My mother
comes home from her meeting with the psychic medium. She looks at me as if she’s about to
cry. She tries to speak but just exhales
dramatically. Should I be worried?
“A spirit has a message for you.” She says.
“A spirit has a message for you.” She says.
“Really?” I respond dully. I try to hide the fact that I don’t believe
in psychic stuff. I look up as if I’m
interested.
“Your
sister came through.” She says.
“My sister?”
“From the
miscarriage I had before you were born.”
“Oh.”
“Apparently
she’s your spiritual guide.”
“Oh.”
“She said
she’s with you when you perform standup.”
“What!?” I holler.
My eyes widen, the hairs on my arms stand up, and my jaw drops
slightly. A lesser version of me would
shit my pants. “What the hell did the
lady say?”
“The lady
said, ‘You’re younger son. . .he’s funny. . .he’s really funny. . .is he a standup comic?’ So I told her you were. . .”
“She just
asked you that out of the nowhere!?”
“Yes. And then she said, ‘His older sister wants
him to know that she’s always in his corner, cheering him on.’”
“That’s the
craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” I
reply.
“Why? I thought that was really nice.”
“How the
hell did the lady know I was a standup comic!?”
“Your
sister told her. She’s a psychic
medium.”
“But why
would my sister care so much about my standup comedy!?”
“You’re
trying to make it your career, aren’t you?”
Five Months Later
I get ready
to take the stage for my first paid gig.
The club is filled with people.
Everyone is talking loudly. There
are people on dates, groups of friends, and super fans who’ve come alone. They ooze the need for stimulation. There are no comedians on stage. Laughter can be heard, however. The power of alcohol is champion.
I take a
deep breath. I step out onto the
stage. Everyone stops laughing. The power of booze is no more. Comedy becomes my responsibility.
I tell
jokes. People laugh. It is a regular night. I get applause for some, guffaws for others,
giggles for the rest. I try to stick to
rehearsed material. My confidence is
articulate.
Some
audience members yell random crap at me.
I yell random funny shit back at them. The crowd chuckles at the random crap I say.
I get back
to my rehearsed material. My jokes get
the laughter that they always do. I drop
them into the mic one by one like back-to-back home runs. Finally, I get to the joke that’s not funny;
the one I tell every set.
The entire
audience falls silent. I pause to
listen. I hear no rouge laughter; no
open-aired chuckles from a corner; no freestanding cheers.
Perhaps I
should try to listen with my heart.
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