“You’re doing a really terrible job of cheering me up,” Ari mumbles into the rim of the bottle.
“I’m not trying to cheer you up.” He takes a drink. “I’m still pissed. But let me tell you a little industry secret.” Gabe leans forward, gesturing for her to do the same. “It’s definitely not a viable career if you never actually, you know, do it.” He flicks his finger against her forehead. “It’s not even a hobby.”
“Crochet is a hobby.” She nods toward the stage. “That’s self-inflicted torture.”
“If you really want to make it up to me, I need you to do two things.” He slides off his stool. “First, LaughRiot won a grant for a series of comedy workshops for at-risk teen girls. You’re teaching every session.” He takes a long glance at the list of names on his open mic sign-up sheet. “Second, you’re up next.”
Ari plants herself more firmly on the stool. “I’m not getting up there. I don’t have any material.”
“You only need to fill seven minutes. I’ll even give you a pseudonym.” Gabe tilts his head. “You’re finally at a place in your life as a comedian where you can complain about your ex-wife. That’s the dream.”
“Oh yes, the cliché of getting up at an open mic and treating it like a big group therapy moment.”
“Exactly. You can die onstage tonight and it’ll probably be the worst set you’ve ever done. With that out of the way, you’ll feel one percent better. And then you’ll get up next week and embarrass yourself again.” He sets down his empty beer. “You have to start somewhere.”
“No, wait.” Ari grabs his forearm. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“You’re an improviser. Ask for a suggestion from the audience.”
She glances around the half-empty crowd. “They’ll just say ‘penis.’？”
“If anyone knows how to work with a ‘penis,’ it’s you.” Gabe leads some tepid applause and jogs up to the mic. “And now, a special surprise.” Ari chugs the rest of the beer and looks for an escape route or hiding place. “Please give a slightly better-than-average welcome to”—he pauses and Ari recognizes the look on his face when he’s trying to generate a ridiculous character name—“Freckles McCloud.”
She puts the beer bottle down and takes her time weaving through the tables up to the mic. There are maybe five people watching and ten people clearly not watching and Ari makes the mistake of scanning their faces. Her knees shake.
“Hi, I’m…Freckles.” It’s been years since she felt this specific brand of nervous on any kind of stage. “This is where you say ‘Hi, Freckles.’？” There’s still some chatter, which is almost more disrespectful than absolute silence. “No addicts in here tonight? Surprising. Okay.” She looks longingly at the bright red exit sign and the clump of smokers outside the front door. She keeps her feet planted, anyway. “Well, hi, my name is Freckles and it’s been…approximately ten months since I sent a tasteful nude to my ex-wife.”
* * *
—
ARI BEGRUDGINGLY ADMITS TO HERSELF that doing a terribly uneven open mic had imbued her with some sense of excitement. A little touch of the old electricity zipping up and down her limbs, swirling around her chest. The comedy holy spirit.
It gives her just enough of the necessary push to haul her ass onto the train, despite the late hour, and see the person she’s been missing terribly and avoiding for months.
Ari still has the key to Radhya’s but it feels wrong to knock and enter this time. She knocks and waits, staring at the nondescript door, with its familiar scuffs and smudges. After twenty seconds that feel like long minutes, Ari hears footsteps. Radhya undoes the dead bolt and opens the door three inches.
“I’m not okay,” Ari says immediately, before Rad can shut the door again. “Not fine.”
There’s a pause and then the door opens wider. “Grilled cheese?”
Ari follows Radhya inside and curls up on the couch under a fleece blanket. The TV is on, tuned to one of those stations for old people that only plays nineties sitcoms. They stare at an episode of That ’70s Show while crunching into buttery grilled cheese sandwiches.
“I feel like human garbage,” Ari says between bites. “Our last few conversations have been so…”
“Terrible?” Radhya suggests. “Fraught? Passive-aggressive dumpster fires?”