“Usually it’s ‘waitress’！” Ari quips, making Josh’s mother laugh a lot harder than the joke deserves. Ari’s brain begins scanning for new potential ways to achieve the dopamine hit of making Abby crack up again. “Comedy doesn’t really need more ways to make gender more obvious.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Abby says with a serious nod. She leans in and whispers, “Josh could still be the David Chang of pastrami sandwiches, you know.”
A voice over the sound system announces the start of the dinner. Ari tries not to think about which catering company booked this gig and whether she could have been getting extra holiday pay tonight by refilling glasses of champagne instead of drinking them.
“I feel like I’m at church,” Ari observes, looking up at the stained-glass windows and fifty-foot ceilings that ring the space.
“They do absolutely beautiful weddings in here,” Abby says. She’s unstoppable. “Only twenty thousand for a Saturday night reception.”
A woman with blown-out hair and questionable lip fillers touches Josh’s mother on the shoulder to congratulate her on a closing. Abby holds up a finger to pause the greeting.
“Ari, sit next to me? I want to hear all about your comedy and how you two met. Joshua is always so secretive. Taking an interest in your son’s life isn’t ‘meddling.’？” She doesn’t wait for a response, taking a step away from the table to graciously listen to the woman’s complaints about her co-op board.
Ari turns to Josh, who pulls out the chair in front of her. “Do you want to describe the tentacle dildo, or should I?”
“My mother thinks she can speak things into existence through sheer force of will,” he whispers over the cacophony, his mouth very close—almost ASMR-close—to her ear. “I’ll straighten it out.”
They both sit as a waiter offers them a champagne refill. A curator on the left side of the table blathers on about how his team selected the featured photographs for the exhibition, all the while focusing his eyes approximately ten inches below Ari’s face. He introduces himself as “Dr. Davison.” No first name mentioned, probably to force everyone to use the title “Dr.” She longs for her cardigan.
Abby returns to her seat next to Ari and picks up where they left off.
“So have you performed with anyone I’d know? I love Amy Schumer.”
Ari disguises a snort and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Though I might have opened for a guy that wiped down tables at the Comedy Cellar before one of Amy Schumer’s sets.”
“I find it absolutely fascinating.” Abby places all her focus on Ari and it feels like something in between a beam of sunshine and an interrogation lamp. “The kind of self-confidence you need to get up in front of strangers and try to make them laugh.”
“My friend Gabe always says that performing is equal parts masochism and praise kink.” Ari feels her cheeks heat. She should’ve paraphrased that, but Abby lets out a laugh. “Improv gives you something totally unique as a performer.” She pauses in case Josh’s mom is just making polite small talk. But Abby’s still listening intently, with her chin in her palm. “You’re part of a team and there’s so much trust there. With the right group of people and a good audience, you can feel it under your skin, just this…giddiness. You’re in control, but only to a certain extent, and you have to be vulnerable enough to accept the surprises. It’s this series of moments that are never going to happen quite that way ever again. You can’t hold on to it. You can’t repeat it. You can make the most perfect joke in the universe and you know it’ll only happen once. It’s magic.”
Abby nods. “That’s exactly how I feel when a property goes into escrow.”
Ari continues, barely pausing to breathe. “And if I can get another comedian to laugh at my joke or to get my team member to break onstage? I’ll wake up the next morning thinking about it. Replaying it. I could live off that feeling for days. What other profession gives you that high after seven minutes onstage, making up ridiculous shit?”
“Politics?” the leering curator offers. She hadn’t noticed the entire table listening.
Ari smiles and digs into her limp salad, suddenly self-conscious about the whole monologue.
“I like her, Joshua.” Abby takes a big gulp of her drink. “I like her.”
* * *
EVEN THOUGH THE event ostensibly celebrates purveyors of “iconic New York cuisine,” Josh finds the “late dinner” predictably bland, even by his dad’s standards. Maybe Danny Kestenberg didn’t have an adventurous palate, but he’d never serve people soggy latkes. Josh looks down at the black square plate in front of him, wishing it was one of his dad’s thick white dishes with perfectly juicy slices of brisket and a sauce that was always a touch too sweet.