Page 38 of My Own Kind of Person

Mrs. Z puts a plate of warm cookies between us. “I’ve got a batch of chocolate chipless ones coming right up, Seanathan.”

She has sleek hair and nails that clack against each other when she talks. Her eyebrows are perfectly shaped because the skin under them is tattooed brown.

“No thanks, Other Mother.”

“But I already scooped out the chips.”

Tony doesn’t look up. “He can’t eat, Ma.”

She motions at me. “But you’re so skinny.”

“I get nervous before going onstage,” I say.

“Performance anxiety affects at least twenty-five percent of men,” Tony declares. “Closer to ninety percent based on polling in certain forums.”

I bite a cookie and I bite it again. The chocolate chips are horrible but I don’t want to be in the twenty-five to ninety percent of anxious men. “After you called I spent the rest of my shift revising this new set. I can’t help but think it could be infinitely better than the old one.”

“But is it already? How many PPM?”

I give a face like, Huh?

“Punchlines per minute.”

“That’s not a unit of measurement.”

“It is for me and it is for Sal.”

Mr. Z coughs his way in and gives me a nod, his shaved head shiny over his pointy beard. He’s wearing a tank top of Darth Vader carrying an American flag. “Wazzap?”

He pours a bowl of super cereal, a combination of the last bits of the three almost-empty boxes left out on the counter. The other time I saw him do this, he said it was a dad’s job.

“You really believe the new set is better?” Tony says.

“I believe it could be.”

“Let me read it,” Tony says.

“Absolutely not.”

Mr. Z sits beside me and takes an enormous bite of cereal. He talks with his mouth full. “Sal used to be a real jerk.”

Mrs. Z wipes down the counter. “Anyone want pretzels? Soda?”

Tony looks at his dad. “Sal?”

“I’ve worked with him over the years.” Mr. Z is a criminal defense attorney. He’s sometimes on local news saying his client denies all allegations. “He used to be a jerk but then he had a stroke.”

“Oh, God,” I say.

“Exactly.” He points his spoon at me. “He goes to church now. Make sure your cross is out and he’ll put you on the show.”

He untucks his gold crucifix.

“Shouldn’t the work be the only thing that matters?” I ask.

“Sean doesn’t have a cross,” Tony says.

“No?” Mr. Z takes his off. I expect him to show it to me, but he drapes it over my neck. “Bring it back when you’re done.”