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Forty-Five
I stand off the stage, at the famous Comedy Shoppe on Sunset Boulevard, otherwise known as the Sunset Strip. Performing here is a pretty big deal, and I want to enjoy every second of it. I’m still really bummed about missing my audition. But things don’t always go to plan. And when they don’t, I have to figure it out. Bounce back.
It’s like Nick said, Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. So I am. Tonight is about going out with a bang—that’s a bang, not a bomb, I hope. I stretch out my hands and mouth, shaking my jitters away.
“Hey.” Nick pats my shoulder, startling me. “You ready to rock this club?”
I nod, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”
While the emcee wraps up my introduction, I look to Nick, knowing that this is the last night I’ll ever open for him. The last night we’ll ever tour together. There’s so much I want to say but right now, there’s only one thing that really matters.
“Wish me laughs.”
Nick gives me a warm smile and nods. No doubt he’s wishing me all the laughs.
“Please welcome to the stage Olivia Vincent!”
With a grin, I walk to the stage and grab the mic. All the electricity in my body begins to settle enough for my hands to steady.
“Woo!” I hear a woman holler from the crowd. Sounds like I’ve got a fan. I glance over the dimly lit faces and spot Chuck and Amy cheering their asses off like it’s Friday-night football in Texas and I’m the star quarterback.
“All right, Los Angeles!” I say, and the audience cheers. Why do we love hearing our city announced onstage? I don’t know but it works. Every time. Maybe I’m feeling wistful but there’s a gorgeous energy about the dark, blue-and-purple-tinged room. Maybe it’s the crowd’s glowing skin and blinding white teeth.
“Happy to be here. It’s my first time in L.A., so I thought I’d tell you a little about myself. I’m from the country in West Texas,” I say with an accent. “You probably can’t tell because I left my Wranglers at home. Anyone here from Texas?” A loud yee-haw leaps from the audience. No joke. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Did you lose your virginity in the back of a pickup truck too?” This little crack gets a decent laugh.
“I was raised by a single dad”—I wait an extra beat then continue—“which explains why I’m now a stand-up comedian.” Another laugh rolls in, boosting my confidence.
“I’m also a millennial, so I’ve got that going for me in this economy... I know, I know. We’re entitled and we complain a lot. But there’s one thing we’ve got over older generations. Millennials never have to worry about retirement planning. Because...” This is where I really take my time, let the tension build. “You’ll never be able to retire.” The crowd offers one of those sad but true laughs. The kind of joke that sticks because it’s truly relatable.
“Seriously, it’s not gonna happen if you’re thirty and renting your parents’ basement... Yeah, right, you can’t afford your parents’ basement! What are you, a thousandaire?” The sight of wide smiles and sound of sincere laughs slowly mend my afternoon heartbreak.
“Let me put it to you this way, if you clench up every time you log into Netflix, praying your dad hasn’t changed the password, you’ll be working for life. Luckily, my dad doesn’t know how to change his password. But if he wanted to find out, he’d probably ask Jeeves.
“Any dads in the audience tonight?” I ask, and get more cheers than I expect. “Okay, I see you, rockin’ those New Balances.” Now here’s where I share a little more about me. “My dad was into jokes. He was great at dad jokes. You know the ones with the corny-but-obvious punchlines? Here’s one I remember well. He asked me, ‘Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?’ And I thought about it. Then it dawned on me. I don’t know how to spell pterodactyl.” Another healthy laugh from the audience. Okay, I’ve got traction. Momentum. Now let’s hope for magic.
The audience goes quiet again and I let the silence linger. “Actually, my dad kicked the bucket recently.” I drop my head as if giving him a moment of silence. Aw reactions spill out from the crowd. “Yeah, he really doesn’t like buckets. He just—” I grunt and mime the action. My Converse striking air. Laughter bubbles up.
“No, I’m kidding. He’s dead. He died.” This gets a nice big laugh. Bigger than expected. “I never know how to say that. Because if I deliver it straight-faced like I just did, people are gonna think I did it. And if I deliver it sad, which I am, then what do people say? ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Sorry for your loss.’
“What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you ... Why? It’s not a compliment.” I swagger across the stage like I’m checkin’ someone out. “Wow, you’re looking good. Did you just lose a parent?” Another solid laugh. So maybe death can be funny. I bet my dad would find it funny.
“I didn’t tell my last boyfriend about my dad’s death because, again, I didn’t know how to say it. He was a really nice guy and suggested I invite my dad to dinner. So we had spaghetti... and a séance. It was nice.” I love that this is going over so well with the L.A. crowd. Now I’m really hitting my stride and it feels amazing.
“After I lost my dad, I moved to New York City, which is totally different from West Texas. For instance, where I’m from you might see an old man on his front porch whittling a piece of wood. Whereas in the city, you might see an old man on the subway... stroking his wood.
“Yeah, it’s a little scary braving the streets alone, especially late at night after performing in comedy clubs. To feel safe, I used to carry pepper spray. But now I carry a can of desperation. Because nothing scares a man more than a woman ready to commit.” This time the laughter hits the ceiling. If only it weren’t true.
“Seriously, I’ve been single too long. The only guy I see on a regular basis is the pizza delivery guy. And all I want is a man who makes me coffee in the morning and offers to buy Plan B. Is that too much to ask?” Now it’s like the crowd’s having multiple laugh-gasms.
“My favorite part of a relationship is the beginning. You know what I mean, before you meet his mother.” Oh, the ladies get this one—guys too. “I love that initial stage when attraction sparks. You know, when your brain’s hijacked by some boy-crazy spell with Siri’s voice saying, Crush activation complete. Loading romantic pop playlist.” Giggles spill out of the girls in the audience, and I think about the way Nick made me feel the night we first met. “After two weeks of those Taylor Swift lyrics swirling in your lady brain, you start thinking—maybe it’s a good idea to ask him to move in.
“It’s not,” I say with a cautionary-tale sigh. Now I’m going to get really personal. “Anyway, I’ve been on a bit of a losing streak lately. I lost my dad. Then my job. And my rent-paying roommate. If all that wasn’t bad enough, I also lost my orgasm. It’s true. I don’t know what happened. It’s just gone. Like it fell out of my panties’ pocket or something. You know that weird, useless pocket in women’s underwear? Turns out, maybe not so useless.
“I searched everywhere—couch cushions, Jacuzzi jets... my ex-boyfriend. Couldn’t find it. So one day, I had too many mimosas at brunch and asked my girlfriend for advice. ‘How can I find my missing orgasm?’ And she said, ‘Maybe you... should fuck a detective.’
“I figured it was worth a try. So I meet this guy. And I swear to you his name was Detective Cummings! This has to be my guy, right?” The audience is bursting with laughs and I hold them like a man waiting for a woman to finish in bed.
“So we’re in bed together. It’s getting late. By now he can’t find my bra hooks. So an orgasm is out of the question. At this point, after a failed search, I have two choices. Recite the periodic table song to myself until it’s over. Or...” I gesture to the audience with the mic and they holler back, “Fake it!”
“That’s right. The tried-and-true method of faking it. Anyone here fake it?” There are a slew of woos, one from a guy in front. “Sir, you faked it? How?” I ask, and he shrugs, chuckling along with the audience. “That’s impressive.
“Here’s the thing, men know women fake it sometimes. But they’re so cocky they never think we fake it with them. But I’m here to tell you, fellas,” I say, then get really serious, “every five minutes, an unsuspecting man is the victim... of a fraudulent. Female. Orgasm.” It’s a lot of fun to see the ladies laugh more than the guys at this one.
“It’s heartbreaking, I know,” I say, lowering my head. “But we can do something about it, ladies. So please, let’s stop faking it. Let’s face it. Tell him the truth—he’s not as good at sex as he thinks he is. Let him feel what you feel. Total and utter disappointment.” Laughter swells from the audience and crashes onstage, washing over me.
And they’re not faking it.
“That’s my time, everyone. I’m Olivia Vincent. You’ve been great!”
