Page 12 of No Funny Business


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Seven

Let me tell you a little about Bernice Ludgate. More commonly known as Bernie. She’s been representing comedic talent in New York City for the past twenty-five years. Having discovered some of the biggest names in the early days of their comedy careers, she’s got an eye for hot new talent. Even plucked me out after a performance at Funnies and said in traditional showbiz fashion, “You got somethin’, kid.”

That was about a year ago.

It’s only because of her I actually started making money from performing. Not that I’m raking in enough to make it rain—as Imani so kindly reminds me. With Bernie’s help, I have no doubt I’ll be able to land something substantial. And by substantial, I mean televised, streamed, or the like.

I march into her office ten minutes before our appointment at two p.m. As a gesture of good faith (and maybe to butter her up), I picked up a bagel schmeared with cream cheese from the best bakery in the five boroughs. You know, the good bagels. On the fourth floor of an old downtown building, Bernie’s place of business is nothing more than a reception area the size of a closet, a private room with an exposed brick wall, and a slight view of the park. Well, a park. The reception chair is empty and Bernie’s door is wide open so I slip in.

“Is that you, Olivia?” Bernie barks with that scratchy voice of hers, tossing someone’s headshot on the mounding slush pile of photos and résumés on her desk.

“The one and only.” I hold the bagel bag up near my face, a grin schmeared across it. “Special delivery.”

She glances up over the rim of her glasses, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Is that for me?”

I nod and set the paper bag down in front of her and she peeks inside, keeping her expression vague. Bernie’s not someone I would consider facially expressive. That is, unless she thinks something’s really funny. “I’m surprised you were able to get away from the office long enough to come down here and stop for bagels.”

I take a seat on the worn chair. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“All right, the floor is yours.”

I clear my throat and my heart starts pounding the same way it does right before I go onstage. If I had a mic in my hand and a spotlight on my face right now, this would be a bit easier. Bernie stares, waiting for my announcement. Why am I nervous? I’m simply about to tell my booking agent that my entire life currently rests in her professional hands. I gulp back my jitters and my mouth turns drier than the Chihuahuan Desert.

“Bernie, no one is better at spotting upcoming talent than you. And we both know that you only work with comedians you truly believe in, right?”

“Yes,” she answers with that where is this going? tone. “Unless you count my brother’s kid who couldn’t make a group of kindergartners laugh slipping on a banana peel. But he’s family so what can you do?” Bernie gestures for me to continue.

“Right, um.” I shake my head and take a breath. “We both know that I have potential. And not just potential, I have drive. I hustle with the best of them. I write. I perform. And I consistently show up at the clubs night after night after night after putting in full days at the office because I really want this and I’m willing to do what it takes.” She opens her mouth to speak but I barrel on. “So, I want to take the next step and throw myself into stand-up full-time, but I need your help. What do you think?”

She narrows her eyes, leaving me holding my breath. “Are you leaving your law firm?”

“Well, I kinda already left.”

“Are you having one of those almost-thirty crises?”

Almost thirty? “I’m not having a crisis. I’m just ready.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, like I’m pulling her leg.

I put on my please, take me seriously face. “Bernie, have I ever been at your office in the middle of the afternoon?”

“Good. Because I’ve got some things cookin’ for ya.”

Whew! “You do?”

“Yes.” Finally, someone who’s on board with the Olivia Vincent Plan. “In fact, the call just came in today. It’s an audition. A big audition.”

“I’m listening.” I scoot to the edge of my seat with an eager grin. God, I hope it’s something to pay the bills. Or a bill. “What’s the spot?”

“Ever heard of The Late Night Show?” Her pitch falls for dramatic effect. A rhetorical question of course. Everyone knows the freaking Late Night Show with Anderson Vanderson. Though, I still can’t believe that’s his God-given name.

“Seriously?” A spot like that has the potential to catapult careers into full-blown stardom. We all saw what Johnny Carson’s show did for Ellen DeGeneres. Well, technically I wasn’t even a thought then but I’ve seen it many times online. (Gotta love a woman who rocks a mullet.) “That’s amazing!”

“I know, because I’m amazing. Now try to show them you’re amazing, would ya?”

“Yes, ma’am. Where’s the audition?”

“Los Angeles. In two weeks.”

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