More specifically, my hope got stuck in Phoenix after miraculously making it out of both Cincinnati and Chicago in spite of the midwestern snowstorm, but still.
Fucking Phoenix. Two states away. But, after all flights were grounded until this morning, it抯 the closest they could get Meyer to Sacramento, today, with the last leg tomorrow morning.
This cannot be happening.
Clay抯 fine. Nice. Attentive. A little pedantic with the way he speaks about everything. But this is the first （first!!!） prequel to the biggest career opportunity I抳e ever had and his persistent efforts are having the opposite of their intended effect.
揊arley??
揥hat?!?I snipe. And now I抦 more irritated that I have to apologize for that, as well.
揝orry, Clay.?
揑t抯 alright. I get it. I won抰 hover. I抣l just give you your time,?he nods graciously and leaves the green room.
I lurch up from the sofa and begin pacing, taking stock of my feelings.
I抦 tired and wired. My first night on the tour bus, in the tiny single bunk was far from peaceful. I don抰 know why I thought the bus would have a room with a normal-sized bed. We抮e comedians, not pop stars, after all. There抯 only a hallway lined with four bunks, plus a fold out sofa, and a single bathroom at the rear. It won抰 be too uncomfortable to manage, since it抯 only in between towns and then we抣l have hotels lined up.
But up until we all scattered for bed, I抎 simply not allowed myself to consider the worst. I抎 stayed distracted; laughing with Kara, Shauna, Clay, and our driver Sven, assuming Meyer would make it and meet us here.
Now that it抯 here and he抯 not, I feel wholly unprepared again.
揃ut you抮e not,?I say out loud, turning to my reflection in the vanity. 揙h, you again,?I laugh on a breath before I let my face harden.
揧ou are prepared. You love this shit because it scares you. Because you抮e damn good on your toes and you抮e even better when you work from your mind. You defied every ounce of logic getting here. You抳e made it because you抮e not afraid to do scary, uncomfortable things so that you can take part in something that you love. You are fucking funny, Farley. Fuck, that抯 a lot of F抯。 What they lack knowing, you make up for in showing. Just wait until you blow their minds.?
I shove open the door and march out into the hallway.
I didn抰 grow up playing sports?at least not very competitively, but this hallway is my stadium tunnel tonight. This isn抰 some big arena梚t抯 a small club, so there抯 no walk-out song to announce me aside from the roaring sound in my brain and the echos of my thoughts. Thoughts that are shaded in angry defiance: for every time someone made me feel strange, crazy, overly emotional, or too much of too many things. Even more so for all the times I was made to feel insignificant and unimportant. For anyone who ever felt they were too good for me, or better than me. For the ones who made me feel lesser than.
I抣l take this microphone and I抣l shout into it, into their fucking faces. And I抣l get them. Because they will laugh. They won抰 be able to stop themselves. Because I will shirk my pride, my self-esteem, and every ounce of self-preservation down to my marrow, and I抣l lay it all at their feet until they laugh in utter disbelief.
I don抰 want to just entertain, tonight. I want to evoke emotion. I want my jokes circulating through their thoughts, making them laugh into their coffee tomorrow.
I want to channel my inner Hazel. I want to be someone who can dance without music. Someone who can make art with my frame of understanding.
揧ou ready??Clay looks up from his phone, his eyes shifting and going wide when they meet mine.
揑抣l kick ass, Dad.?
揥hat??
I walk out onto the stage with a smile.
My set becomes a a singeing, burning thing.
It抯 not the largest club I抳e gigged at?it might even be on the smaller end of the spectrum. But people are yelping in laughter. Kara and Shauna more loudly than anyone. There are tears being wiped. Drinks being choked on. I see it when someone抯 beverage shoots out of their nose, their friends crying in agonized fits for minutes after.
Every single face in the room that I can see is losing it, and when they抮e not clutching their middles they抳e got astonished smiles tacked into the corners of their lips.
All those faces, except for one.
It started when I went off path with a lead-up story I抳e been playing with that crosses over into the PTA bit. It抯 based on another true tale which only Meyer has heard. It抯 one he begged me not to tell on stage, simply because of the punchline. But I抦 fearless tonight because I have given myself no choice otherwise, and I want their gasps and I crave the sight of them hiding their expressions in their palms, embarrassed for how hard they laugh at such an inappropriate line.
I begin by telling them that I fear becoming a parent one day, because the pressure put on parenting as a whole, nowadays, seems insurmountable. The only real goal I抎 have is to raise someone not terrible to other people. Yet, I can only imagine that this is harder than I understand, and I use this story to explain why.
I change the kids?names, but I tell everyone about a meangirl（sic） in Hazel抯 class that I had interactions with while I covered Meyer抯 volunteer hours at school （a gift for his birthday that he was more stoked for than when his show got an Emmy nod）。 I explain to them how this little girl pretended to be Hazel抯 friend; volunteering to help or making sure to smile and sign happily when the teacher was looking. How she抎 pretend not to see Hazel sign, or attempt to communicate with her when the teacher wasn抰。 How condescending the girl was when she would interact. I watched her eye Hazel抯 artwork patronizingly, and then rearrange their art displays so that her own work was only next to her hearing friends? as if she didn抰 want to be associated with Hazel, or something. I share how Hazel would excitedly show her a beautiful drawing or a perfect spelling test score and her response was something like 揟hat抯？exciting for you,?or just 揥ow.?Never actually would tell her anything she did was good, never would pay her a true compliment, or show support. She was eight, yet knew how to be so intentional as to manipulate her words so that she was withholding.
And then, the pi鑓e de r閟istance: At recess one day, while Hazel happily jumped rope on her own, minding her own business, I heard it. I heard this little girl mimic a Deaf voice. Heard her snickering to some other little sweater-toothed, snot-licking gremlins, mocking some of the Deaf students?sounds.
Now, in stand-up, you have to be willing to offend people at times. You have to make your peace with it and draw your personal boundaries, but ultimately you will get under someone抯 skin occasionally if you抮e pushing the conversation correctly. I don抰 mess with race or say anything that will promote ableism, and I keep it light when it comes to religion. I try not to take up space where I don抰 need to.
Myself and my own lunacy, the patriarchy, and asshole kids, though? All free game.
I don抰 think this joke breaks my vow.
So, I distinctly register when this particular woman抯 expression pinches into one of disgust and loathing tonight, because it抯 also the moment that I tell everyone how I completely snapped to Meyer （in the joke, to a teacher） later and called this little girl 摋an evil little cunt creature who will grow up into some equally mean-spirited boss babe twat who produces another crotch goblin that she acts like is Jesus incarnate.?
The woman in the audience refuses to crack at any of the stuff that follows, too, and I become hung up on it. I find myself growing louder when I near her side of the stage. Looking directly at her, over and over again.