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I shake my head and shoulders, trying to shrug the whole thing off like a bad dream and move on.
Nick’s rich voice booms over the sound system as he greets the audience. He hasn’t even said anything and they’re cheering like he’s Kevin Hart. I need an iced tea. Sweet.
Our condo roomie Herb’s already at the bar. “Sup, Olivia,” he says with a chin nod, and I take the seat next to him. “That shit was wild.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s like, who would want to silence you?”
“Um... I think it was a faulty mic, not a conspiracy.” Like he said, who would do that?
He shakes his head. “I dunno, man. This is D.C. Haven’t you read any Dan Brown books?”
“Why don’t we watch the show,” I suggest, turning my attention to Nick’s crowd work. Some comics are brilliant at improv, which is tough since crowds can be unreliable. Sometimes the audience gives you nothing, and sometimes they provide the perfect fodder. Right now, Nick’s experiencing the latter.
About halfway through, he starts a joke about being stuck on the road with a flat tire during a date with a woman. My ears perk up. Is this new material or is Nick more prone to flat tires than he let on? I really hope that’s not it or it’s going to be a long trip. I hang on his every word but as soon as he gets to the part where she changes the tire for him, I’m positive it’s a spin on our morning. He finishes it with a slap-your-thigh kinda punchline. Waves of laughter barrel onstage and he’s won the crowd. So effortless.
“He’s fucking good, isn’t he?” Herb taps me on the arm, leaning close. Still smells like herb. “Like a young Carlin.”
“Yeah, he is. How does he do it?”
“I don’t know but he’s always prepared.” True, Nick does take that quiet time to himself before the show. Maybe I should use this time to do the same instead of watching him in envy. “I’ll be in the greenroom,” I tell Herb.
“Did you say smoke some green?” He mimes smoking a joint.
“No.” I shake my head and wag a finger to amplify my answer. Stoned onstage is not a good look for me.
Back in the empty greenroom, it’s hard to focus on my legal sheet. Every time I try to concentrate, I relive the cringy, regrettable horror and smack my forehead. It’s worse than if I flashed a boob. At least that would’ve kept their attention. So I set my things aside, head to the bathroom, and splash some water on my face. The cool cleanse feels good on my skin. I slide my glasses back on, get a good look at myself, and begin an internal pep talk.
This isn’t a disaster. It’s a dream. Don’t let a little mic malfunction spoil the experience. Now buck up and get back to work!
