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Nine
Less than two hours from now, Nick Leto and I will leave New York, heading south for our first stop. I’m still not packed. What’s a woman like myself supposed to bring on a two-week cross-country comedy road tour anyway? The answer? Everything.
So I threw in most of my clothes, including several pairs of shoes, my leather jacket, hair dryer, flat iron, full bottles of shampoo and conditioner, everything on the bathroom sink, just-in-case tampons, laundry pods, my legal pad, laptop, and the tangled mess that is all of my chargers. But I couldn’t close the damn suitcase. Now I’m down to the essentials and it’s still stuffed. Let’s see if the zipper and I are up for the challenge.
But before that, a sip of coffee.
Imani pops into my room. “You’re really going through with this?”
“Yep.” I flip the suitcase closed for emphasis.
Nick needed a replacement. If I hadn’t said yes, someone else would’ve snatched it up fast as greased lightning. Was I hoping Nick had a tour bus all gassed up with a crew ready to head west? Yes. Too bad a midlevel headliner doesn’t get rock star perks. Let’s be real, being stuck in a car with a man who’s managed to make a full-time living as a comedian, and is easy on the eyes, can’t be a mistake. No matter how you slice it.
“But you don’t even know this Nick guy,” she says.
I know. I get that to her this is like the opening plot to an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Imani’s probably imagining Robert Stack walking a dark alleyway in his trench coat saying, Olivia Vincent left New York on what was supposed to be a hilarious comedy tour. But when she didn’t make it onstage that night, it turned out to be... no joke.
“I know him enough,” I say. Besides, Bernie wouldn’t stick me with a psycho. How can she make money off my appearances if I don’t make them, huh? This is essentially the argument I used with Imani when I came home the other night and told her all about it. She wasn’t keen on it then and, with a hand on her hip like a mama itching to ground her teenage daughter, she’s not keen on it now either.
Of course, this isn’t about her approval. It’s about landing the Late Night Show audition and changing the trajectory of my career. Correction: correcting the trajectory of my life. “Plus, look what I got yesterday.” I whip out a fresh can of pepper spray and take a defensive stance. “Locked and loaded, baby! Even tested it in an alley. It’s got a sharp spritz to it.”
She looks more alarmed than relieved. “May want to keep that on you at all times.”
“I will.” I stick it in my backpack’s side pocket.
“Fourth of July won’t be the same without you.” Every summer, our friends host a big party on their roof, where we can catch the fireworks over the East River. It’s definitely a highlight.
“I know but I’ll be in New Orleans. Hey, why don’t you fly down for the day? Could be fun.”
“That’s a great idea in theory but I’m not sure I can make it happen.”
“Just think about it.”
“Speaking of visiting. Any chance you’ll stop in Midland?”
The sound of the word Midland makes my stomach clench. Great idea in theory but I’m not sure I want to make that happen. With my dad gone, along with my grandparents, and my mother MIA, my connections back in Texas have been whittled down to a minuscule group. So I’ll just pass through like a tumbleweed. I know Imani thinks a visit would do me good so I say, “Not sure yet. Depends if we have time.”
“Are you positive you can’t book shows here and fly to L.A. for the audition instead?” she asks for the second time in two days.
“I could but, to your practicality point, it would take away from what money I have left.” The phrase what little money I have left is more accurate as a post–law school graduate millennial living in Manhattan. She already knows this. She’s in the same boat. Still, it’s better I don’t supply her more ammo by emphasizing this aspect. So I steer away. “Plus, this tour is a great opportunity for me to get my name out there in a much bigger way. This is what pros do and I’m going pro.” I can’t wait to be a heavy hitter so I never have to endure this kind of scrutiny again.
Imani steps into my tiny room as I stuff my college hoodie in my luggage. “Well, I took the liberty of making some calls, and I think I found the perfect position for you.”
I can’t go back to law, which is exactly what she’s been begging me to do. My messages are full of texts from her—links to job openings around the city with little comments like—this one has great benefits and this one is within walking distance. I know what she really wants to say is, this one will pay our bills so I don’t get stuck with the whole rent. I zip up one side of my suitcase, wishing she would shut the employment hunting case.
“No more jobs, Imani—”
“Just hear me out. I have a contact at another firm. Simple contract review and it’s part-time. It’ll give you some cushion and you’ll have more time for gigs.”
“Speaking of cushion, would it be weird if I brought my pillow on tour?” I ask.
Take a hint, girl!
“So that’s how you want to play it? Dumb?” Now here comes the sass, which is awesome when it’s directed at anyone else but me.
“Yeah, maybe I do.” With my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth, I use my body weight to drag the zipper around the corner.
Zip. Stop. Zip. Stop. Zip.
