Page 99 of My Own Kind of Person

“I tried one time.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “I led the crowd in a guided meditation of a panic attack.”

“Terrifying.”

“The lack of laughter was.” He exhales. “Anyway. Thank you for opening tonight. I loved your set at Captain’s. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how this whole contest would go. I liked the idea of a hyper local competition that you’d only be able to do if you lived here, but I didn’t expect to find someone whose work I genuinely admire. And feel some kind of connection to.”

My face buzzes. “You felt a connection to my set?”

“Absolutely.” He looks at the ceiling. “In the ninth grade I dated a girl who I was too nervous to kiss, and one night she very angrily said to me, ‘I gave my last boyfriend a blowjob, y’know.’ ”

“Y’know.”

“Y’know!” He picks up a water bottle and steps from side to side. “One time a French woman came up after a show and invited me back to her hotel room. So I went, and we were making out, and when she reached for my pants—” He holds up a hand. “I feel comfortable sharing this because of the story you shared in your set, but is this okay with you?”

“Oh. I want to keep making art if only so I can keep having conversations like this with artists, with other people who also want to talk about the things no one talks about. So, yes.”

He smiles. “So she reached to take off my pants, and I asked what her favorite book was. After ten minutes of conversation she said to me, ‘Don’t you think just having sex would be less awkward than all this talking?’ To which I replied, ‘I’m really not sure.’ ”

“So good.”

“Right? I’d send every girl I’ve ever kissed an apology card, but I don’t want to exhaust them any further.”

“I dunno. People like snail mail.”

“Maybe if the graphic design was good enough.”

“Probably if the graphic design was good enough.”

Joe doesn’t immediately reply, and I become aware that our time is limited, that at any moment he may say he needs to get ready, and that there’s a chance I will never speak to him again. When Tony first saw the info for this show, he was excited about the opportunity to open for a thousand people, but I was excited about the chance to meet Joe.

I put a hand on a chair. “Can I ask a ridiculous question?”

“Please.”

“How do you help yourself to feel okay?”

He smiles. “I have a really stupid answer for you.”

“That is my dream response.”

He looks me in the eyes, possibly for the first time. “I used to think if I performed in bigger rooms and got bigger laughs, then I would feel good. Then I performed in bigger rooms and got bigger laughs, and I still felt bad. I learned that there is no amount of applause that will make me feel okay.”

“That’s not a stupid answer at all.”

“Well, let me tell you what I do. When I’m feeling down, or anxious, I close my eyes and I start clapping. I applaud myself. I go, ‘Woo! You’re doing great, Joe! I believe in you, Joe!’ ”

“You become your own standing ovation.”

Someone knocks on the door and says, “This is your ten-minute call. Ten minutes, please. Also, have you seen the opener?”

I look at Joe. “I’m in your dressing room.”

“You are.”

“And I need to pee.”

Joe’s bathroom has a shower in the corner and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. It’s rare I see my whole body. I’m wearing my barbaric yawp T-shirt. In one of my back pockets is Elijah’s note. That note made me realize I was already okay, until it didn’t anymore. Laughing with friends, being entertaining onstage, having honest conversations, they all made everything okay, until they didn’t.

Should I start applauding?