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“That’s the thing, I... I can’t tell him.” Jordan’s voice cracks and Nick and I trade glances. “Jeremiah died this week.”
“Oh, shit.” My jaw drops. I did not mean to say that aloud.
Nick must be gaping too because his cigarette goes toppling to his feet. Right where it belongs. “What happened?”
Jordan sniffles back tears. The poor guy just lost his brother. And Nick just lost his number one fan. “It was a firework mishap.”
“Firework mishap,” I repeat bluntly. You’d think after losing a close loved one myself I could be a smidge more sensitive. Who was this Jeremiah?
“I’m sorry for your loss, man.” Nick’s tone turns gentle, handling this whole thing with grace.
“Thank you. That means a lot.” Jordan lowers his head. “Anyway, I came here to ask you, since you’re in town and all, if you’d be willing to come to his funeral tomorrow and... perform.”
Kelly, his doe-eyed wife, steps in. “It would mean the world to him.”
What. Is. Happening.
“You—you want me to tell jokes at your brother’s funeral?” Nick asks.
Jordan nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Uhh.” Nick and I trade unsure glances. “I’m not sure that’s the best venue for my material. I wouldn’t want to offend any of his friends or family.”
Jordan throws out one of those don’t be silly looks. “Oh, no, sir. It’d be just fine. Help lighten the mood. And I know Jeremiah would want it that way. He was your biggest fan.”
“What time is the funeral?” Nick asks, like he’s actually considering it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“It’s at eleven thirty.”
“Hey, Nick.” I squeeze in between their conversation, tapping my watch. “We have to be in New Orleans tomorrow for a show. And with the Fourth of July holiday traffic, we both know how important it is to leave extra early.”
“New Orleans is only a couple hours south, one if you drive right. You’ll be back on the road by one o’clock, tops,” Jordan offers.
“The show doesn’t start until seven thirty. Even with traffic, we’ll get there in plenty of time,” Nick adds.
Has he lost his damn mind? “I don’t know, Nick. Remember what happened last time?”
“Can you excuse us for a moment?” Nick smiles politely and pulls me out of earshot of the bereaved couple.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a hostile whisper.
“What are you doing? This Jeremiah guy is the reason we got this gig and he’s my biggest fan!” Nick whispers back.
“It’s. A. Funeral!” I mouth.
“So what? They’re not asking you to perform. What’s the big deal?”
“Nick, do you really want to risk humiliating yourself over someone’s grave?”
“The guy died, Olivia,” he says, like it’s a compelling reason. I get that people die. It doesn’t mean you turn the funeral into a Netflix stand-up special.
“In a firework accident. And you didn’t even know him.”
“It doesn’t matter. He knew me. He liked me enough to bring me to this tiny town so he could see me live. It’s people like him that allow people like us the privilege to do what we do. The least I can do is pay my respects and bring a little joy to his surviving friends and family. Wouldn’t you want the same thing if it were your brother?”
I hold a stubborn stance but consider his question. If Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor or Pablo Francisco were in Midland the night before my dad’s funeral, I might’ve done the same thing—no matter how inappropriate the material.
Nick continues. “Besides, it’s good karma. If I perform for my biggest fan, then maybe Jerry Seinfeld will do a set at my funeral.”
“You really think Jerry Seinfeld would come to your funeral?” No one’s karma is that good.
He shrugs. “Why not? And if you come, maybe Carrot Top will perform at yours.”
I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to be supportive. I owe him that much. Even if I still think this is a terrible idea.
