It抯 beautiful, glorious, overwhelming; it抯 warm and it fills me, fuels me. I feel like a spark that抯 been begging for tinder, and this room is one of those old-timey blowers that puffs and fans me until I抦 ablaze.
With each crescendo I think I might really make it, I am f-u-n-n-y.
The applause is magnanimous. And then it抯 over.
It crashes.
I fizzle out.
Each step I take toward the side stage has me sliding down from an adrenaline mountain, and it抯 jarring and dreadful.
The only thing that helps梞y emergency pickaxe into the side of that mountain梚s Meyer抯 face. Everything around him is in disarray. The sound techs are wiping tears from their eyes. The MC is bent over with her legs crossed tightly around each other, presumably so she doesn抰 piddle. Meyer, however, is as solid and stoic as ever. His arms are crossed, hands tucked into his arm pits with his thumbs out. He manages to lift those thumbs toward me in salute; roaring adulation coming from him. His mouth is an underscore across his face, his brow is as furrowed as ever.
Meyer抯 steadfast grumpiness is my tether. It lassos me, pulls me back into my own body and into the present rather than in my head where I抦 always formulating a comeback or measuring and feeding a crowd. He抯 not my rock, he抯 my hammock. He holds and cocoons me in the shade on a summer day. Not that he抯 actually aware of this.
He抯 also my manager. My manager, who, incidentally, has also become my closest friend since he came into my life three years ago. Though, in reality, he抯 been a figure in my life for a bit longer. Not sure if he抯 entirely aware of that, either, or how much he even truly likes me back, but that抯 neither here nor there.
He likes to pretend that I annoy him endlessly, but I抳e caught the corners of those lips turning up, on occasion. I get him every single time I do the bit about that guy back in college. The one that slung my knees up to my temples like I was some sort of human sleeping bag he was trying to roll up梚nsert enthusiastic charades display of this act梐nd, after approximately sixty seconds of uninspired thrusting, that guy yell-whispered in my ear, 揑 WANT YOU TO ORGASM?to which I terrifyingly responded, 揙KAY?!? with a thumbs up. I then proceeded to do whatever the opposite is of orgasm, as well as prayed to the heavens that I would not let a fart out onto this man and risk this being turned into his funny story.
There are only a handful of occasions on which I抳e been able to get Meyer to crack his best, fullest smile, typically accompanied by a single-syllabled laugh. It抯 a smile and sound that Rocks. My. World. It has teeth and dimples and crinkled, jovial eyes. The first time I saw it, I audibly gasped before he zapped it away, practically vacuuming it off his face. The date was marked on my calendar and will live on in infamy.
There抯 just something that feels elevated about making another comedian laugh梕specially one who was as good and as sharp as Meyer was. As I suspect he still could be. He was big for a while there. He抎 been featured on a TV special that showcased a great group of up-and-coming comedians and had even opened for some huge names. His comedy was the kind that cut deceptively deep. His delivery was just a degree away from monotone梐lmost bored, irreverent, but always surprising. The sort of comedy that hit right away, but the more you went over it in your head, the funnier it still became. He didn抰 require animated facial expressions or anything in the way of physical comedy, and rarely uttered a curse, which only made them more effective when he did. Each bit always flowed seamlessly into the next, like he was telling you one long story.
It was quite the opposite of my brand, come to think of it.
揑 told you that joke was shitty,?he says with mirth in his icy blue eyes as I turn off my mic and earpiece.
揇id you just make a joke about a joke, Meyer??His only response is an eye roll as he turns to keep walking with me.
揥here抯 Hazel??I ask, searching around for his daughter.
揗arissa took her tonight. She was supposed to write an essay but didn抰。？
揂n essay at ten years old? Jesus, what kind of school do you have her in? I抦 on her side.?
He sighs tiredly, rolling his eyes some more. 揟he kind with the best programs and teachers available for Deaf students. The very expensive kind. The kind that I抎 like to be able to continue to afford, so let抯 perhaps avoid the fecal matters in the future.?
揘ice. Also, you抮e saying I should include more of that 揂wful Offal?in my set, so she can go back to hanging with us all the time??I ask, including the headline from the last, most negative review I received. 揂nd, as I抳e told you repeatedly, Meyer, hot girls have tummy troubles.?
揑 think I抳e reached my limit on the judgment I can take for having a child at a comedy show featuring you giving a QVC worthy presentation on your sex toy collection, Jonesy.?He refrains from addressing the last bit.
揟hat bit is a long-winded public service announcement. I抦 using my platform wisely.?
揑抳e been threatened with CPS twice.?
揙nly before you explained that she couldn抰 actually hear anything I was saying.?I hold my hands up in placation.
揥hich, as you抣l recall, only had them judging harder.?And I can抰 help the genuine laugh that tumbles out of me when he says this, because Hazel loves it. She loves to be in a room of laughter despite the lack of sound. And I think that抯 why I fell in love with her, because she can feel it, can feel that energy around her and is just as addicted to it as I am.
She抯 also entirely oblivious to any of the complications it causes her father, and he intends to keep it that way, which is maybe why I抦 a bit in love with him, too.
揧ou think me being judged is funny??he smirks and quirks an eyebrow at me.
揥ell, no, but when you get the hang of it厰 I shrug, and his expression deepens. We both know the judgment that comes with this line of work, the risks you take with certain material. And while I always strive to push the envelope on social commentary, I refuse to do it at the expense of someone else抯 humanity. I抎 rather tell shitty fart jokes and make fun of myself than be an asshole in the name of being edgy.
But, while I feel like my career is gaining traction, I抦 not quite big-time enough to avoid being sucked into the vortex of reading the comments online. This week抯 Imposter Syndrome is sponsored by one that said, 揑 don抰 care if she is mildly hot when she actually speaks like a human being. I can抰 stand this obnoxious woman. She complains about the audacity of men, yet （if the shit she blithers on about is any indication） I抎 bet money that she has a body count higher than her IQ. This bitch is a train wreck, and if she didn抰 dance around or scream like a banshee, nothing she said would even be remotely funny.?
Before you ask, yes, the commenter抯 name was Chad and yes, his profile was a photo menagerie of him in dudebro trucker hats梙iding what is undoubtedly a receding hairline梙olding all the flavors of Monster energy drinks and wearing white Oakley抯 backwards on his head. Obviously.
But did I look up what a body count was on Urban Dictionary thanks to Chad? Yes, yes, I did. I抎 always assumed that the term was some weird new way of referencing weight. Not so, my dudes.
Then I spiraled into wondering if anyone had ever asked me what my body count was and how I抎 answered. Meyer assured me I had not, at least not that he was aware of. And he抯 basically aware of everything when it comes to me.
I take in the hard lines of his profile now. How the man has time for the gym, I抣l never know, but it抯 clear that he does. Along with whatever super soldier serum he抯 microdosing, he抯 also grown so much grayer since I first met him. The stubble around his jawline is peppered with it, and where it was lightly scattered in the hairline surrounding his ears before, it抯 now flowing throughout. He抯 thirty-five, so ten years my senior, but he抯 only just beginning to look it.