Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

“Next up, we have the rose between two thorns, the deli meat between two slices of rye, the cream in the cannoli, our female comic of the night, Maddy Banks!”

Standing in the wing where she’d been watching the comedian before her, Maddy walks onto the stage and takes the mic from the emcee, a boy-size, middle-aged Jewish guy named Mark who thinks he’s a lot funnier than he is. She’s the second of three comics featured for this late hour. The first up was Ethan, a single white guy in his thirties everyone calls Frat Bro who loves to tell everyone that he went to Georgetown and used to work at JP Morgan. He did a decent job, but he relied heavily on crowd work, and the audience now feels overly vocal and eager to participate.

She can’t see any faces or bodies past the front two tables, but she can tell from the cacophony of conversation that it’s a pretty full house. There’s no famous or even quasi-famous headliner at this hour, no name to draw this crowd in. People are here at midnight either because they know one of the comics personally and are here to support their loved one, or because they happened upon the sandwich board on the sidewalk inviting them to a midnight comedy show as they were walking home from somewhere else and thought, Hey, this could be fun!

It’s also a safe bet to assume that everyone in the audience has already had wine with dinner, beers at a sports bar, or margaritas by the pitcher at the Taco Den across the street. And to top off their night, they’ve bumbled into a two-drink minimum establishment. Let the party continue!

A group of Ethan’s friends are at a front table. She knows because he included them in his act. The comic going on after her said his girlfriend is here. Maddy has no one.

Many times, even earlier today, she thought about inviting Max but decided not to. Something inside told her to leave that bag of chips on the shelf, and she listened. With the help of her therapist, she’s learning to trust her inner voice again.

She almost reached out to Simone, but Maddy never explained why she disappeared this spring, and the effort to do so now over text feels too out of the blue and overwhelming, like trying to write a novel on a postcard. She’ll reconnect another time.

Emily texted at nine o’clock.

EB

EMILY BANKS

Good luck! Going to bed. I’m with you in spirit!

And Jack’s been liking all her posts on TikTok and Instagram. That’s enough. She can’t expect either of them to be here in person. And of course, her mother won’t be here. They haven’t spoken or been in touch at all since Thanksgiving.

Maddy’s always hated her mother’s daily check-ins. The phone calls, the paragraphs of fully punctuated texts, the voicemails long enough to be podcast episodes, the incessant detective questions. Did you take your meds? Are you getting enough sleep? How was therapy today? Every text alert and voicemail notification, every how are you , felt intrusive, oppressive, hovering. But now when Maddy opens her phone, a palpable hope lifts its sleepy head off its pillow, a longing she hates to admit to. And when there is nothing there from her mother, hope’s head crashes back into its pillow, crestfallen and annoyed that it was woken up for nothing. She feels disappointed and sad. She tapped her screen a minute ago, one last check before it would be time to go on. Nothing.

It’s okay to feel disappointed and sad .

She plants her feet and holds the microphone up to her mouth.

“So I’m single.”

“I’ll do you!” yells out some guy she can’t see.

She lowers her mic for a second. She didn’t expect to be heckled straight out of the gate, but she made room for this.

“Hi there, what’s your name?”

“Ben!”

“Ben, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“That is shocking, Ben. Truly, not what any of us expected.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles as the audience laughs, comfortable as she waits for the response to subside, careful not to step on it, demonstrating a restraint she didn’t have six months ago.

“I’ve tried the dating apps, but, ladies, we can’t trust what these guys are putting out there. Like there was this one guy who on his profile was hot and had a gym membership and a job, but in real life he’s unemployed, sweats a lot, and looks like he eats cookies for breakfast. Like the only running he’s doing is from the law.”

“I’d like to eat you for breakfast!” yells another male voice from somewhere in the back.

She takes a moment, finds her balance, and ignores him.

“I think these dating apps need a companion app, like a Yelp or a Tripadvisor for rating men. So if I’ve learned that a guy is a pile of shit…”

She holds her free hand across her forehead like a visor and squints while looking side to side, as if scanning the crowd for the owner of that previous comment. People laugh.

“Then I can go on DudeAdvisor and warn other girls so they don’t step in it. So let’s say Suzie here—”

Maddy points to a random woman in the front row.

“—is about to swipe right on some cute guy, I can warn her with my rating. Big no. This guy yells ‘I’ll eat you for breakfast!’ at comedy clubs.”

The audience laughs.

“And Suzie sidesteps that whole unpleasant mess. It would be so helpful, right? Think about it. Say you’re on Hinge, and a guy says he’s loves vintage cars, ethnic food, and animals. Okay, sounds good, but you check DudeAdvisor, and he’s got a one-star rating and seventy-four reviews that say he drives an ’89 Toyota Corolla, takes all his dates to Taco Bell, and his apartment is infested with mice.”

Maddy takes a big animated step to the left, acting as if she’s stepping over a steaming pile of dog poop. The audience laughs, loving it.

“So you check out another guy. Profile photo is totally hot, says he’s a journalist, loves his labradoodle. Sounds perfect, but DudeAdvisor says he’s a one star. The reviews are not kind. Turns out he was a journalist. For the school newspaper. In eighth grade. The labradoodle belongs to his neighbor. And he wears a pinkie ring.”

She makes an overly disgusted face, and the audience laughs.

“Full stop. But also, his penis is the size of a tampon. You could play ring toss with that pinkie ring.”

She strolls across the stage, an amused smile on her face.

“I mean, if we can warn people not to go to Ho Motel in Tampa because there were pubic hairs in the sink, why can’t we have this?”

The audience is laughing hard. The woman she called Suzie in the front row is wiping tears from her eyes. As she’s looking at Suzie and walking, she somehow catches the toe of her sneaker and stumbles. She regains her footing as quickly as she lost it and doesn’t fall. Feeling confident and present, she uses it and launches into a bit of improv.

“What was that?”

She looks perplexed and over her shoulder, at the floor. She squints with her entire face.

“Ohhh, it was the bar for men! It’s so low, I didn’t see it.”

She smiles as the audience laughs.

“Thank you, you’ve been a great crowd. Ben, you can follow me on Instagram. Please don’t follow me home.”

Backstage, Ethan pats her on the shoulder.

“Nice set.”

“Thanks.”

“I’d be five stars.”

“What?”

“On your dude app. I’d be five stars, all the way.”

“Good to know,” she says as she walks past him.

In the greenroom, she plops down on an old cigarette-stained mustard-yellow couch. The club manager pokes his head in.

“Great set. Here’s your money,” he says, handing her fifty dollars in cash.

“Thanks.”

“Can you do the same day, same time next week?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, it’s yours,” he says before disappearing down the hall.

She folds the three bills and slides them into her front pocket, her first paid set in a New York City comedy club. She’s a legit comedian now. And a regular. She tucks her AirPods into her ears and plays the audio of her set, which she recorded on her phone, and smiles as she listens, approving, happy.

It’s okay to be happy.

After the last comedian is done, Maddy puts on her coat and hat. It’s one in the morning, time to go back to her dorm room and go to bed, even though she’s not at all tired. She has an 8:00 a.m. class, but she’ll probably skip it. There’s no real point in going to any of her classes anymore since she’s dropping out of school next semester.

On her way out, she sees the New York Women in Comedy Festival booker, the guy with the Oscar the Grouch eyebrows, sitting in a booth, chatting with Ethan and his friends. When he sees her, he springs up out of his seat to greet her.

“Hey, Maddy, you were fantastic tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“I never heard back from you about the festival in May. You would’ve been perfect for it. What happened?”

“Sorry about that,” she says, swallowing her embarrassment. “I had a medical thing.”

“You okay now?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Listen, I’m producing New York Does Vegas. It’s six comics, ten minutes each, two nights at Planet Hollywood, January twelfth and thirteenth. I had all six, but one just dropped out an hour ago. You want the spot?”

“Yes,” she says, stunned. “I’d love it.”

“Great, I still have your email. I’ll send you the details. Don’t disappear on me again.”

“I won’t. I promise. Thank you!” she says.

She steps out of the club and inhales the cold night air. It smells like weed and garbage, her city’s signature scent. She expected people to be lingering outside, vaping, waiting for Ubers, but everyone has already cleared out. The street is strangely quiet.

She’s a regular at LOL Comedy! She’s going to Vegas as a comedian!

Comedy is my door, Gramma . Goose bumps skip along her arms in agreement. She feels giddy.

It’s okay to feel giddy .

She wishes she could call Emily, but it’s way too late. She’ll have to wait until the morning. But holding exciting news without sharing it is like the sound of a tree falling in an earless forest. This news is too massive to keep inside, to just walk home as if her entire world hasn’t changed. Jack might still be up.

JB

JACK BANKS

Hey I just got asked to do ten minutes at Planet Hollywood in Vegas next month!

She waits, staring at her screen, trying to generate those three dots with her mind. He doesn’t reply. She can’t text Gramma at this hour. Who else?

MP

MAX PERRY

Hey I just got asked to do ten minutes at Planet Hollywood in Vegas next month!

She waits again, but her text goes unanswered.

S

SIMONE

Hey sorry I’ve been out of touch

Let’s get together soon and I’ll tell you everything

Wanted to share this with you I just got asked to do ten min at Planet Hollywood in Vegas next month!

She waits, but her face and fingers are getting cold just standing there, and Simone still hasn’t replied. Frustrated and feeling lonely, Maddy pockets her phone and begins walking the seven blocks back to her dorm.

It’s okay to feel lonely and frustrated .

Maybe her roommate will still be up. As she walks at a fast clip, her thoughts whip and whiz in her head, repeating questions she can’t yet answer. Which ten minutes will she use? Should she develop new material or go with her current tight ten? She could post clips to TikTok and Instagram, use whatever gets the most likes and comments? What should she wear?

It’s okay to feel anxiou s.

She walks faster, almost running, block after block, matching her steps with the speedy rhythm of her giddy, anxious, frustrated, and lonely heart. And then suddenly, she stops walking. She’s paralyzed on the sidewalk, panting, vibrating, her legs unsteady, the many shades of her emotional state eclipsed by the mack daddy of all feelings.

Fear.

She’s afraid that she’s feeling too much, scared that she’s already way over her emotional speed limit and she’s about to jump the guard rail and crash straight into her next episode.

I’m not okay .

With her tremoring hand, she wipes her forehead, which is wet with perspiration despite the cold. She takes a slow, deep belly breath, just like her therapist has taught her to do. In to the count of five, out to the count of six. Again. And again. And again.

I am human .

It’s okay to feel.

She resumes walking, and as her limbs move, she can feel joy returning to her heart like a bird to its nest. She registers the smell of waffles from the food truck parked in front of her dorm before she even turns the corner and sees it. No one in line, she steps right up to the window.

“Can I have a Cinnamonster please?”

“That’ll be twelve dollars,” says the waffle guy.

She unfolds a twenty from her front pocket and hands it to him. He returns to the window a few moments later with a hot waffle on a paper plate and her change. The warm plate feels so good on her cold, raw hands. Her waffle smells like carnivals and childhood Sunday dinners. Feeling generous and flush with cash, she places all eight dollars in the tip jar.

“Thanks, you have a good night,” says the waffle guy.

“You, too.”

She turns and heads for the front door of her building but stops after a few steps and spins back around. The waffle guy is still there, watching her.

“I had a really good night! You’re looking at an official stand-up comedian at LOL Comedy, and I’ll be performing two nights in Vegas next month!” she says, beaming.

“You’re awesome! Good for you!” says the waffle guy.

“Thanks!” she says, still smiling.

It’s okay to be awesome .