Page 5 of My Own Kind of Person

He nods.

I don’t think I know how to talk to people.

“Anyway,” I say, “if you have an opening at the next showcase, I have no life and I am available.”

“Yeah? The crowd does like you.”

“They do, right?”

He looks at my shoes, faded P.F. Flyers onto which I painted two halves of a red heart.

“You’re a funny kid.”

I smile. “Funny like hilarious or like strange?”

He makes a breathy sound similar to a laugh. “We don’t got any spots next week.”

Heat rises to my eyes, but I tell myself to be confident and direct. That’s what Tony says his dad tells him.

I stand taller. “Give me three minutes, Bobby. I’ll kill.”

“You can keep coming to the open mic.”

“I’m sure—”

“Next time bring guests who laugh. One of your friends looks at his phone the whole time and the other scares people. Asses in seats are good, but we want ones that actually laugh.”

I believe I am about to cry. “Laughing asses!”

It’s time for me to go. I give the signal to Tony—a thumb in my back pocket—and my phone buzzes.

He’s texted: Say “argh, the old ball and chain won’t get off my back”

“Sorry,” I say, “my girlfriend…”

He texts again: Say “she wants to make out right now? It’s a weeknight!”

“I gotta go.”

Bobby Bingo points his seltzer at me. “Tell your girlfriend to come next time. And tell her to bring friends.”

Outside, the air is hot and sticky. I cross the parking lot pulling at my tie and unbuttoning my shirt. Tony runs past me. He pops the trunk of his bright green Jeep, unzips a duffel bag, and passes me a water bottle and a protein bar.

Tony and I lived next to each other when Mom and I were in our first real house. One day Mom wasn’t paying attention and pulled into Tony’s family’s driveway instead of ours, and we walked in and literally sat at the kitchen table before wondering why there was a giant crucifix on the wall. Tony has stayed my brother-from-another-mother through all the times Mom and I have moved. Sometimes Mom would drop me at Tony’s for a weekend or the whole summer, and I’d learn about Jesus and St. Anthony and how to pronounce the names of Italian cheeses.

I take a bite of the protein bar. “Bobby Bingo shot me down.”

“Bobby Bingo doesn’t matter.”

“He does if I want to get out of this garbage club.”

And this garbage island, really.

Andi Lucero, the Reigning Monarch of Apathy, coughs from their seat on the hood of their rusted brown Ford pickup.

Tony jumps. “Have you been there this whole time?”

“It’s only been like five seconds,” Andi says, monotone on point.