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“Thank Bernie. She was bragging on you, said I would do well to give you a chance. I think she was right.”
“I appreciate that.” I can practically hear the voice of an AI in my head saying, Crush activation complete. Loading romantic pop playlist.
“Well, Olivia Vincent, I owe you one.” Nick pats the edge of my shoulder and looks past me at the stage as the emcee calls his name. “Wish me laughs.”
In all the years I’ve been doing stand-up, I’ve never heard that expression—Wish me laughs. I kinda like it. Only I’m not sure what the appropriate response is so I just say, “Okay.”
“Have a good night.” With that he hikes up the stage and into the spotlight. The crowd roars for him like he’s Richard Pryor or something. They love him. And at first glance, I can see why. But the real test is his act.
Moments later, Nick’s bassy voice fills the room and the audience’s response is palpable, a natural exchange of energy between comedian and crowd. Some stand-ups have that thing. And Nick might just be one of them. Some stand-ups should be called stand-stills because they hardly move about the stage, like Janeane Garofalo or Nate Bargatze, while others walk back and forth like they’re trying to get their ten thousand steps in like young Chris Rock or Whitney Cummings.
I’m somewhere in the middle, but Nick doesn’t move any more than he has to. To me, it’s a sign that the material stands on its own—it doesn’t need anything more than timing to animate it. It’s a special craft that doesn’t work for everybody. He’s got that wry, honest humor like George Carlin and Bill Hicks—clever comics with fresh, thought-provoking perspectives. I spit out a laugh as he slides in the punchline.
Nick’s good. Really good.
No wonder he’s a headliner.
Since I have some time before my next show, I wander over to the bar in the far corner of the club for a little refresher. Liza’s bartending tonight. Before I even take a seat she sets my usual down on a cocktail napkin—an iced tea. Unsweet. Apparently there’s a sugar shortage north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Well, look at you picking up a feature spot with Nick Leto,” Liza says.
“How’d I do? Be honest,” I say, clasping my hot hand against the chilled glass.
“Honestly, I laughed. It was really funny.” Liza is my ideal audience member, so if she thinks it’s funny, then I’m getting somewhere. She nods toward the stage. “This guy’s hilarious.”
The crowd roars with laughter again and Nick appears modestly satisfied—but doesn’t seem to let it go to his head. “Yeah, this is the first time I’ve seen him.”
“Really? I guess he is on the road a lot.”
“That’s what I hear.” You know when you watch figure skaters move along the ice effortlessly even though it takes a lot of damn work to look that smooth? That’s what it’s like watching Nick. I know what goes into creating a worthwhile set. It’s a lot of trial and error but Nick performs so naturally, like he came out of the womb with a mic in his hand, looked at his lengthy umbilical cord, and said—Now that’s what I’m talking about. “He is good. What do you think his secret is?”
“Aside from doing this for a decade?” A decade—I guess there is something to that ten-thousand-hours rule. “He’s candid. It’s like what Charlie Chaplin said: ‘To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it.’ I’ve watched a lot of stand-ups from behind this bar and the best comics are the ones who have the courage to tell their story.”
I don’t want to discount Liza’s wisdom or anything but I’m pretty sure success in comedy is about being funny, not telling your story. Save that for the memoir.
