Page 83 of My Own Kind of Person

Joe talks about dogs with short legs. He talks about the humanity of toothpaste dribble. He talks about “cute-cumbers.” He doesn’t talk about panic attacks. He doesn’t talk about feelings. He doesn’t talk about anything that might indicate he’s someone who nervously talks to himself while pacing back and forth in a public bathroom.

He tells jokes.

And it’s the funniest set I’ve ever heard. I laugh until I can barely breathe. I laugh until I almost cry.

Chapter 27

The Lake Rock Diner is the same shiny hunk of metal and neon it was when it was built. The pink and green tile floors are the same too, as are the little jukeboxes in each booth, which would explain why the tiles and the jukeboxes are all broken. Over the past year we’ve tried nearly every item on the twenty-page menu and none of them are good. It’s very comforting.

Andi blows their straw wrapper at me. “You think you’ll tell the same story on Saturday?”

“I should, right?”

“Yes,” Tony says without looking up from the sugar packets he’s organizing. He’s sitting beside Andi on the outside of the booth because he always gets the seat closest to the exit. “You repeat that at the Vanderbilt? Your career officially begins.”

Elijah’s knee touches mine. “How are you feeling about it?”

The server comes and Tony orders a round of French fries and milkshakes for the table, clarifying that he’d like an oat milk shake for Andi. When the server says she doesn’t have oat milk, Tony slams his fist and says, “A tall glass of ketchup then, please!” She frowns and departs.

Tony takes his phone out and opens his video of Joe Johnson’s set, saying, “This was punchline after punchline after punchline.”

Elijah waves his hand. “It didn’t have substance, though.”

Andi leans over Tony’s shoulder. “But it was funny.”

Elijah sits back, his arm brushing mine. “There was no deeper meaning, because there was no conflict.”

“Not true.” Tony puts his phone away. “The conflict was outside the room and inside us. The laughter—the shared laughter of everyone in the room together—was the resolution.”

His eyes widen.

“You wanna write that down?” Andi says.

“I do.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe in the written language.”

Elijah places his hands in his lap, one over the other, and turns to me. “What did you think?”

“I thought it was hilarious.”

“But?”

“But…I saw him in the bathroom before the show? Kinda having a panic attack. And I want to know why he didn’t talk about anything like that onstage.”

“And that’s preventing you from celebrating your win?”

“Am I not celebrating?” I suppose I am removed from my consciousness. I guess I’m thinking this thought without saying it aloud, which is generally a sign I’m not connected to the present moment. “I was hoping Joe would talk to me after the show, but he disappeared.”

“By all accounts he is legitimately awkward,” Tony says. “Don’t take it personally.”

I tell myself not to ask because I already know the answer, but I ask, “Did anyone see my mom there?”

Everyone shakes their heads.

I take out my phone and text her, Out at the diner! And I won! Just letting you know

Even worse than her not replying, she begins to reply, and stops, and never actually does.

Andi rips off the corner of their paper placemat. “You had me at the end of your set. I really thought you were gonna cry.”