5

MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF THE PLACE IS, YIKES, IT'S BIGGER THAN Ithought it'd be.

About thirty metal folding chairs are dotted in various configurations around tiny wooden tables in front of a small, carpeted stage with a velvet curtain backdrop, on which a banner reads KL KETAWA!: KL'S FRESHEST OPEN-MIKE NIGHT. There's a small, backlit bar bathed in neon-pink-and-white light at the end of the room with a lit sign saying COCKTAILS HERE, manned by a single faux-hawked bartender in a white sleeveless vest who's pulling a pint of beer for a customer. It doesn't look like a cocktail place, but what do I know. My only experience of nightlife before this has been twenty-four-hour mamak stalls and McDonald's. I've never stepped foot in a bar or even a comedy club until today. And now I don't know what to do with my hands and my face.

I power-crutch to the back to avoid the swiveled gazes from the full room of seated patrons. Taslim is nowhere to be seen. Presumably there's a green room or some kind of holding area for the comics? I have no idea, and no one seems inclined to brief me.

I hug the bar and ask the staff member, whose white handwritten name tag reads LAI, PRONOUNS: THEY/THEM, for a glass of water. Lai sees my cast and pulls up a folding chair for me instead of the bar stool, even as I wave their help away with mutters of "I'm fine, I'm fine, thanks," before proceeding to pour me a glass from a chilled mineral water bottle in the fridge. I offer to pay, but they decline my offer. Good, because in actual fact I could not have afforded mineral water, having just RM2.83, whereas I have just realized, from a quick glance at the menu, that a bottle of mineral water costs RM6.

"First time here?" Lai says, not exactly smiling but their eyes are friendly, soft. Up close, I estimate that they're in their late thirties, maybe forties.

I nod, glad to be acknowledged. "I'm performing, but I don't know where to go."

"The others are in the small room behind the curtain, but it's cramped, and the comics like to sneak-smoke with the window open, so with all the nervous sweats it can stink in there. Also, almost all the comics are older men, so if that's not your scene, you're welcome to hang here with me." They smile.

I accept gratefully. "Thanks, Lai."

"When they call your name, just go to the stage. It's very casual here, don't worry."

"It's my first time ever performing stand-up," I confess. I hadn't intended to say anything.

Lai winks. "Gotcha." They make a signal to Malik, who has been slouching by the other end of the bar, since he is no longer needed outside. They whisper something, and Malik nods and heads to the back of the curtain.

"Since it's your first time, you only need to do a three-minute instead of a five-minute set, and we'll put you in the second half a couple of slots before the headliner, when everyone has had a few drinks and has been warmed up by the second-half opening comic and as such, tends to be more forgiving," they say. I thank Lai profusely.

And then it's showtime. A burly, balding older white man in a black T-shirt and jeans goes onstage. "Ladies and gents, folks, welcome to KL Ketawa, KL's Freshest Open-Mike Night! Give it up for the comics in the back!"

The crowd bursts into enthusiastic cheers and claps.

"My name is Kieren, the emcee, and tonight we have a total of nine comics in our lineup. I am excited to introduce new faces today as well as our usual pros for your enjoyment. Please be gentle—or not! We want only the best comics to come back—the rest of them can be the accountants they were meant to be, although I don't know which is worse: being an accountant or a jobless comic, I mean—comic."

A few guffaws. I wince and notice Lai doing the same. "He's done this bit so many times," they mutter under their breath.

Kieren natters on a bit about the intermission and housekeeping announcements, and I tune out. I ask Lai for a sheet of paper and a pen, wondering what I should talk about. My hands start shaking and the nervous sweats obliterate my deodorant. Despite my initial bravado, I realize that I'm in over my head. My mind is emptier than my wallet, and that's no mean feat.

The first comic, Bryan, an older man in his fifties, who I gather is a crowd favorite, comes onstage to strong applause and chants of support. In my feverish state I catch only bits of his set, which is about his work as something called a risk analyst. The next one, Kumar, who tells everyone he's twenty-three and is sweet-looking with mussed-up hair, busts out an amateur, on-the-nose set about porn and being single. The audience groans but doesn't tear into him. Lai lets me know that Kumar has been on the circuit for nine months and was one of the hardest-working new comics. "The sad thing about stand-up comedy is effort is only a small component of success. Stand-up comedy is as much about persona, stage presence, and comedic timing as it is about the strength of your written material," Lai says. "And making it big in this business also involves some luck."

I nod. I know all about Luck.

"This audience is kind to Kumar because it's still early on in the night. Last week, he was heckled to pieces for the same set."

I wince, and my sweat waterfalls down my back. Lai is encouraging and kind, but they weren't helping alleviate my anxiety at all. Why is Taslim even doing this? I toy with the idea of hightailing it out of there, but my curiosity and my competitive pride have been roused. I have to stay.

"What do you know about my friend Ray?"

"Ray? Ray Lim?" Lai says, sounding surprised. "Is he your friend?"

"Yes," I lie. "But it's my first time watching him perform." Please tell me Golden Boy sucks, please.

"Well then, I shall not say a single thing to color your view," Lai says to my disappointment. Lai shrugs. "None of us really know Ray very well. He's—secretive. But you know what they say about stand-up comics and their emotional baggage. We try to give everyone here the space to be whatever they want to be."

I nod. It's a nice sentiment, though I suspect that Ray's secretive for very different reasons, i.e., parents. What could Golden Boy possibly be working through? He's the picture of well-adjustment. His family is whole and loaded. He's the luckiest boy I know.

I try to focus on the performances in spite of my nerves. Three more people, including one woman in her thirties, perform. The woman—Gina—closes out the first half to raucous applause. I take note of her set, a sterling one that was about growing up Australian in Hong Kong. It reminds me a little of Ali Wong. If Kumar doesn't have what it takes, Gina Cheung has everything: charisma, presence, and impeccable timing; and her material was fresh.

I start hyperventilating. I'm going to bomb hard; I can feel it.

Lai lays a gentle hand on me. "It's only three minutes. Relax. Just lean into it."

I favor them with a watery smile. "Okay."

The first two comics to come on after the intermission, Hamid and Vern, are men in their early twenties, both efficient comics who get a few hearty laughs in each of their five-minute sets. I train my eyes on my watch and try to breath slowly. Thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds go by. And then it's my turn.

"And now, folks, I promised you fresh meat, and there is nothing fresher than a teenage comedy virgin." The crowd groans. Kieren leers. "Keep it PC and give it up for Agnes Chan!"

I walk with the enthusiasm of one headed for the gallows, or someone who'd picked the short straw to buy tickets for a BTS concert. My stomach gives an alarming rumble. I clench my jaw. Please, please, please for the love of all that is good on this earth, please do not let me panic-burp.

I climb the three steps onto the stage, sweating and itching under my cast, my arms wobbly on my crutch (I'd left the other by the bar so I could hold the mike with my free hand).

"Is the set going to start or what?" someone who was never loved as a child says snarkily.

You can do it, Agnes. If Taslim can, so can you.

And with that challenge, I start my set. "Hey, folks. I was told I had three minutes onstage. Three minutes! That's, like, ten TikTok videos! I don't have that long an attention…er, oh wait, um, what was I saying again?"

Silence. I swallow as the sound of my first joke falling flat rings in my ears. The crowd stares at me in silence. My throat floods with saliva, and there isn't even a pisang goreng nearby. What the heck am I on, thinking I could wing it?

I look at the people in my audience, bathed in the warm glow of the stage lights, a mixed bag of tourists and locals in their forties and fifties in varying stages of inebriation. They don't look like TikTokkers. Then and there, I decide to pivot and talk about my mother.

"My mother is not like other mothers of kids my age. She was born in the mid-eighties—basically the MySpace of millennials. She got pregnant with me when she was twenty. Apparently, Spandau Ballet was playing when it happened. For the longest time I thought she conceived me in a theater, which is semi-classy. You can imagine my disappointment when I found out Spandau Ballet was a band. And that said conception actually happened in a car." I clear my throat and say, "Which means I'm basically a bootlegged baby."

The crowd sputters. A surge of something stronger and giddying than adrenaline, a feeling that I only get whenever I win, races through me. I know what it is, of course—it's power.

"The other day we had a fight because she didn't want me to hang out late with my friends. Not like I can get in any trouble"—I lift up a crutch and hop, and the crowd titters sympathetically—"but she said you don't need to be able to move to get in trouble. Yeah, Mom, you think?" The crowd groans. "I said she's not a great example, since she got pregnant so young. She says she did it because she couldn't stand to see prime real estate"—I point in the direction of my womb—"lying vacant." Groans. "Sure, Mom, you were trying to prevent a subprime crisis. Just like"—I point to a man in a suit seated near the stage—"John the actual banker here." Laughter, actual laughter, rings across the room. This was the first time in my life I'd talked about the pain I carried about being an "accident"—only I'd transmuted it to comedy. To say I'm pleasantly surprised would be an understatement.

Someone flashes a blue light three times from the back of the room: I have a minute left. I throw myself in to the performance.

"I want my mom to get over her issues and be like everyone else's, so I got her to see a therapist. But we can't afford a real one, so we found a psychology student. Now every time I ask her if she's better, she says"—I pause for effect and deadpan—"‘Crappy Diem.'"

The crowd screams with laughter. The same person flashes a red light three times from the back of the room and I understand that to mean my time is up. Three minutes.

I take an awkward, one-crutch bow, and the audience's applause is thunderous. I grin shakily and exit the stage, and unsure of where I should go, I head to the back of the room to join Lai once more.

"You were very good!" Lai says, grinning. "For a first-timer, count me impressed."

"Thanks." My heart is still galloping; I swallow even though my mouth is dry. "I don't know what I was saying up there."

"Your friend Ray was watching the whole time."

"Really?" This revelation triggers more flip-flopping, for some reason. They pass me another glass of cold water and I down it. Suddenly, I desperately need the washroom, so I excuse myself.

When I come out, Kieren is still doing crowd work. I crane my neck, trying to find Taslim, when I spot him, grim-lipped in the shadows by the velvet curtains, waiting to run up to the stage. At first, I don't recognize him. Taslim—Ray, I correct myself—has jammed all his abundant, wavy hair under a midnight-blue beanie, and he has changed into a wrinkled, faded emerald-and-navy-blue plaid shirt over black jeans—almost as though he's trying to hide his wiry, muscular frame. And then there's his posture, which is slightly hunched, unlike the way he usually holds himself, with precision and an athlete's easy grace. It's almost as though he's trying to pass as someone else.

His eyes meet mine and an emotion I can't read flashes across his face. He purses his lips. I don't think he's happy to see me.

For some reason, Golden Boy, buttoned-up, perfect Royce Taslim, whose mom regularly has high tea with a veritable Malaysian princess, is onstage in a seedy bar performing while pretending to not be a Taslim, and I am the only person who knows who he really is.

Which means I'm a threat.

"Folks, put your hands together and welcome our fresh mini headliner for tonight, who'll perform a fifteen-minute set for the very first time—Ray Lim!"

I clap along with the rest, and Ray/Taslim, his eyes trained on me, begins to speak.