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Thirty-Four
The Jeep stalls at the edge of the parking lot and Nick rushes out toward the crispy building. I’m hot on his heels.
A red suspender–wearing fireman keeps him at bay with a strong hand. “Sir, you’re going to have to exit the parking lot.”
Nick rips off his shades, a horrified look in his eyes. “Was anyone hurt? Where’s Bob?”
“No. No one was in the building when it caught fire. But again, I’m gonna need you to leave the scene while we get this under control.”
Good Lord. Can we have one day on this tour where everything goes according to plan? “We’re supposed to perform tonight,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a comedian?”
I step up. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, no one’s performing here anytime soon.”
Nick paces, clawing his fingers through his hair. “What the hell happened?”
The fireman looks back at the destroyed club. “We’re still looking into the origin of the fire, but it looks like someone left a lit cigarette in the office.” Nick and I trade glances. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Now, please. You two need to go. I’m not kidding.”
Not to rub it in but... “Told you smoking kills,” I say.
Nick gives me a sideways glare. It’s like he’s really beginning to resent this truth but not enough to quit himself. “I’m calling Bob.” We head back to the Jeep and after a minute, he hangs up without a word.
“No Bob?” I ask.
“No Bob. No job. And no place to stay.” Nick starts the engine, looking over the scene again. “Ah, man. I love that club!” he says, pouting.
“What are we gonna do now?”
“I’ve been driving for eight hours already. Let’s just get a motel and forget this whole thing ever happened.”
A whole night free and Nick wants to spend it moping in a motel in Dallas. And we can. It would be easy (and somewhat necessary) to catch up on my sleep. But I’m here. In Texas. So close to home. What if the comedy club fire isn’t a disaster? What if it’s an open door? An invitation to go back to Midland and maybe get some answers.
“Pull over,” I say, gripping on to the dashboard.
“What? Why?”
“I want to show you something.”
We find ourselves at the back of a busy Walmart parking lot. I get out of the Jeep, open up the back, and dig into the front pocket of my suitcase. Eddie Murphy smiles back at me from the old album cover. My hands begin to tremble like I’m about to reveal the biggest secret of my life. Back in the cab, Nick waits, fidgeting to all hell, but he stops when I hand him the record. “Remember when I told you my dad loved comedy?”
“Yeah.”
“This was his. He listened to it in his last days. Laughed every time like it was the first time he heard it,” I say, and Nick flips it over, tracing his hand over the set list on the back cover.
“I know this one. It’s funny,” he says.
“It is. Sometimes when we’d listen to it, I’d feel guilty for laughing. It didn’t seem fair, you know? That I could have all this time to laugh and listen to great comedy and great music and he couldn’t. His time was up.” Nick listens quietly and I clear my throat. “Anyway, he said I could do whatever I wanted with all of his things, but that he wanted me to keep this album.”
“It must’ve meant a lot to him.” He looks at me, setting the record against the steering wheel. “Why are you showing this to me now?”
“Because after his funeral, we all went back to his house. It was weird because it felt like he was there even though of course he wasn’t. I had basically moved back in to take care of him. And that night was the first night I was totally free to go back to my own place. But even after everyone had gone home, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. So I sat on the living room floor and put this record on again. When I pulled it out of the sleeve, this came with it.” I slip out the photo of my dad and hand it to him.
“Is this him?” Nick sounds as surprised as I was the night I found it.
“Yeah.”
