Page 41 of My Own Kind of Person

I hear my voice say, “Joe Johnson does say the only goal is to be funny.”

This makes me even sadder.

“And this is for his competition.” Tony holds out a wad of napkins. “Now put your pee tissues down your pants and pray.”

Chapter 13

McGuinn’s is more packed than I’ve ever seen. There’s a long table of women in the back and a loud table of men in the front. Two servers are working. Most shocking of all, it doesn’t smell like urine.

Tony and I are sitting in the opposite corner of the room as Sal. I have been about to introduce myself to him for twenty minutes.

“Walk over and say, ‘Good evening. I’m Sean O’Brien.’ ”

“You want me to say, ‘Good evening’?”

“It’s the appropriate greeting after six p.m.”

“Why don’t you introduce us? You’re the manager.”

“That’s a good point.” He keeps nodding. “I’m too scared, though.”

“Ugh.”

I zigzag between the tables, my giant shirt and tie flowing around me. Sal is grandparent-age with a fake tan and long white hair brushed back over the top of his balding head. Half his face droops a little and the other half is a non-smile.

I raise a hand as I approach. “Good—”

Bobby Bingo, without noticing me at all, drops into the seat across from Sal and says, “I will not put Sean O’Brien on that stage.”

I turn around.

And walk into Mrs. Farmer.

“Sean O’Brien!”

Her purple-brown hair is meticulously shaped the same as at school but she’s wearing a bright green dress that shows a significant amount of cleavage. She has freckles on her breasts. I’ve never thought about freckles on breasts before.

“Oh my gosh,” she says. “Are you performing?”

Sal turns around in the booth. A crucifix hangs out of his white button-down.

I wave. “Good morning!”

I break into a sweat.

Mrs. Farmer turns to Sal. “I am Sean’s biggest fan.”

Bobby Bingo laughs. “Why?”

This shirt has no breathability. It’s like it’s made of old carpets.

“He does the morning announcements at our school,” Mrs. Farmer says. “He is hysterical.”

Sal looks at me. “How old are you?”

I’m so overheated I can’t think straight. “Old enough to die for this country.”

“Eighteen?”