by Tony Hinds
By the time he was off the stage, the ATM was spitting twenty dollar bills out onto the floor, which I scrambled to pick up. The receipt informed me that my account was nearly empty. Pocketed bank card. Realized I won’t be able to take Ashley to that show she’d been going on and on about. Did not care if she would be mad. Someone once said that comedy is all about taking risks.
The old comedian stood at the bar, talking to the Italian dude who was working the bar. The Italian guy laughed. The comic nodded and glanced over at a girl who was bent over looking for something she dropped on the floor. Nice ass. He shook his head and gestured to the Italian to check her out, and he did. The girl picked up a cell phone and walked away. On the back of her neck, a dream catcher tattoo that twisted as she looked back over her shoulder.
Standing next to him, waiting for a lull in the conversation, my left hand endlessly double and triple checking to make sure I had not dropped the money, things started to come flooding back. Remembered all the times I had rehearsed this scene in my head, every version ending with us becoming friends and blah blah blah. Felt pathetic.
Ten years ago: On the biggest TV show in the world.
Today: Stood two feet away from me, casually cracking jokes to a bartender, only moments after he had the entire club in hysterics. No one pestered him. No one asked him for an autograph. No one wanted their picture taken with him. He smiled.
Some frat guy ordered a beer and told the comedian how funny his set was. The comedian thanked him. “Pint of Jager?”
“No, it’s a Guinness.” The frat guy said.
“I know. That was a joke.”
The frat guy nervously laughed as he handed the Italian guy a twenty dollar bill. The TV show was not mentioned. What about the stand up special he did back in ’92? Frat guy walked back to his table of jocks. The Italian was pouring some chick a glass of wine. Tapped the comic on the shoulder. Waited as he turned. He nodded at me. Pushed the name Rupert Pupkin from my mind.
“Hey, great job tonight. You were hilarious.”
“Hilarious? Gee, thanks.” Sarcasm.
Laughed, tried to say, “You’re really funny.”
“I know, you just told me.”
“Yeah, but I mean, like you just exude humor. It’s like you’re not even doing it on purpose…”
“How flattering…” Sarcasm again.
Fuck.
“Listen, I’m like, a really big fan. Can I buy you a shot or a drink?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic, kid. Thanks for listening to my set.”
He had just done four minutes on his Alcoholics Anonymous experiences.
Fuck.
“How ‘bout a Coca Cola or something?”
“Coca Cola? Thanks, but how about you just give me the buck fifty?Lou, get this kid to lay off me.”
The Italian, Lou: “Lay off him, kid.”
Fuck.
“Oh, sorry about that.”
Face started to feel warm. Thought I might puke. Turned to walk away. The back of his fingers lightly smacked me in the shoulder.
“That was a joke, kid. Jesus, relax…”
Turned back around.
“I’ll have a club soda, but the kid is gonna pay for it.”
“You got the cash, kid?” Lou asked.
“Yeah, I think I can cover that.”
They chuckled ever so slightly. Felt like a million bucks for about two seconds. No joke.
Around the table where the old comic held court: Steve Caferty, Brian Lane, Don Steady and myself. If you’ve seen the Tonight Show in the last six months, you know those guys. My computer was loaded with bootlegged mp3’s of their stand up. Those sick bastards were without a doubt, the future of mainstream comedy, living for the time being, on the cusp of massive success.
Two years: They all have successful cable comedy shows. Three years: They start bad mouthing each other in press interviews and never speak to each other again. Four years: They are all household names. Old ladies in Bumfuck, Kansas will be able to explain in great detail why these comedians are damaging to America’s youth. Five years: They will have starred in movies that will gross over half a billion dollars at the box office.
Steve and Brian grew up together in Boston and had their own comedy troupe touring colleges before the age of twenty three. Don is a black comic, who got in some trouble in the media recently. He said he understood why that woman in Texas, drowned her baby, when it would not stop crying. That comment did not go over well. He said that he could not go back on TV for at least three months.
“That was the case even before you said that.” Brian says, emptying the remains of his beer glass. The rest of the table laughed.
Don protested. “No, man-”
“Shut your mouth and let the laugh finish.”
The table laughed louder.
“Look at that sweetie pie at the bar. Looks like a fucking alcoholic Frankenstein”
“And that chick by the door is a total flatso.”
“Why am I always the only black guy here?”
“Don’t you mean ‘alcoholic Frankenstein’s monster’?”
“What’s a flatso?”
“You know Lou. A rule is a rule.”
“Yeah, but what I said is more colloquial.”
“She’s a fatty but she’s got like, no tits.”
Don laughed. ”You racist motherfucker…”
Steve kept staring at me with a weird look on his face. Even though I knew he and Brian were the same age, I could not help thinking Steve looked about ten years older. His cheeks were wrinkled and creased, from smoking, which is probably the reason he had not gotten a lead role in anything yet. Think about: The Stand By Me parody sketch he did at the Secret Policeman’s Ball in 2004. Something he said in a radio interview about his girlfriend. The small area of his apartment that was visible during his short lived video podcast.
Steve asked: “So, do you do stand up, kid?”
Froze up.
“Still with us?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? You performing these days?”
“I mean, no. I don’t do stand up.”
“So, what do you do, shine shoes?”
“No, I’ve never shined shoes. Well, only my own shoes.”
“Really? I didn’t know you could shine Nike’s.” Steve quipped.
“So, what brings you down here?” Brain asked.
“He’s my biggest fan. Know how you can tell? He was planning on getting me drunk tonight, on his dime,” the old comic growls.
“Not too familiar with the ol’ legend here?” Brian points at the old comic.
“Thanks, but just The Legend will do. Christ, what a creep he is.”
Mumbling, I said: “No, I am. I just forgot about that.” Face started to feel kind of warm again. Did he call me a creep or Brian?
Steve laughed. “How forgetful of you.”
“So, what’s your name?”
“Tom.”
“What’s that you’re drinking, Tom?”
“A screwdriver.”
“Oh yeah? Your pussy itch when you drink those?”
“Uh, no, um…”
“Great improv skills.”
We were interrupted by the MC announcing the next act, who just happened to be Steve Caferty.
On stage: He seemed so relaxed. The pauses. The delivery. He never oversold anything. The performance was energetic yet seemed totally casual. The audience laughed out loud simply because he blinked his eyes at the exact right moment. He killed. Steve Caferty fucking destroyed the crowd and finished off with a simple thank you as he raised his beer glass to toast. As he came off stage, the other guys, Don, Brian and the Legend were finishing their drinks and their humus platter. None of them even seemed to notice that he just performed a Comedians Dream Set. It had been perfect.
The old comic told me to come see him again, the next time he was in town. He patted me on the right shoulder three quick times. Tried hard not to freak out. He, Brian and Don were heading uptown. They offered me a ride. I was stupid. Told them the truth.
“I’m going downtown.”
And after that, they were gone.
Could not believe it.
Felt O.K.
They might have given me a few shots, but I managed to not make an ass of myself. Will not have anything to obsess about later when the self loathing kicks in. A rare feeling.
Steve ordered another drink, finishing it in about six seconds. Put jacket on. Paid tab. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed me.
“I’m leaving. You need a lift?”
“That’s okay, I’m heading downtown.”
“Me too. You got all your shit?”
Should be thrilled a famous comedian had offered me a ride home.
As we walked, Steve leaned over to me: “You know how guys rate chicks on a scale from 1 to 10?”
“Yeah, ten is the best, right?”
“Exactly, here is how you can tell the difference between a nine and a ten. Get some pasta, linguini works best…”
Six blocks later: A blonde chick ran in front of the car and the tires squealed as Steve hit the breaks. Had to brace myself against the dashboard with my hand at the last second, as the passenger side seatbelt was broken, despite the fact that the car (do not remember what kind, Lexus?) was obviously brand new. The satellite radio was blaring an old Eric Clapton song at full volume, screaming out the open windows. People gave us funny looks as we drove past. In hindsight, Blondie really should have heard the car coming. Steve turned the radio off the moment the car became stationary.
“Fucking cunt, get out of the road…”
The blonde girl’s mouth dropped open when saw the car. She scurried to the curb, awkwardly shuffling in heels, waving her arms. She mouthed the word sorry.
“The fuck is wrong with you, bitch?” Steve continued to rage at her as she stared back with a look of shock on her face.
“I’m deaf.” Her voice garbled and scratchy.
Bit my tongue. Tasted blood.
As we drove away, neither of us made eye contact with the girl. Could not even turn my head to look at her. Rode in silence for a while. The music came back on, quieter this time. No paparazzi were there to witness. Maybe three people, not including the girl, saw what played out. If that had happened a couple hours earlier, it might have made the gossip column in the newspaper. He turned the seat warmers on and adjusted the rearview mirror. When Steve Caferty joined the Director’s Guild of America, he asked Mel Brooks, Jerry Lewis and Carl Reiner to sign his guild card. They did. Steve Caferty won an Emmy for writing for the Late Show with David Letterman when he was twenty five years old. The person who handed him that award: George Carlin. Wanted to assault him with questions but held off. Decided it would be smart to wait for a more opportune moment. On the other hand, someone once said that comedy is all about taking risks.
In a neighborhood I had never been to, low income residential, we pulled up in front of an apartment building. Outside the car: An old brownstone, across the street from a tenement building, up the street from a single tiny bungalow and down the street from a 7-11. Cozy. Among the parked cars, a white cat darted in and out of sight, chasing a rat or a cockroach or something. Grabbing his cell phone, he dialed some numbers while climbing out of the car.
“We need to make a stop.” Those had been the first words spoken in the car since the blonde girl. The radio was still playing. Turned it off. Opened the passenger side window and lit cigarette. The stench of sewage and garbage. A distant siren faded in, and slowly passed. The cat howled and ran off in between an arrangement of trash cans.
Only seven minutes had passed by the time my cigarette was finished and the window was closed again. Needed to piss very badly. Splitting headache developing. Some car doors automatically lock when you close them, and not having keys, I did not feel like getting locked out in this area. Did not feel like getting mugged while I was pissing against a condemned building either. Stayed put.
The satellite radio had a computer screen the size of a small birthday card that listed a number of music channels: Electric Rock, Smooth Jazz, Oddly Ambient and Film Scores, among others. Electric Rock was playing Van Halen. Smooth Jazz was playing something I had never heard before. Definitely smooth though. The pad data read: Dizzy Gill-something. Never heard of him. Oddly Ambient sounded like an alien spaceship landing next to a Down syndrome gospel choir. Film Scores was playing the main theme from Crimson Tide. Settled on, a channel dedicated entirely to the Allman Brothers. Midnight Rider was playing. Adjusted volume. Tried to relax. Noticed something outside the car.
The bungalow down the street had suddenly burst to life. The front light came on just as two girls blew through the door, followed by an East Indian guy wearing a light blue dress shirt. He grabbed the girl closest to him and smacked her in the face, knocking her to the ground. The other girl ran back toward the two of them swinging her purse like a mace, hitting him on the right cheek. The girl on the ground kicked at the air, just as two guys, boyfriends probably, came running out and tackled the East Indian guy onto the lawn. No joke. Locked the car doors. The guys started pounding on him, one holding his arms while the other hit him. The girls walked over to the car and knocked at my window. Reluctantly, I rolled it down.
“What going on?”
“Nothing. Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m cool. That guy is just being a psycho. Broke my phone. You got one?”
“No.”
“I gotta call the cops on this prick.”
One of the boyfriends called over, “Stacy, there’s a phone in the house.”
They all headed inside, and left the guy in a heap on the lawn. He looked up, over at me and started crawling towards the car. As he got closer to the street lamp, I could see that he was crying. Behind him, the front door opened again, and a boyfriend popped out again.
“I’m calling the cops, asshole. Get the fuck out of here. Now.”
The East Indian dude was trying to say something to me, whispering, glassy eyed with a quivering lower lip. Whatever language he was speaking, it was not English. Steve reappeared across the street, heading back, and holding his hands up, as if to ask me: What the fuck is this?
Shook my head and rolled the window back up. Tears ran down the Indian guys’ cheeks as he crawled across the curb and into the street. He was still trying to talk to me when Steve got back into the car. White powder hung from under Steve’s left nostril.
“What a freak show…”
“So I had to do radio this morning. 93.2 K-NOW, this shitty pop station. Got up at six in the fucking morning to get there for seven thirty. And the whole time I’m on the air, they got me plugging the phone number for this club in East end, I forget what it’s called. Side Splitters? I don’t remember. But anyway, I must have said that fucking phone number at least ten times, while these animals, these fucking savages, piped in a music bed, some fucking techno shit, behind my voice. Must have sounded like I was plugging my gig from on my knees in front of a glory hole. Couldn’t fucking believe it. Actually, fuck that, I totally believed it, that shit happens every god damn time I do radio. But get this: I finish up the interview and head over to the next joint, some internet podcast or something, and I’m kickin’ it I-Phone style, checking my email. Right? No, no, no, turn here. Yeah, here. So anyway, people are writing, emailing me, that they called the number I gave out on the air, you know, the phone number for this shithole club, and they tell me the place isn’t open yet. That the club doesn’t open for like, three hours. Three fucking hours. Believe that? Now, how many asses in seats, does a fuck up like that end up costing me? Who the fuck knows. I mean, I don’t mind doing radio. I understand you have to plug the gigs, get the word out there, but why bother giving out the number? The only people who heard the radio spot and that’ll end up calling for fucking reservations, are the hardcores. But those people would have been there regardless of the radio spot, because they’re super fans, and already know about the fucking gig. Those cocksuckers read about it on Twitter or some such shit…”
The next stop we made was to pick up Eric Payne, who was better known to the public, as Davey the Pirate. Eric had some minor success in his early twenties, playing clubs all over the country, as himself, Eric Payne. No goofy character. He even wrote a few jokes for Rosie O’Donnell’s talk show. His biggest achievement was becoming a semi-regular on The Danny and Roland Show, a controversial satellite radio show heard across North America. But his affiliation with these shows ended. Why? Davey the Pirate was supposed to be a one off character on Rosie, but Eric felt differently. Sadly, the public agreed with him. Within three years, Eric Payne, an intelligent, original comedian and writer, was famous all over the world as Davey the Pirate. Danny and Roland no longer wanted anything to do with him, a lowest common denominator hack.
Davey would say, “Aaaarrrrrrrrr….”
And the audience would reply: “AAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!”
He opened with a joke in which he utilized a double entendre involving a sex act and the term walking the plank. A part of a woman’s anatomy and the term buried treasure. Do not even ask about his deck scrubbing or barnacle scraping jokes. (Those two bits, similar as they might sound, are actually very different.) How about the stuffed parrot that he had strapped to his shoulder? It was nothing but pirate themed puns and aquatic euphemisms. Hack. Rube. Sell out. Basked in the feeling of superiority until other words floated in: Multi millionaire. Private jet. Free pussy.
“But how did the podcast go?” Steve asks.
“The podcast? You’re listening to it. The whole fucking soliloquy I just rolled out was done almost verbatim on that fucking thing. Podcasts. Waste of time. Just as I’m leaving, they tell me the podcast gets posted on the iTunes thing next weekend. Next fucking weekend. So, the plug, the entire reason I’m on the fucking show, is now useless. The show is tomorrow night, for Christ sake. So, two attempted, but failed plugs in one morning… and to think that douche bag had the nerve to tell me that, as I’m leaving. I’d have rather found out on my own. Put some time in between the outbursts, you know?”
Steve said: “Yeah well, you say this like its some original observation. That happens to all of us. And don’t bullshit me. Its not like you need to do radio anymore to sell fucking tickets, do you?”
“No, but that’s hardly the point I was making, is it?”
“It is. It’s the exact point you were making…”
“You know what Steve? Let me explain something to you. I know how it is for you. You’re in one of those shitty clubs, and at the end of the night, when you’re asking for your fuckin’ opener check from a guy named Monster…”
“Mongo.”
“It doesn’t matter, you wormy little nothing…”
“Wormy? What does your black American Express say, Eric Payne or Davey the Pirate, you phony cocksucker…”
Eric laughed. “Ah, fuck it. Glad I got these cookies from Bobby’s chick. I need to get fucking high, like right now.”
“Whatcha got there? Some weed cookies?”
“With chocolate chips. She said half of one is more than enough.”
“Five, please.”
“Hey kid, you want one?”
“Um,” stammering out a response, any response, “They have drugs in them?”
“Some leafy green. Here take one.”
Eric handed me a cookie.
It looked perfectly normal. Nice chips of chocolate. Could not see any green.
Looked up and saw that Eric and Steve were already chowing down. Panic set in. Pocketed the cookie. Made chewing sounds. Played pretend. Nodded along with music. The Film Scores Channel. The pad data read: In the Halls of the Mountain King. Looked out the window and watched as the city moved past.
Eric said, “You see that chick? What do you think, 9 or 10?”
Steve jumped up, “Ah, well now, I’ll tell you how to tell the difference between a nine and a ten. If you think the girl might be a ten but there is a chance she might just be a nine, have her put some pasta, linguini probably works best, in her mouth. Make her chew it up, and then make a face like she is going to puke…”
Changed mind. Reached into pocket. Ate cookie.
The oddest sensation. They said to Tom: “We can’t drop you off yet.” They said Tom’s apartment was too far away. Eric said: “There is a party around here somewhere.” Steve was quick to correct him.
It was not a party.
It was a get together of like minded people.
Tom said: “My eyes feel funny.”
Eric said: “Your face looks funny.”
Steve said to Tom: “Come to the party, hang out, and we can drop you off later.”
Tom did not want to go to a party.
Steve said: “It’s not a party, it’s a get together of like minded people.”
Eric said: “Dry off your ass-pussy and man up. Gonna be girls at this place. Maybe you could bust your cherry tonight. That’d be cool. Meet your heroes and lose your virginity all in one night.”
Tom was not a virgin. The muscles behind his eyes had begun feeling loose. Relaxed. Mellowed. Tom was in no shape to attend a get together of any kind of people, like minded or not. Tom yawned.
Eric asked Tom if he was a mute.
Tom told Eric that his head felt like a movie camera, panning left and right as he turned his head. Watching Eric and Steve talk made Tom feel like he was watching a live movie. And Tom’s mouth felt very dry.
They laughed at Tom.
They asked him if he had ever gotten high before.
Tom said: “Never before tonight.”
Eric said: “What do you know, another first.”
An hour later the three of us stood in a living room with a woman who informed us that her father had won the house in which we stood, during a chess game. A dozen other people, aging for twenty one, up to fifty, stood talking, drinks in hand, around the room. A black terrier ran between my legs as it exited the room, heading for the stairs. Eric leaned in and whispered to me: she is a liar. A girl with her face painted like Pris from Blade Runner pushed past me, in pursuit of the dog, whose nails were already clacking up the staircase. It groaned under the sleight of frame animals’ weight.
What obviously used to be a beautiful house, was now decaying in front of our eyes. Numerous holes dotted the walls, above a mess of torn movie posters and a set of removable bucket seats from a mini van that rested on the sand dusted area rug. She introduced herself as Joanne. Bleached blonde with brown roots, and looked thirtyish but it was hard to tell. Might still have been stoned at this point.
“What’s the dogs name?”
“Tummler. What took you guys so long?”
“Tom here slowed us down.” Steve said to her.
Eric laughed.
Unbelievable.
“No, I didn’t really want to come but…”
“It’s like not even 3am yet! Fuck it…”
“What’s wrong? You have to get back to the battered women’s shelter so you don’t lose your cot?”
Joanne winked at me, handed us some beers and told us to mingle.
“The party is kind of dying out.” She lamented.
“I thought this was a get together of like minded people.”
“You know what they say about best laid plans.”
Steve sighs. “I’m too stoned to come up with a comical retort.”
“Pity. Go mingle. The man in the jacket… no, the one by the fire place, is a film critic. David Swan. He’s sort of famous, like you guys.”
Steve yawns. “Where’s the bathroom?”
The get together of like minded people. A cluster stood in the corner surrounding some guy who was telling a story or something. Indie Pop played while the Emo kids with cuts all over their hands and arms kept asking girls to dance. No interest on the girls end of things.
Pris was sitting on the couch, stroking the dog. Joanne was spinning a hula hoop around her waist in front of a couple of gawking randoms. A lit cigarette hung from my mouth as I stared at Joanne’s swiveling hips. A fat guy with dreadlocks takes off his hooded sweatshirt, revealing a tee shirt with the word WORSHIP written on it. He tossed the sweatshirt onto the couch. Heard someone shout Nothing but net! The dog barks at one of the Emo kids. The group in the corner burst out laughing, attracting the attention of the rest of the room.
A tall redheaded dude wearing cargo shorts walked away, headed to the washroom and I saw who everyone is standing around, listening to, hung on his every word. Cannot fucking believe some ginger dick was blocking my view of him this whole time. Standing, in the same room as me, drinking a can of Pepsi, looking tired and burned out, is the Man himself. The Legend was in the room. Holy shit. Twice in one night. Turned to point him out to Steve or Eric but both are talking to that film critic by the fireplace.
“Okay, okay, this is how you tell the difference between a nine and a ten. Check this out. If you think the girl might be a ten but there is a chance she might just be a nine, have her put a spoonful of pasta, linguini works best, in her mouth. Make her chew the pasta up, make a face like she is going to puke and then spit the pasta into a napkin. If you still want to fuck her while she’s gobbing chewed up food into a napkin, she’s a ten.” Steve explained through gritted teeth. The film critic just stared at the floor.
Rolled my eyes as I walked over and the critic, Swan, nodded at me. Nodded back.
“What happens if the girl won’t spit the pasta out, or won’t go along with the test?” asked Swan. For some reason, he was humoring them.
“If she won’t take the test, then she fails the test. It’s that simple.” Steve snapped, “I mean, who wants to fuck some uptight, bitchy nine?”
“What’s your chicks name, Tom?” Eric purred.
Steve laughed. “Oh Tom, will you ever win?”
In that moment, I fucking hated Eric Payne.
“Maybe I was too generous. That would imply he is dating a nine.”
Fucking pirate comedian.
“No shit, and that would also imply he isn’t fucking his mom’s vacuum cleaner.”
Fucking hack piece of shit.
“Just kidding, little guy.”
Could not take it. “Eric, I don’t know if you’re aware, but someone famous showed up.”
“Yeah, I know. Me and Steve. We came here with us, remember? Come to think of it, you came here with us too, stupid.”
“Someone more famous. In the corner.”
They strained their necks to see. Stared at their faces, awaiting the moment they would see him. Someone really worth paying attention to. Unlike the two ham and egger’s standing before me. Felt like I could see the future and they were going to be crushed. Tossed the cigarette into the fireplace. Shoulder was itchy. Realized I could not see into the future.
Steve and Eric started laughing, almost simultaneously. Eric nudged Swan and pointed the Legend out to him. Swan shrugged his shoulders when he saw him. Not impressed.
“Wow, I can’t believe he is really here. At his ex girlfriends house. Crazy,” says Eric.
“You being sarcastic?” Fake bravado.
“Yes, he was. Very good. Now, ease it back, kid, you’re among friends.” Steve replied condescendingly.
“You guys just gonna ignore him?”
“Ignore him? We fucking know him. We’re friends with him.”
“No respect for your betters? Is that it?” Cannot believe I said that.
“Are you on PCP? What’s your fucking problem?”
“Can’t you see the difference?” Almost yelling.
“What difference?”
“The difference between you and him.” Pointed to the Legend.
“Listen, Nobody, have another drink, and mellow the fuck out…”
“That ass-pussy is twitching’ again.” Eric snarled.
“I’m getting one.” I said, walking away. The film critic seemed very uncomfortable but instead of talking to someone else, he just stood their staring into his wine glass.
The bar in the corner was unattended so I grabbed a bottle of something (I think it was rye) and headed to the bathroom. Took a pull. For once, the alcohol did not hurt going down. Just a nice warm feeling, a sweet burn. Next to the bathroom, a blonde girl was making out with some tall guy, so I cleared my throat before turning the corner. They stopped as I walked past.
Closed the bathroom door. Lit a cigarette. Tried to calm down. Did not want to talk to the old comic, the Legend, in that negative state of mind. When I was hanging out with him, at the comedy club, everything had been laid back and cool. The meeting ended exactly where I hoped it would. Before I could make a pathetic ass of myself. Tossed the cigarette into the toilet and flushed it. Drank more. Time passed.
The old comic had taken his shots at me, but they had not come from a bad place. Everyone got their balls busted. Equal opportunity whatever. By that point, the rye was nearly gone.. Shook the bottle, swirling the clean brown liquid against the glass. One last swig before I hid the bottle in the shower. Okay, two more.
Outside the bathroom, I stumbled against the wall, dizzy. Realized far too late, how wasted I actually was. Went back into the bathroom and drank water straight from the tap. When I stood up from the sink, the dizziness hit me once again, like a slow wave.
“Pull yourself together…”
Living room: Walked right up to some random chick, who was standing by herself. Asked her what was up?
“Nothing. You?”
Shook my head.
Looked at the floor.
Fuck.
Nothing.
Great improv skills.
Across the room, Ralph Rothman, a professional skateboarder opened a Budweiser king can. Head spilt over the sides of the can momentarily before he blew the foam onto the carpet. As Joanne walked past, she asked what happened to my drink. Shrugged. Heart sunk as I noticed that the Legend was no where to be seen. Headed back to the fireplace, and bumped into a familiar looking blonde girl. Excused myself as she walked away. Noted how long she held eye contact with me. Did not know at that moment, how soon the dread would hit me.
Steve and Eric were still talking to, or should I say, talking at Mr. Swan. They did not look at me. The air in the room had changed. The blonde chick was talking to Ralph Rothman when I looked over. The smell was almost metallic, like blood. As Steve tapped me on the shoulder, I remembered something.
“You calmed down yet, Capone from Ain’t It Cool News?” asked Steve.
“Yeah, or more like PryorKnowledge from CringeHumor.com.” mumbled Eric who, for as drunk as was, still pulled a shockingly obscure reference.
An Eric Clapton song.
A shiny new Lexus.
A blonde haired girl.
What are the odds?
It was at this point that a half full Budweiser king can flew past me, hitting Steve square in the chest, splattering beer all over the rest of us. Even before Steve could say anything, he was getting punched in the face. His limp body slumped to the floor. Ralph’s lanyard kept flipping up into Steve’s face with each landed blow. A couple of guys, Eric included, jumped in, to break it up. Just stood there, watching the remaining beer draining from the can, trying to avoid the deaf girls gaze as she glared at me from across the room.
Back to the washroom to clean the beer off. Took another few pulls off the rye. Lit another smoke. Felt light headed. Turned the water on and watched the sink fill up and drain for a while. Wondered if there would be a message from Ashley waiting for me at home. Did not know how much time had passed. Turned water off. Stomach gurgled. Listened at the bathroom door. The music was not playing anymore. The talking had died down. Only a few muffled voices could be heard. Flipped the washroom light off and staggered away.
Everyone had gone, leaving me alone with Joanne and Pris. They sat on the couch quietly talking, glasses of wine sitting on a glass coffee table. There was a pile of paper towels soaking up beer from the carpet where the fight had happened. When I walked in, they seemed startled. Joanne stood up and stepped towards me, almost defensively.
“Thought everyone had gone. Need a taxi?”
“Yeah, thanks. Sorry about… I think I’m too drunk…”
“That’s okay. Is that your coat by the door?”
“Yeah, thanks. Sorry about…”
“It’s okay. Casey, could you call a taxi?”
Cannot keep my eyes open.
“Are you going to throw up?”
“No, I’ll be okay.”
“When did Steve and Eric leave?”
“After Steve got in a fight with Ralph. Apparently Steve tried to run over Ralph’s girlfriend with his car earlier.”
“Uh, really?”
“Yeah, and she’s deaf,” said Pris/ Casey.
“She’s hot though. A hot deaf chick…” I mumbled.
“Um, yeah, that pretty much ended the festivities.”
“Fuck Steve…and fuck Eric too. Those guys are…”
Do not know why I said this. My stomach gurgled again.
“Why don’t you wait for the car outside.”
Pris/ Casey piped up. “At this hour? Let him wait inside, Jo.”
“It’s cool. I’ll wait… wait outside… I’m good like that, you know?”
“Fascinating. Don’t forget your jacket.”
Hiding in the bathroom had been a stupid risk to take. Meeting him twice in one night would have done it. He would have remembered my name for the third time I met him. If I were to meet him again. He would have said, “You’re Tom, right?” He would have remembered me. He would have remembered my name. No joke.
Walking to the door, I tripped and fell into the love seat, where the dog was sleeping. Did not even notice that the dog was in the room until then. Scared, the dog, Tummler woke up snarling and clamped his jaws onto my hand. Before he even let go, blood was running up my arm, under my shirt sleeve. Its teeth punctured right through the webbed piece between my thumb and forefinger. Pain mixed with nausea, which mixed with the booze. Vomited onto Tummler. Joanne yelled something, not sure what. The dog quickly started licking and eating it. Overstayed my welcome, but someone had once said that comedy is all about taking risks. Had forgotten that comedy is also, all about timing.
The taxi turned the corner onto my street after cutting through the parking lot of a supermarket that went out of business last fall. Used to work there, dragging shopping carts around in two feet of snow. Brown paper was hung across the windows, preventing anyone from seeing the gutted storefront, the check out stands without cash registers, parts of the floor tiles now visible for the first time since the construction. The towel Joanne gave me to soak up the blood was getting red. Looked at the numbers on the fare. Chuckled to myself. The driver asked me why I was laughing. Took me a moment to answer.
“Tonight, man. Holy fuck, I went out tonight to see this comedian. To meet him, you know? He is, I guess, like one of my heroes. He just like, exudes humor… I was gonna get him drunk, right, and the plan was to, I don’t know, become friends or something. I forgot that the guy doesn’t even drink. But I got to hang out with him for a while. And that was cool. And I didn’t have to drop all my cash to do it. Time of my life, man. No joke. And here I am, like fucking hours later, and after I pay you for this ride, I’m going to be broke. I actually thought I might come out on top, just for once. You know?”
The car stopped in front of my grandma’s house. A moth fluttered around, bumping into the light that hung over her front door. Handed the driver my cash. Grabbed jacket. Stumbled out of cab. Put jacket on. Felt uncomfortable for some reason. Dropped cigarettes. Picked up cigarettes. The moth was clinging to the wall, a gray triangle against white painted stone.
“But I did get to meet him.”
Inside: Left a trail of blood from the front door down to my bedroom. Laid down on my bed. Kicked off my shoes, one and then the other. The first one landed on the carpet. The landing of the second shoe made a sound that startled me. Sat up. The shoe was lying on top of my desk in the corner, below a fresh hole in the dry wall, the size of a baseball. Kicked the second shoe a bit too hard, I guess. My sheets were soaking up the blood that the towel did not.
Saliva started building up, my mouth was watering for some reason. Spit into the garbage can. Within two minutes I was running to the washroom. Barely made it. Vomited into the sink. Turned water on. Blood mixed in with the vomit and the water. Looked at myself in the mirror. A bit of orange puke hung from my lip. Sweat poured down my face from straining my neck muscles. Turned water off. Turned water back on. In the morning, the sink would still be clogged with drying puke. Realized something. Laughed.
“This isn’t my jacket…”
Tony Hinds is a Winnipeg writer. He can be followed on Twitter at twitter.com/satiricarl. And he is on Facebook. Tony Hinds is 25 years old.
Photo Credit: victornuno
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