Page 44 of My Own Kind of Person

I tell myself to keep talking. I don’t know what I’m about to say.

“But I’m starting to think that by jokingly putting myself down, I’ve been actually putting myself down. By joking about how I don’t meet gender norms, I’ve been reaffirming those gender norms.”

The guy who’s been laughing up front says, “Damn.”

I point at him and say, “I agree!”

Everyone laughs the loudest they have yet.

“I’ve never liked men, and now I have to grow up into one?” I look back at the laughing guy and whisper into the mic, “Would you say, ‘Damn,’ again?”

The guy shouts, “Damn!”

I shout back, “I agree!”

Inexplicably, thankfully, everyone laughs. Even the guy’s friends.

I walk to the center of the stage and put the mic in the stand.

“I’m trying to be a good guy for my girlfriend,” I say. “A guy who sits down to pee but also understands the anatomy of her genitalia. I’m trying to be a nice boy for my mom. A boy who sits down to pee and doesn’t know anything about anyone’s genitalia. I’m trying to be a funny kid for everyone at school, for all of you here. I’m trying to make sure we all hear the word genitalia as many times as possible. But I’m growing up. I’m becoming a man.”

What is happening?

“I want to be a good man, but I can’t imagine a man I’d like to be.”

My face trembles. Before the tears can start I give a strong point to the laughing guy and he shouts, “Damn!”

The tension breaks and the room laughs.

I wave goodbye and leave the stage. Two of the guys at the table ignore me but the laughing guy smiles and another guy gives an affirmative nod. Tony carefully stops his recording and looks my way. Mrs. Farmer looks down, touching a finger to the corner of her eye.

Bobby Bingo takes the stage and says something loud. No one laughs.

My skin tingles. I’m dizzy. I go to the bar for the first time ever and I ask for a cold water. The bartender says she likes my new set. I drink the whole glass but I’m still dizzy, so I sit on a stool.

I look at my hands. They’re shaking.

Christy sits beside me. “You were amazing up there.”

I can barely hear anything. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry I said not to cry more than me. I meant it as a joke, but it wasn’t funny.”

“It’s okay. I hope it’s okay that I mentioned it.”

“Totally.”

Her eyes get wide. She’s looking behind me.

Sal leans on the bar, out of breath.

“I don’t know if you’re funny, but you kept the crowd’s attention,” he says. “You said things other comics aren’t brave enough to say, and I respect that. You’re not an opener or a closer, but you could be a change of pace in the middle.”

“The middle?” My voice is low. Slow. The way it was in the bathroom when I met Elijah.

“I can give you five minutes at the Joe Johnson thing. Thursday at Captain’s.”

“Don’t you have to watch the rest of the comics tonight?”