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Thirty-Five
Nick and I sit across the dining table from Artie and his wife, Carla. We pass serving dishes politely to one another—tender, leftover brisket, feathery cilantro, bits of onion, and warm corn tortillas. When Nick agreed to come here, he couldn’t have anticipated walking into an interrogation. He bravely endures Artie’s friendly third degree while Carla and I continually scold him between bites. My road buddy takes it on the chin like a champ.
“So, Livy,” Carla says, commanding my attention, keeping the heat off Nick for a moment. “How’s law firm life in New York?”
It’s a good thing I took this big ole bite—buy myself a second. “It was very busy. Stressful. Such a grind.”
“Was? Did you say was?” Artie narrows his eyes at me.
“Yes.” I flash them my sweet niece smile. “I’m no longer working there.”
“Then what are you doing?” he asks.
I send him a you’re being silly sort of wave and chuckle. “Touring the country, of course. Livin’ the dream.” My surrogate aunt and uncle look somewhat horrified at the news. But I remember what Nick said back in Atlanta about not needing others to validate my choices. It’s easier said than done when I see my dad’s and Imani’s concern mirrored in their eyes.
Nick clears his throat and places his hand around my shoulder. “Actually, Olivia has an audition next week for The Late Night Show with Anderson Vanderson.”
“That’s right!” I say, thanking Nick with a look.
Carla drops her taco. “Anderson Vanderson! I love him!”
“Why are you touching her like that?” Artie points a hostile finger at the outsider.
“Huh?” Nick flinches away with his hands up. “I’m not touching anything.”
“That’s right, young man.”
I roll my eyes. Oh, Lord.
“So you’re like a real comedian now?” Carla asks.
“Can you believe it?” I say, trying to sell the idea. But I’m not here to talk about my comedy career. I’m here to ask about my dad’s.
“Are you staying nearby?”
Nick and I trade uh-oh glances. “Yeah, we’ll get a place nearby.”
“Two rooms, right?” Artie adds. He doesn’t know the half of it.
“Yes,” I say.
Carla slaps another heap of rice on my plate, then piles the rest on Nick’s. “Why don’t you both just stay here. We have the extra room.”
I’m familiar with the extra room. Not because I spent a lot of time there but because Artie’s holding some of my dad’s things there for me.
“But you take the couch,” Artie orders Nick. “I don’t know what kind of funny business you’ve been up to but you won’t be fooling around under my roof.”
My cheeks go hot like burnt biscuits, then Carla comes to my aid. “Artie! Livy’s a grown woman. She’s not that little toothless pipsqueak hanging around the shop anymore.”
“If Vince were here—” he starts.
“If Vince were here, he’d offer Nick a beer!”
Nick turns to me, a swirl of wrinkles on his forehead. “Your dad’s name was Vince Vincent?”
“No, Vincent’s my stage name.” I shake my head and watch Nick add up the details.
It was the name I chose back when I started doing stand-up in college. Before my dad knew. I never told him about using his name. A homage to the man who passed down his love of the art to me. When I moved to New York, I wanted to change it. Let everything from my past go. Everything but that Eddie Murphy comedy album. I had another stage name picked out and everything. But when it came time for me to sign up for the open mic, I wrote Olivia Vincent. And that was that.
