Page 97 of My Own Kind of Person

Andi turns the drawing to look at it again. “It’s not bad, right?”

“It’s beautiful.”

They smile.

We sit in silence for a while. It’s not an awkward silence. I don’t wonder if I should be saying something. We simply sit.

Eventually Andi turns to me and says, “So you and Elijah aren’t talking?”

“I really messed up,” I say. “It took me time to make sense of being bi. It’s reasonable it would take him a minute too.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh,” I say with mock-seriousness. “You’ll see what you can do?”

“Yes,” they say. “I’ll ask him to come to your Vanderbilt show with me, and then you can win him back with an awkward sex story.”

“He said that at the end of my set at Captain’s, he wanted me to say why I couldn’t cry, but instead I made a joke.”

“A funny joke.”

“But I guess this time I have to give the real answer.”

Andi lets out the longest, most displeased sigh. “I told you this outside of McGuinn’s the night of your birthday.” They enunciate every word. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. That includes Elijah.”

I put my hands in my pockets. “So what are you recommending I do?”

“Whatever you want, man. You were funny at school and everyone thought you were funny. You were, I dunno, serious and profound for Elijah and he thought you were serious and profound. You were everything for everyone, and how do you feel?”

“Exhausted.”

“I bet,” they say. “Who cares what anyone else thinks? When I see Sean O’Brien onstage, I want to see whatever you feel like doing that night. Not trying to hit everyone else’s invisible targets. I want to see you hitting your own target.”

Something shifts in a place I can feel but can’t explain. When Andi returns me to my car at the Big Duck, I follow them westward onto the expressway. The horizon turns pale and purple behind us and the sun rises and paints the sky in the rearview mirror every color. I’m driving into the day. I’m feeling my way into the future.

Chapter 36

The stage at the Vanderbilt is wide and shining, with velvet curtains at the sides. It smells like wood and dust, like a hundred years of audiences and entertainers. Murals stretch across the high walls showing vaudeville groups, scenes from early films, and orchestras. A crystal chandelier hangs over the balcony and the thousand empty seats.

“You’ll want to get right up into it,” the sound guy calls.

I hold the mic closer to my mouth. “Like this?”

“Great,” he calls back. “Now, tell me what you had for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry?” My voice booms from the speakers.

“So I can test the sound.”

“Right.”

I spend a full minute recounting the details of a bowl of cereal, and any confidence I had slips away.

Tony shouts from the balcony, “Can you run through the transition too?”

I extend a hand to the side of the stage and recite the lines Tony prepared for me: “I’d like to bring out the star of the show. He has released three incredible specials and he’s making his long-awaited return with us tonight. Joe Johnson!”

Nobody comes out. Instead, the house lights go up, someone says, “Doors in five,” and staff members spread out with walkie-talkies. The speakers switch to old-timey jazz.