At this point, Ari would rather clean toilets than get back onstage and try to make people laugh.
From one of the two cramped stalls, Gabe belts out the last line of “Giants in the Sky,” his aggressive vibrato bouncing off the tile.
The stall door swings open. “God, I love the acoustics in here.”
“The climactic toilet flush at the end really sells it,” Ari says, scouring soapy residue from the ancient porcelain sink.
He hums the melody again, grabbing Ari by the arms and whirling her around against her will. Gabe is perpetually over-caffeinated, a loud talker, and always has a questionably relevant story at the ready in both English and Spanish. His smile is insane—his actual teeth are large. He played Gaston in Tokyo Disneyland for the better part of 2012. Radhya still calls him that and he believes it to be a compliment.
Gabe leans close to the mirror, examining a tiny blemish on his forehead. “Did I ever tell you that I played Rapunzel’s prince in a production of Into the Woods at that dinner theater outside Minneapolis?” He did, multiple times. “Fell in love with a waiter. Got cheated on by the waiter. Started doing stand-up to get some control over my feelings about the waiter.” He looks at her through the reflection in the mirror. “Comedy about breakups is relatable as fuck.”
So, this isn’t just janitorial work—it’s a learning moment. “I didn’t get cheated on,” Ari says, returning her attention to the sink.
He turns from the mirror and Ari feels a monologue coming on. “We perform because we are desperate for praise and approval and we’re deeply troubled people and I’m challenging you to take all of that grief and mine your pain for material that’s both emotionally raw and hilarious.”
“Challenge not accepted.” He’s right, though. When a personal disaster happens, you turn it into a bit. Use it as inspiration for a sketch or a relatable one-liner that you hope will go viral on Twitter. But Ari can’t bring herself to do that.
“You haven’t showed up to practice with our Harold team in weeks,” he points out.
Okay, so maybe she’d missed some rehearsals with the improv group she’s been a part of for six years. “There’s no ‘grief,’？” she insists, scrubbing at the porcelain. “I’m fine. I’m just busy with my five jobs and NeverTired gigs.”
“It throws off the chemistry when you’re not there.” A wrinkle appears above his brow. “We’re splintering. Half the team is talking about relocating to Chicago to do corporate improv-training for Second City. That’s how they make money, you know. Sellouts.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Unfortunately, when you say that to an actor, the insult doesn’t land.
“Okay, then how about getting up at Therapy tonight? Seven minutes?”
This “Therapy” is not a garden-level office where a pleasant woman tilts her head while she asks you to “say more about that.” Ari is certain she will never, ever want to say more about that. In Gabe’s world, Therapy is the bar around the corner where he hosts a comedy show on Thursdays and flirts with aspiring Broadway performers Friday through Wednesday.
Performing has always been Ari’s escape from her problems—she usually feels more at home onstage with her friends than anywhere else. But she had a few disastrous improv shows the week after Cass left. It felt like her neurons failed to fire. She froze up. Two nights later, she’d bombed—like, bombed—a stand-up set. More evidence of her personal failure. The last thing she needs is a stage. She’d rather be anonymous or ignored right now. Why give an audience of strangers the opportunity to validate all the toxic thoughts brewing in her mind? Better to throw herself into catering and freelancing and jobs where people don’t punish her with stony silence because she’s just a little preoccupied with the way her wife left her with an empty apartment because she’s decided she’s “beholden only to herself.”
Ari exhales. She’d scoured off the top layer of white enamel on the sink.
She shoves a stack of fresh paper towels into the dispenser and slams it shut. “I’ve told you. I’m not capable of being funny right now. I’m busy writing customized eulogies for fifteen dollars each.”
He narrows his eyes. “All this moping over a woman who used to tell people she conjured you out of Manic Panic, nipple piercings, and secondhand bong vapor?”
“That’s basically a compliment.” Ari aggressively sprays glass cleaner over the mirror, blotting out her own reflection. “And I’m not moping.”