Joy Moore - Four Years Ago
Joy Moore
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT
Four Years Ago
“A comedy survival podcast,” I said, finishing my margarita. “And by survival you mean…”
“You know,” Benny said, “not dying.”
“And this is funny because…”
He tilted his head as if the answer were obvious. “Because it’s us.”
It took me a second. “I’m sorry, what? You want me to do this with you?”
“It’s the only way it can be done.”
I still didn’t understand, so he explained it to me like I was five.
We’d start by covering the worst-case scenarios our younger selves thought our adult selves would be tackling on a regular basis: quicksand, lightning strikes, killer bees, flesh-eating bacteria, that sort of thing.
Each episode would follow a basic format: One of us would introduce the deadly plight of the day, and the other would toss out ideas, having done no research at all, as to how they, if faced with said scenario, might respond.
We’d riff like we always do, and when the guesser ran out of ideas, the person leading the episode would then reveal the best tactics for survival.
Eventually, if the show caught on, we’d set up a submissions page on our website so we could draw from our listeners’ own unique survival stories. No topic unwelcome.
I could think of a thousand reasons to say no. I didn’t have the time. We didn’t have a space to record in. No one would listen. We weren’t funny enough. And the biggest: Xander. “Why us?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let’s say you’ve just reunited with your best friend after three excruciatingly long years, and you’re so desperate to spend time with her you come up with a ridiculous podcast idea.
But the thing is, it’s not ridiculous, and if she says no you might die of disappointment.
What do you do? Do you get down on your knees and beg? ”
I twirled my coupe by the stem, heat blooming on my cheeks. Best friend. I was still his best friend. “And you want to call it what?”
“This Story Might Save Your Life.”
I blinked. “Might?”
“We can’t make any promises.” He shrugged. “This story might be funny.”
“You might be terrible at naming podcasts.”
He let out a full head-tilt bellow of a laugh. God, how I’d missed that sound.
“Give it a month,” he said. “One month, and if no one listens, no big deal.”
And so it began.
Even in hindsight it still shocks me how quickly it all transpired.
Never in my wildest dreams did I expect us to be a success.
I only said yes because I wanted a standing date.
We recorded “How to Survive a Narcoleptic Attack” at Benny and Luna’s house in the Hollywood Hills.
I pulled out my best stories (sleep disorders are not without their benefits), and we were giddy and silly, and Luna thought it was so funny she passed it along to a client friend she’d recently ushered through a divorce.
This client friend, an almost-famous TV actress, enjoyed it so much she posted a rave review on social media.
A few of her Very Famous friends then shared her post, and by the end of the week our silly little forty-five minute rant debuted as the number three Top Comedy Episode on iTunes.
Xander couldn’t believe it. He’d been playing the entrepreneurial lottery for years with very little success, and here we were, two idiots with mediocre voices, accidentally hitting the jackpot.
Within months, we had so many amazing listeners (we you!) rating and reviewing and subscribing and, most importantly, contributing.
Your stories. *Swoon.* So many stories, all expertly told with a twenty-twenty hindsight sense of humor.
You’re all writers, you. It blows my mind how many extraordinary situations you’ve encountered.
Bear attacks, aneurysms, dental treatments gone wrong, hauntings, comas, robberies.
I thought we’d run out of topics, but as it turns out there’s no end to the horrors of this world.
I’m humbled that survival is the common denominator.
We’ve all survived to tell our stories. We’re all surviving. It fills me with hope.
But I digress again! As wonderful as you all are, our podcast’s meteoric rise was not all rainbows and unicorns.
With sudden popularity comes sudden responsibility.
Benny and I grappled with the business side of things.
It was a lot at once. The website, the planning.
So many emails, so many messages to reply to, so much paperwork for ad sponsors and merch and blah blah blah.
I’m boring myself, so I must be boring you.
Let me condense for brevity and say that Benny and I are both right-brained.
And while we wanted to handle all of this ourselves in theory, we struggled.
Neither of us had quit our “real” jobs yet, and there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.
Which was why, six months in, Xander volunteered to take over as producer.
We’d moved our operations to my apartment in deference to my schedule, and we’d just wrapped episode twenty-six.
Benny was packing his things. “Nah, man, we’re okay.
” He didn’t meet Xander’s eye. Hadn’t properly met Xander’s eye, in fact, since the flaming margaritas.
Though I’m sure he’d wanted a showdown, I’d begged him to let it go, explaining that Xander was only trying to protect me, and yes, he overstepped, and yes, I too was angry about losing the last three years.
So angry. But it wouldn’t do either of us any good to pick at the collective wound.
We had to move on if we wanted to move on together.
“I get it,” Xander said. “You don’t want to need me. But the fact is, you do. Producing is my wheelhouse, not yours. And you know no one else would have Joy’s best interests at heart more than I do.”
Benny glanced at me, and I lifted my shoulders with a toothy wince. I see you don’t want to do this, but can we try it anyway? He’d been backed into a wall. He knew it, and Xander knew it, and the only thing left to do was agree.
To me, it was a great compromise. It wasn’t like this was going to last. We’d had a spate of good luck, but it would end soon. This way, everyone could keep on keeping on, and maybe, working together, we’d all find a way to move past the hurt.
Only, our luck didn’t end. It multiplied.
Soon, shockingly soon, we were recognized on the street.
Approached in grocery stores. High-fived at concerts.
Strangers bought us drinks at bars and whispered at us in museums. And this was only the beginning.
After we began giving interviews and guest starring on other podcasts, the incidents snowballed.
Two years in, after a particularly bewildering experience at Pink’s, where half the line waiting for hot dogs wanted my autograph, Xander invited Benny and Luna over to our place for a drink.
We had not, I should note, found a way to move past the hurt. Rather, we’d swept it under the rug and stomped all over it. Turns out there are always more pressing matters to deal with than icky, messy feelings.
We made sure of it.
And so, casual drinks for no reason? What sorcery was this? Was it possible Xander was finally ready to hug it out?
Instead, what he said was, “I think we should send you two on tour.”
Luna and I nearly spat out our wine.
Benny was the first to respond with actual words. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all.” Xander crossed his white-trousered legs and ran a hand through his sleek blond hair. “You’re a live wire. This may only last another year, maybe two. Why not capitalize on it? Why not go big?”
It’s funny to think back on now, how preposterous this all sounded.
Live shows? How could we possibly? The logistics alone.
My sleep disorder. The *cough* tension between Benny and Xander.
Absurd. I laughed, and so did Benny, and that might have been where it ended had Luna not leaned forward and said, “You should do it.”
I stopped laughing. “You’re serious?”
“I’m not saying it’s without risks. It’d be a hell of a lot different from recording in here.” She made a circle with her finger, indicating the small two-bedroom town house Xander and I had purchased that year. “Could be very stressful.”
I felt this sentiment deeply. Despite my immense gratitude for our success, I sometimes wished we could reverse time—go back to the way things were before people recognized us on the street, when our listeners didn’t yet presume to know us inside and out.
In the two years since we’d recorded our first episode, I’d experienced a fundamental change to my basic humanhood.
I’d been peeled open and exposed to the world.
All at once, strangers were sharing their opinions about everything we said, good or bad.
Back in the early days, I felt obligated to participate in these conversations.
I wanted our listeners to know I appreciated their time in any way, shape, or form.
“I’m sorry I offended you when I joked about _______.
I’ll try to do better.” “I hear you when you say I didn’t represent all sides of the argument in our episode about _______.
” “Thank you for pointing out my mistake about _______.” “I’m sorry.
” “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry.” I had no idea how vile I was until I was borderline famous.
Before the podcast, I never bothered to imagine what life must be like for public figures.
There are a million ways to mess up every day.
Benny had to keep reminding me not to sweat the small stuff. No one can be right one hundred percent of the time. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to try. Which was why I couldn’t imagine an unedited version of myself touring the country.
“B-but…” I blinked at him. “How would we even do it?”
“Same way you do the podcast,” Xander said. “Only you’d keep it local to whatever city you’re touring in. Say you’re in Chicago, then one of you would research a Chicago-based survival story. You wouldn’t have to memorize anything. You’d just go up there and be you.”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I think Luna is right. It could be very stressful.”
“Could also be very lucrative,” Xander said.
It was clear Benny was considering it. “What about Joy’s schedule?”
“I’ve taken it into account.” Of course he had. “We can start in LA, get your feet wet, work out the kinks. We’ve both traveled with Joy before. We’ll obviously make every special accommodation necessary.”
Benny and I stared at each other from across the coffee table.
In a matter of minutes, he’d thawed to the idea, and then warmed.
Now the heat of excitement flushed his cheeks.
I knew he would never pressure me to do this.
He would leave the choice entirely up to me, and he would make himself happy with my decision.
But I also knew he was picturing us onstage in Chicago and New York and Seattle and Denver, and he was liking the view.
A lot. “We may as well give it a shot,” I said.
After all, what did we have to lose?