Page 73 of My Own Kind of Person

“I’ll finally be beautiful!” Andi shouts as they climb into their truck.

Elijah skips to his shiny white car. “You two should come!”

“My house!” Andi slams their door.

I want to follow. I want to be part of Andi and Elijah’s new club.

“Elijah and I are dating,” I say to Tony.

“Congrats,” he replies, expressionless.

Elijah turns and runs back to us. Not at all out of breath, he says to Tony, “Thank you for having me today. This garage is one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. You’re a great friend and Sean is lucky to have you as a manager.” He looks at me. “We still have to get to that stuff we were looking forward to.”

Does my face turn red? “We do.”

“Message me?”

“Yes.”

He grins and races away.

I turn to Tony, a huge smile on my face.

“I’m worried about you,” he says.

My smile drops. “Why?”

“The things you’re trying to process onstage don’t belong in a comedy club.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They belong in a therapist’s office.”

My face goes soft.

He holds open his hands. “I’m not saying it as a bad thing. I’ve been in therapy for years.”

“I’m opposed to the idea that certain sides of myself are only allowed in certain places. I reject it.”

“That’s fine. But it’s not the responsibility of a comedy club audience to accept you,” he says. “I’m worried you’re going to go up there and bare your soul or whatever, and everyone is going to look at you like you’re insane. They’re going to laugh at you, not with you.”

“If a stage at a comedy club can’t take me as I am, then maybe it’s not the right place for me.”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

“And maybe I don’t need you as my manager. And you don’t have to come to the show.”

Usually when I disassociate, it’s because I don’t want to feel a difficult emotion. But looking at the pain on Tony’s face, I’m interested to notice that it’s his emotion I’m unable to allow myself to process. I hurt someone I love, and I don’t want to be anywhere near the experience. There’s probably a good realization here about how humans don’t allow ourselves to feel the pain we cause others, how this makes us all less human, but that’s a thought for another day. For now, I’m silently screaming on my way to the car as Mrs. Z shouts, “Pizza bagels!”

Chapter 23

At home I put on Joe Johnson’s second special, Mean Bowl o’ Cereal. This is the one with the folk singer as the opener. It was shot in a club in Greenwich Village in front of an audience of regular patrons as well as actors in historical garb. Joe released it for free online and it was his last indie weirdo before the mainstream success of his third special. I watch with a pencil and paper so I can map the major thematic movements of the special. Mom makes us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and watches with me. She laughs the whole hour.

When it ends, my paper is still blank. There’s no arc to map. No deeper message. Is the special lacking something or was Tony right—am I no longer interested in comedy?

“He is good,” Mom says, and carries our crumpled paper towels to the kitchen. Cat Cat hops off the couch and trots behind her.

I message Andi, Do you have a minute to help with this set?