2. Marsh

TWO

Marsh

Here's the thing you need to know about Data: he doesn't take surprises well.

I once surprised him with a new coffee table for our apartment—one that was round, not rectangular—and you'd think I'd smeared mud on the walls. It was gone by that night.

I can't imagine how he's taking my voicemail. I slip my phone into my pocket and brace myself for his reply.

"Question: is it funnier if I say my vagina is like a venus flytrap or like Audrey II, the creature in Little Shop of Horrors ?" Preeti hunches over her notepad, tapping her pen on the paper.

A horrified, daintily sweating woman in pricey athleisure stops when she hears the question.

"I'll take your towel, ma'am." Preeti reaches for the gym towel the woman is holding. Ms. Athleisure hands it over, shoots Preeti one of those polite-but-disgusted smiles that rich people master in utero. "Thanks. See you next Tuesday!"

"You too," says the woman, a little confused.

No Cornell graduate wants to be working at a gym, but like all of us, Preeti's doing what she can to pay the bills in order to focus on pursuing her dreams. Her boss, who's straight and married, accidentally sent her a dick pic a few months ago, so he now lets me hang at the desk with her, no questions asked.

"Was Audrey II a creature or a monster?" she asks, studying the joke in her notebook.

"That's more of a philosophical question, don't you think?"

"Audrey II is a more accurate representation of my vagina because it's perpetually ravenous and demands constant human sacrifice, but ‘venus flytrap' sounds better. It's less wordy." Preeti says the joke to herself, running it over in her head, same as I do with my material. "And what if there are people in the audience who don't know Little Shop ?"

"The club is in Chelsea. They know Little Shop ."

Preeti and I became fast friends on the comedy club circuit because we're both outsiders. Me, an extra-large gay man with an ample stomach, and her, an extra-large Indian woman with an ample bosom. Despite strides made in recent years, stand-up is still overpopulated with straight white men bemoaning that "women be crazy." We outsiders gotta stick together. The people deserve fabulous comedy.

We used to regularly perform together at a queer-owned comedy club, Pauline's, where at least we're mostly able to play to our home team. Preeti still performs there, while I'm on a comedy hiatus.

"Most of the guys in the audience probably think there's a flesh-eating monster in your pants, so you're good," I tell her.

"Thank you," Preeti says to another woman in pricey athleisure handing over her towel. "See you next Tuesday!"

"But I don't come on Tuesdays."

"Great!" Preeti says without missing a beat of enthusiasm.

The woman disappears into the locker room a bit unsure what just happened. Preeti turns back to me.

"I want every joke to hit for this showcase," she says. "How's your material coming?"

"I told you. I'm?—"

"On a comedy hiatus. Well, your pause is officially over. "

"It's for the best that I never go out on another stage again."

"Bullshit. You're doing this with me."

After getting sloshed at a party hosted by a comedian "friend" who was staffed as a writer on The Tonight Show , Preeti came up with an idea to organize a comedy showcase to get us more (or any) attention: an end-of-year revue called Out with a Bang . She corralled our favorite marginalized comedians and is putting the word out to every manager, agent, producer, casting director, and industry-connected person. I said I'd help with graphics and putting up flyers, but I won't be performing.

"Preeti—"

"Don't Preeti me." She taps my empty notebook. "I'm letting you live rent free. In New York. You owe me."

"Can't I just give you a vital organ instead?" I point to my rib cage area to entice her.

She is not amused. "So you bombed. It happens to every single comedian. It's a rite of passage. You dust yourself off, take a shot of vodka, and get back out there."

Everything she's saying makes sense, but she's never bombed on that big of a stage. Anyone with any power to hire me for a TV show or movie was in that auditorium. Four years of building a name for myself disintegrated in four minutes. Thinking back to that weekend and everything that happened after—everything and everyone I lost—sends a chill up my spine. What's the opposite of nostalgia?

"Have you performed anywhere in the last few months?" Her big, brown, chibi-esque eyes study mine. "God, even an open mic night?"

"I performed ‘Born This Way' in my shower."

"It's my shower, and you were so offkey you made Lady Gaga cry."

I don't have the heart to tell her that my enthusiasm for comedy has petered out. At a certain point, pounding the pavement loses its appeal.

" Out with a Bang will be your grand return." Preeti's an optimist at heart. She's only twenty-eight. Life hasn't destroyed her spirit yet. I was an optimist too, once.

My pocket vibrates, sending a current of tension through my body. Data. I collect myself with a deep breath and prepare for the response. An excited flutter shoots through my stomach at the thought of hearing his voice. When I pull my phone out, there's nothing. Merely the screen background of us at a pumpkin patch, which I haven't been able to change yet. Damn phantom vibrations. I shove my phone back.

"How's your stuff coming?" Preeti looks over at my notebook. A blank page stares back. In better time, I used to fill notebooks with jokes. "Dude, if we're going to work shitty jobs, then we need to take advantage of the downtime for writing." She hands me an Eclipse Fitness pen. She's using a branded pen from the soulless law firm where I had my most recent temp job.

Now my phone is buzzing. I swipe it from my pocket. Shoot. Just a Times notification about some company filing for bankruptcy. Blah blah blah.

I place the phone face down on the desk.

"Who are you waiting to hear from?" Her eyes light up.

"I called Data about going up to our cabin this weekend."

She leans forward on the front desk, instantly turning into a gossiping teen. "OMG. Yes! Are you two finally getting back together?"

"Not quite. I need to sell it."

"Sell it? But you love that place. You have so many memories there. You desecrated every square inch with your sweaty, gross lovemaking."

All true. The cabin was both an impulse purchase and smart investment made years ago when we were in a much different financial situation. I was on track to take over my family's business, until I went full millennial and decided to pursue my passion for comedy. We called the cabin and surrounding land Marshmallow Mountain because Data wouldn't let me call it Broke-My-Back Mountain. It was our bubble where we could leave the stresses of the world behind. My heart dips as a quick highlight reel plays in my mind. Sipping fresh lemonade after skinny dipping in the pond. Cuddling on the couch and watching the snow fall. Cooking grand feasts together in the tiny kitchen. And Preeti is correct: we really did desecrate every room.

"Property on the mountain is selling faster than Ozempic. It's probably being sold to people like your customers."

Another pair of Eclipse Fitness members, a woman and her gay best friend, fresh from a barre class yet not a hair out of place, toss their towels at Preeti without stopping.

"Thank you, see you next Tuesday!" she calls to them, but they're already gone.

"Do you only see them on Tuesdays?" I ask.

"No." She winks at me. "These are the same bitches who teased me growing up. Now I have to handle their used towels. I'm just trying to find joy where I can."

"Fair."

"See you next Tuesday!" Preeti says to another group of women handing over towels.

"We can get a lot of money for the cabin now. And unless you want me to keep sleeping on your couch, that's a good thing." Bless Preeti for taking me in after the break-up and bless the New York rental market gods for giving her a studio large enough to fit a bed and a couch.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need. As long as you don't mind listening to the occasional bouts of lady-on-lady sex."

"I didn't realize there was so much slurping involved. "

She snorts a laugh, a huge win among comedian friends. Currently, Preeti is in her lady era, although that could change at any moment.

"What did he say when you called?"

"I left a voicemail."

Preeti's face twists into lemon-sucking disgust. "Marsh. My grandmother leaves voicemails."

"It wasn't planned. I heard his voice on the message, then the beep, and my mouth started moving."

She shakes her head at my antiquated communication method, but moves on. "I still don't understand why you two broke up. You were like hashtag couple goals. You almost made me consider monogamy." She keeps the snarky grin on her face, but a hint of seriousness creeps in. "Really, why did you break up with him? Marshall's the best."

It's a question I keep asking myself, even though I know the answer. My insides twist with the familiar pain of being Data-less. And no matter how many times I remind myself it was the right thing to do, it still hurts.

On stage, I'm great at staying upbeat while bombing, and I use that same skill here.

"He is the best. But we're not the best for each other." I sound confident when I say it. Maybe one day, I'll believe it.

Because the universe is a master at comedic timing, at that moment, my phone vibrates with such a forceful text notification that it shimmies right off the desk and into the pile of used towels. It could only be one person.

I open the message. Preeti watches me like I'm about to announce who won best picture.

"It's just spam. The DNC hitting me up for cash."

She tips her head at me. Preeti has no time for customers who'd like to speak to the manager nor for friends withholding texts from ex-boyfriends.

I clear my throat and read the message:

Data: Okay. Makes sense. I'll meet you up there.

No three bubbles to indicate more's coming. That's it. Eight words.

"Oh fuck," she says.

"What?"

"He still hates you. A lot. "

"You can never tell tone from text messages."

"Bitch, that text was so frigid, I need to run into the hot yoga room to warm up."

"Eh. A little wordy." I put my phone face down on the counter, avoiding the message.

"You're right. That text was so frigid it belongs at a Connecticut family Thanksgiving."

"Better," I say.

"If you come back from this weekend with a ripped-off scrotum, I won't be surprised."

I wince at her quip. Even joking about that can cause bodily pain.

"He doesn't seem that mad." I grab my phone and read the text again, trying to imagine Data's warm voice saying these words.

"Um. Read it again. And I don't blame him. You were together eight years, and then you just ended it."

"I didn't just end it."

"Sounds like you did. What did you say? You couldn't be together because you needed to wash your hair?"

"No. I said I had a lot going on."

"That's even worse."

I'm in no mood to relitigate this period of my life, but I obviously have to set Preeti straight. "Look, I was in a rough place after the showcase. This career I was building instantly crumbled. Plus everything going on with my dad got worse. It was a lot to deal with."

Our friendship follows Seinfeld 's mantra: no hugs. But Preeti briefly breaks from our banter and bows her head, her forehead creasing in concern.

"Ultimately, I couldn't give Data the attention he deserves."

"Isn't that what a boyfriend's there for? To lean on during the hard times?"

On paper, she was right. But things were more complicated than that. My life turned into an avalanche of shit barreling down a mountain. It was best to push Data out of the way before it clobbered him too.

"Marsh, it sucks what's going on with your dad. And it sucks that Laughingstock didn't go your way. And it sucks that we're not headlining tours and getting lucrative deals with HBO yet. But what you told Marshall is even more of a line than my hair excuse. ‘I have a lot going on right now?' Too bad you didn't cap it with ‘I think we need some space.'"

"Actually, I might've said that too." I hide behind my notebook.

"Fuck. I'm shocked I haven't ripped off your scrotum."

"Can everyone please leave my genitals alone?" I cross my legs to quell the pain, both for my balls and my heart. "Was it my finest hour? No. But I just … " I don't want to go down this path. It won't lead anywhere helpful. History can't be rewritten. The bottom line is that Data deserves a prince, not a pauper. He should be with a man, not a mess.

My delivery might've needed more tweaking, but the sentiment stands.

"You should go with the Little Shop monster punchline, not venus flytrap. The room will eat it up. The Rick Moranis thirst is real." I tap the line in her notebook, hoping it shifts us back to lobbing jokes at each other, not dissecting my crumbling personal life .

She crosses out venus flytrap in her notebook, then looks up at me.

"When are you going up?" she asks.

"This weekend."

"Good luck," she says with a sigh. "Marshall is a sweetie pie, but he seems like one of those people where if you get on their shit list, you never get off."

She's great at reading people, but I hope she's wrong here.

A woman in a designer headband shoves her towel at Preeti. "You need to replace these towels. They're too scratchy. Can you please relay that to your manager?"

"Will do," Preeti says with a wide smile worn by every fed-up service worker in America. "See you next Tuesday!"