go to where we should have books on gender, but our library made news a few months ago for removing all Pride Month displays and the majority of LGBTQ+ books.
Which they apparently think includes literally anything about gender?
The shelf is empty. I finally do my job and return The Price of the Ticket to its spot, and all around it are essay collections by comedians.
I message Andi, Are there books on gender you recommend?
One night last year Andi picked me up unannounced, and after an hour of driving silently, they said, “I don’t know if I’m non-binary, but I know I’m not binary.
” I said, “Cool,” and then we got tacos.
At the time, it seemed that simple. What else was there to discuss?
Now it seems like there was everything to discuss.
No, Andi replies. But there are videos
Why
I hesitate but I tell myself to type. I’m at work and I’m reminded of how I don’t like men
That’s fun, they say. I’m at work and I’m reminded of how I don’t like anybody
They send a photo of someone’s Starbucks order, which appears to consist only of toppings.
Yikes, I write.
They don’t reply. I could put my phone away, but I watch the screen.
They send a video called Gender Is a Social Construct .
They send a video called Sexuality Is a Liquid .
They write, What prompted this thinking?
My thumbs move faster than my thoughts.
I met someone
I stop.
In English we’re telling true stories from our lives
Also I’m incapable of coming up with a new stand-up set
And I read a James Baldwin essay that I don’t know how to describe
Andi writes, Uh
Excuse me?
The screen changes to an incoming video call from Tony. This is rare.
I push my cart deeper into the row of bookcases and answer.
Tony sits at the desk in his bedroom, the fur of his almost-mustache shining. His glasses reflect the ring light in front of him.
“Sal emailed.”
My breath stops.
“He says you’re funny.”
My breath stops more.
“He says he wants to see the set in person before making a decision.”
“I can do that.”
“At the monthly showcase at McGuinn’s. He personally added you to the lineup.”
“Oh.”
“Tonight.”
“Oh!”
Andi writes, You met someone who made you dislike men and now you can only write serious things instead of dumb jokes?
Who is this person I want to meet them
“One second,” I say to Tony.
Ha , I write to Andi.
Tony says, “Come over ASAP so we can prepare.”
“I’m at work,” I tell him, staring at the conversation with Andi. “But I’ll come over when I’m done?”
“Yes! You got this!” He holds up a fist and ends the call.
Why is my chest shaking?
Can you meet at Tony’s after work? I ask Andi.
I’m doing a double, Andi says.
Can you come to the show at McGuinn’s tonight, I ask.
Sorry bud, they say. Working until close
I message Christy, I got into the showcase at McGuinn’s tonight and if I’m good enough I’m in the Joe Johnson competition
Can you come?
She doesn’t reply and I wish I hadn’t told her. I wanted her excitement to make me feel better, but her silence makes me feel worse. We had such a good night last night and now I feel like I’ve ruined it.
Also, Andi says, I told you I’m done with McGallagher’s
McGuinn’s, I say. And I am too but
I’m trying to figure out what to type and Andi says, Why would you do stand-up again when you’re not even interested in writing it
Honestly? I write.
They reply, Yes???
I type slowly and what I type makes me want to cry. Because I have low self-esteem and I need the applause
That’s funny, Andi says.
I let out a breathy sound. You know you’re the second person to tell me something is funny when I was only trying to tell the truth
Duh, Andi says, I only tell the truth and I’m hilarious
The truth is funny
I reread this.
I turn to the document I’ve been writing in. I leave all the stories there but I delete the title, ENGLISH HOMEWORK, and write NEW STAND-UP.