One
Isn't life funny? Both ha-ha and strange. Lately I've been wondering exactly how I ended up with my tush glued to an ergonomic chair beneath migraine-instigating fluorescent lights, reviewing commercial real estate contracts and pretending I give a hoot. My glazed-over gaze falls on the tray of business cards behind my keyboard. If only they read my stage name, Olivia Vincent, with the title Stand-Up Comedian replacing my current one-Staff Attorney.
Because the thing is, there's nothing funny about drafting legally binding contracts. Sometimes I'm tempted to slip a joke in between the lines indebtedness secured hereby and successors thereto just to liven the damn thing up. It's all so serious. Stuffy. The enemies of humor.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
My phone vibrates on my desk against my heavily used coffee mug. It's Bernie, my booking agent, and at the moment, a very welcome disruption. "Hi, Bernie," I say, rebalancing my eyeglasses and distancing myself from my dreaded duties.
"Olivia, I got somethin' for ya," she spits out in her raspy Queens accent. Just the thing I need to escape my corporate punishment.
"Oh my god, Bernie. Your timing could not be better."
"How would you like a feature spot at Funnies?" Twenty minutes of stage time at my favorite downtown comedy club? Yes, please!
"That's a no-brainer. When is it?" I snatch my trusty yellow legal pad and jot down the words Funnies and feature in the margins next to the newly scribbled jokes I'm planning to workshop at an open mic tomorrow.
"In an hour but you'd need to be there at least fifteen minutes early. I know it's short notice but the guy bailed last minute. Can you make it happen?"
I glance at my watch, remembering that I'm supposed to be at a client dinner in an hour. Hmm, maybe Bernie's timing could be better. In the business of comedy, timing is truly essential. It's one of the first things I learned in comedy class. (And in case you're wondering, there are no squeaky red noses or banana peels involved-just a group of misfit jokesters.) It doesn't take long to grasp that when the timing is off, the punchline won't land, and the whole thing's a disaster. Because no matter what anyone says, there's only one reason a stand-up takes the stage. It's the reason we, the misfit jokesters, were put on this earth to begin with.
To make people laugh.
Oh, those glorious ha-ha-has, he-he-hes, and ho-ho-hos. Okay, maybe you only get the ho-ho-hos if Santa's taking up two chairs in the audience with sugar cookie crumbs scattered over his beard. The point is that no matter the shape, sound, cadence, or volume, we stand-ups love getting the laugh. In fact, I love it so much that I'm going to ditch that client dinner and claim my birthright.
"Of course I can. You know I'll take any stage time I can get."
"Thanks, Olivia," Bernie says. "I'll email you the details."
I end the call and silently thank the idiot who backed out at the eleventh hour.
Since I work as a full-time attorney at the law firm of Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein, it hasn't been easy for a Texas transplant like me to catch my big comedy break. That's why I'm using the Jim Gaffigan plan. That's right-America's favorite pale comedian with the Hot Pockets bit. Don't we just love a famous funny guy with their wife jokes, sex quips, and wacky impressions? And every now and then, America will love a famous funny gal too. As long as she doesn't joke about menses. But she should because the word menses is hilarious.
Anyway, legend has it he worked his corporate job to support his family while pursuing stand-up until he hit the showbiz jackpot. I may not have a family to support, but judging by the size of my monthly student loan bill, you'd never know the difference. Funny (not ha-ha), since we all know laughter is in fact the best medicine. But do we, the comedians of the world, get the credit and compensation psychiatrists and physicians do for the endorphin-inducing, cortisol-reducing, calorie-burning service that we provide?
Uh, no.
As it stands, if I pursued comedy full-time, I'd be subjected to a steady diet of generic foam-cup ramen until I booked enough gigs to afford the name brand. Though, sometimes it seems like a fair trade-off when I've been sitting in a three-hour legal meeting and my ass cheeks are numb.
"Knock, knock," a friendly voice calls in sync with a couple taps on my doorframe. It's my best friend and roommate, Imani, dressed in a perfectly pressed ginger-colored jumpsuit complete with a popped collar and gold layered necklace. She tilts her head with a funny expression. "What's that goofy grin for?"
"I just hung up with Bernie. She snagged me a feature spot tonight."
"Oh, yeah? Don't you have a dinner meeting?" Sure, Imani and I work at the same firm but we're in different departments, so I wouldn't expect her to know my calendar so well.
"How'd you know that?"
She shrugs with a sweet innocence that rivals mine. "You mentioned it this morning. And since you have other plans, I wanted to come by and see if it's cool that I borrow your black stilettos. The ones with the gold ankle strap."
"My horny heels?" I can't help but smirk at the special shoe request. "Who you doin' tonight?" She's been working round the clock, pulling for a promotion at the firm, which doesn't leave a lot of time for sex and dating. An issue that plagues us both.
"No one. Just meeting a guy for a drink thing." Her gaze trails off as she swipes her glossed lip with the tip of her ring finger, showing off her new ombre manicure.
"What guy?" I could ask myself the same question but it would mean something completely different.
"Just a guy. I swear I'll tell you all the dirty details later if I can borrow your shoes."
"So there will be dirty details?" I press the issue.
"Liv! The shoes?"
"Sheez. Someone needs a little hoo-hoo in her hmm-hmm," I say under my breath.
"I heard that," she says. "And you're one to talk."
"Can't argue with that, but tonight, the shoes are yours. Just don't forget to leave on your finder app."
"I always do."
Real-time GPS locators are one of the best things to happen to single women in the city. And stalking ex-girlfriends. Imani and I use it regularly to look out for each other when the other is out late alone. And seeing as I'm moonlighting as a stand-up, that's pretty often.
"So who are you opening for tonight?" she asks.
"Um . . . I forgot to ask." I pull up my email on my phone, scrolling for details from Bernie. When I see that it's ten after and add up the twenty-plus minutes it'll take to get downtown, I set the finer points aside for the commute. I can't be late.
"So how exactly are you going to get out of your meeting tonight?"
I grab my bag and shut my laptop. "Don't you worry about that. Just enjoy the shoes."
She waves me off and I hurry down the hallway, stepping as lightly, but swiftly, as I can in my pumps. What I wouldn't give to wear my stage Converse in the office. Sneakers are even frowned upon on casual Friday, which occurs only monthly instead of weekly at our firm. I turn the corner and run smack into Mr. Whitley, one of the partners and my boss, nearly headbutting his silk tie.
"Oh, shiii- Sorry," I say, managing to curb my words.
"Whoa, where's the fire?" Mr. Whitley brushes himself off with his usual stony expression.
"No fire," I say, catching my breath and flashing a toothy smile. "Just need to unload all this coffee in my system."
"I'm not following." If I spoke in heretos and therefores, perhaps he'd get my drift. "But since I've run into you, please make sure you show Mr. Fenwick a good evening. As you know, he's a very important client."
This may seem like the opportunity to ask to skip the client dinner but I find that managing partners don't take too kindly to associates prioritizing activities that don't include billable hours, which include but are not limited to family taco night, martinis with friends, tickets to Hamilton, and of course performing stand-up comedy. In my experience, it's better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission in these matters.
"Absolutely, Mr. Whitley. I've got it covered," I say, and his eyes roll over me as if he's detected a hint of bullshit. So I throw him off the scent with a sweet, slightly Southern-sounding, "Now you go on and have a good night, sir."
The moment he passes, I'm off to the races again, finally flinging the door open to Fawn Douglas's office. "Olivia, I was just about to come get you. The reservation's at seven."
"Yeah, about that . . . How would you like to fly solo in this meeting?"
Now before you go thinking my evil plan is to schlep my responsibilities onto someone else, let me explain. Fawn and I are not that different. Except that she actually likes being an attorney. It's her dream. A dream she had to fight for when her hippie artist/activist parents had a fit, convinced she was to become a cog in the capitalist machine. The only thing worse would've been if she told them she voted Republican. I too had to face a parental tribunal when I came out as a comic. So if I can support her dream by letting her shine at tonight's meeting while she helps me step into the spotlight in front of a brick wall, then all the better for both of us.
"Why?" Fawn's suspicious tone is unexpected.
"Okay, I don't have a lot of time so I'm just gonna level with you. I got an incredible opportunity to open for a-" I stumble, still unsure of whom I'm helping out tonight. "A super well-known comic at the same time as the Fenwick dinner. I wouldn't ask if I thought you really needed me tonight because you don't. You're a rock star and it's going to be a fabulous night because of you. What do you think?"
She shakes her head like she's taking it in. "Yeah, okay, I guess I can do it alone. But where should I say you are?"
"Tell him I had some bad potato salad at lunch."
"Potato salad?"
"You think I should class it up a little?" I ask, and she nods. "How about tuna salad?"
"Let's go with shrimp."
"Whatever you're in the mood for." I glance at my watch. T-minus twenty-four minutes. "Shit. I have to get downtown. Thanks a bunch. I owe you one."
"Your office does have a better view," she teases.
"I'll keep that in mind." I begin backing out the door as she calls out, "Have a good show!"
"Shh!" I hush her like a crotchety old librarian and mime zipping my lips. She whispers an apology and mirrors the gesture back at me. As long as Mr. Whitley doesn't come to Funnies tonight, I'll be in the clear. Lucky for me, my boss doesn't have a funny bone in his body.
Two
Outside, droves of people pass by as sweat beads on the bridge of my nose, causing my glasses to slide down a bit. If I'd known summer could be hotter in the city than the country, I might've considered Los Angeles. Now I have to contend with the heat and make that crucial decision all Manhattanites are faced with in a hurry-taxi or subway.
That's one thing I miss about Texas, my own transportation. Blasting Britney Spears while I cruise 158 with the windows down, dust blowing in the wind, is a far cry from stop-and-go cab rides or squeezing into a packed subway car and praying no one accidentally grazes my tits or ass.
According to my maps app, either option will get me there, but barely on time. Given the current circumstances, staying aboveground feels safer. So cab it is. I wag my arm, mustering my inner New Yorker. I've been here two years and I still ask myself, Am I doing this right?
A lit yellow Toyota pulls in front of me and I slide in. Guess that answers that. "Damn, it's hotter than Satan's asshole out there." I lean forward, letting the air conditioner blow some frosty air on my face.
"Where to?" the driver asks.
"Funnies on Eleventh and Third, please. I'm performing soon."
"Got it," he says. "What kinda accent is that?"
I like to pretend that I escaped West Texas with nothing but an optional twang (you know, for party tricks and such) but a real New Yorker can always spot a transplant.
Damn Yankees.
"Midland, Texas," I say.
"Never heard of it. Is that near Dallas?"
"Nope."
Out of the entire Lone Star State, I've found that most non-Texans are only familiar with the two major cities-Dallas and Houston, which apparently is pronounced how-stun in the city.
"Near Houston?"
See?
"It's about five hours from Dallas and eight hours from Houston. So no."
The only reason I know this is because growing up road trips were the only way we "vacationed." We also never left the state. How could we? You can drive ten hours and never cross a border. Good Lord, I hated how my dad had total control over the radio. A constant repeat of Boston, the Eagles, and the Steve Miller Band. All I wanted was a little "MMMbop."
My Texas trivia seems to shut the driver up and I pull my stage clothes from my bag. I manage to trade my button-down for a loose white V-neck without flashing a boob, and slide my pleather pants up beneath my pencil skirt. Yes, y'all, pleather! Maybe when I go pro, I'll graduate to real leather.
"Hey, Dallas, why don't you tell me a joke?" the driver asks. This is probably the most pervasive question any comedian is asked. Most of the time I make a sarcastic crack about coming to see my show, but today I've got one for him.
"Okay," I say, "I went to a taxi driver convention . . . Everyone showed up twenty minutes late."
"Ha. Ha." He offers a stilted laugh, clearly not my desired audience. "We're almost there. Don't get your Wranglers in a twist."
Did he just say Wranglers?
I double-knot my sneakers then read over my set, rehearsing it in my head as if I haven't been preparing these last two years for this moment. The clock strikes six forty-five and we're still four blocks away. "Would you mind speeding or running over a cyclist? I'm late."
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