Page 72 of My Own Kind of Person

He’s one of the worst actors I’ve ever seen.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I am feeling like that was a useful rehearsal that will help you grow as an artist.”

“And?”

“And everything you want to talk about onstage is serious stuff, not funny stuff.”

He starts on his second cupcake. When he’s done, I pass him the 90 percent of mine that’s left.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “But I’m sad for me.”

“Why?”

“You’re changing. Those jokes you don’t want to make anymore? I like those jokes. The stuff you want to talk about instead? It goes over my head. And if you pull off what you’re talking about pulling off, it could be cool and original, but it wouldn’t be stand-up. And you wouldn’t be who you were before.”

“Isn’t that just growing up, though?”

“And wouldn’t you tell me it’s okay to be sad about that?”

I tell myself not to disappear. “I would.”

“My role as your manager is diminishing, and that’s okay because your creative self is expanding. But if you go where you’re trying to go, you won’t need me.”

“I’ll always need you.”

“How often do you actually take my advice?”

“I don’t know. How would you even quantify—”

“You have never taken it. I track the data.”

“It’s still helpful to hear.”

“But it’s not fun to be the person you don’t listen to.”

I’m hot. My face is hot. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to do whatever you want and whatever makes you happy. What do I think will make you win this competition? Jokes. Without any unnecessary stories that those jokes make you think about.”

“That set I did at McGuinn’s the other night, though—”

Sweat drips down his forehead. “Sal told me you kept people’s attention, but the set wasn’t that funny.”

“Why do I care what Sal—”

“You don’t have to care what Sal thinks! But this is a comedy competition, and the goal is to be funny. Not smart, not thought-provoking, not political. The goal is to be funny.”

“I don’t think that’s my goal.”

“Then I don’t think you’re a stand-up comic and I don’t think you need me as your manager.”

Elijah and Andi exit the garage.

Andi holds up a peace sign. “Elijah’s gonna buzz my hair.”

“Right now?” I ask.