This Story Might Save Your Life(41)
I shake my head again. “Not that I’m aware.”
“Good, good.” He rests a hand on Carlotta’s shoulder. “That’s good.”
Luna nudges me. “You should tell them about the money.”
I flash her a look.
“What? They might have ideas. It’s not like you have anything to hide.”
This is not info I’m willing to share, not until I have a better understanding of what’s going on. But Luna is right about one thing—they might have ideas. I lower my voice to a whisper. “Mallory and Quinn were fighting just now.”
Luna leans in. “About what?”
Quickly, I report what I heard. “What do you think? Do you think Mallory knows something?”
Carlotta glances up at Emil, who shrugs. I wait impatiently for someone to chime in.
Finally, Luna says, “I don’t know, Benny. That could’ve been about anything.”
“She’s right.” Carlotta nods. “Let’s not read too much into it. Everyone’s a little on edge right now.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I regret snapping before I even close my mouth, but come on. She’s a judge. She’s seen terrible things in her court. She of all people should understand why I would be suspicious. “I’m just saying. It didn’t sound like a domestic squabble.”
None of them respond, and suddenly I feel like I’m all alone out here. Like I’m imagining things. Face hot, I stare at the ground as the thrumming shriek of crickets fills the silence.
Joy Moore
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT
Twenty Months Ago
Our feet-wetting shows were small on a relative scale but huge for us novices. A few hundred people on weekdays at local comedy clubs. If you were among those in attendance for that first show, you know how nervous I was. The moment Benny and I stepped through the curtain, I started giggling like a fool because who did we think we were? How was this our life? When we took our onstage seats, I thought I might be able to play it cool, but unfortunately I’d opted to lead. Turns out, when you’re holding two pages of research in one hand and a microphone in the other, it’s impossible to disguise the quakes.
Lord help me, I was an amateur. My mouth was dry. My lips stuck to my teeth. Bizarre sounds escaped my mouth, and the more it happened the more nervous I got.
“Someone bring Joy a cocktail,” Benny shouted, interrupting me.
I giggled—more giggling—and fanned myself with my printouts. “I might be better off with a diaper.”
“That I cannot help you with.” Benny tossed me an encouraging wink, and I allowed myself a moment to look deep into his eyes. There, I found it: my footing.
“That reminds me of the time I peed in a diaper when I was fourteen.”
Benny didn’t miss a beat. “I have so many questions.”
“I was at my friend’s house, and her older sister was hogging the only bathroom. And we’d just downed, like, an entire liter of Pepsi.”
“I’m here for this.”
“You know that science experiment where you drop Mentos into soda? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Where it makes a geyser?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you the geyser in this scenario?”
“Exactly.”
Benny laughed. “Okay, walk us through this. You grabbed a diaper and then what?”
“Well. This is where the story gets complicated.”
Put in a nutshell, friends, don’t relieve your bladder in baby diapers when you’re past the age of two.
Potty humor. Never gets old. And in this case, it saved me from certain failure.
After we wrapped the show, I was buzzing. “I am never going to be able to fall asleep.”
Benny grinned. “Better than drugs.”
“But seriously, I don’t think I’m going to be able to fall asleep.”
First lesson learned: don’t book the shows too late at night. Narcolepsy be damned, it took hours to come down from that high.
The next lesson was even trickier: how to travel cross-country with your best friend and your husband and have no one threaten homicide.
* * *
PODCAST TOURS ARE interesting beasts. Someday, Benny and I will devote an entire episode to the myriad stories resulting from our grand nineteen-city tour. Like when Xander went ahead to make sure our Portland venue was ready, and Benny and I took a detour to Voodoo Doughnut and ended up getting so lost we arrived fifteen minutes after curtain call. Or the night all three of us got food poisoning from our room service fried chicken in Charleston. Or the time I fell asleep on the subway between our Park Slope Airbnb and our SoHo venue, and they had to carry me off the train.
To ensure I was able to remain on schedule in light of possible extenuating circumstances (jet lag, flight delays, food poisoning), we padded extra days onto each city. Still, this wasn’t “safe” enough for Xander. He wanted every second accounted for. Every tourist stop, every dinner reservation, naps, bathroom breaks, you get the picture. It was Very Responsible, and it got old. Fast.
By the time we landed in our twelfth city, Savannah, the mood had grown tense. We were in desperate need of a team-building exercise, and I decided a ghost tour was just the ticket. Specifically one that included booze. Out of an abundance of caution, I hadn’t indulged in a single sip since we left Los Angeles, and I was due for a beer. We all were. I booked us without asking and announced it over lunch.