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“Liv! The shoes?”
“Sheez. Someone needs a little hoo-hoo in her hmm-hmm,” I say under my breath.
“I heard that,” she says. “And you’re one to talk.”
“Can’t argue with that, but tonight, the shoes are yours. Just don’t forget to leave on your finder app.”
“I always do.”
Real-time GPS locators are one of the best things to happen to single women in the city. And stalking ex-girlfriends. Imani and I use it regularly to look out for each other when the other is out late alone. And seeing as I’m moonlighting as a stand-up, that’s pretty often.
“So who are you opening for tonight?” she asks.
“Um... I forgot to ask.” I pull up my email on my phone, scrolling for details from Bernie. When I see that it’s ten after and add up the twenty-plus minutes it’ll take to get downtown, I set the finer points aside for the commute. I can’t be late.
“So how exactly are you going to get out of your meeting tonight?”
I grab my bag and shut my laptop. “Don’t you worry about that. Just enjoy the shoes.”
She waves me off and I hurry down the hallway, stepping as lightly, but swiftly, as I can in my pumps. What I wouldn’t give to wear my stage Converse in the office. Sneakers are even frowned upon on casual Friday, which occurs only monthly instead of weekly at our firm. I turn the corner and run smack into Mr. Whitley, one of the partners and my boss, nearly headbutting his silk tie.
“Oh, shiii— Sorry,” I say, managing to curb my words.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Mr. Whitley brushes himself off with his usual stony expression.
“No fire,” I say, catching my breath and flashing a toothy smile. “Just need to unload all this coffee in my system.”
“I’m not following.” If I spoke in heretos and therefores, perhaps he’d get my drift. “But since I’ve run into you, please make sure you show Mr. Fenwick a good evening. As you know, he’s a very important client.”
This may seem like the opportunity to ask to skip the client dinner but I find that managing partners don’t take too kindly to associates prioritizing activities that don’t include billable hours, which include but are not limited to family taco night, martinis with friends, tickets to Hamilton, and of course performing stand-up comedy. In my experience, it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission in these matters.
“Absolutely, Mr. Whitley. I’ve got it covered,” I say, and his eyes roll over me as if he’s detected a hint of bullshit. So I throw him off the scent with a sweet, slightly Southern-sounding, “Now you go on and have a good night, sir.”
The moment he passes, I’m off to the races again, finally flinging the door open to Fawn Douglas’s office. “Olivia, I was just about to come get you. The reservation’s at seven.”
“Yeah, about that... How would you like to fly solo in this meeting?”
Now before you go thinking my evil plan is to schlep my responsibilities onto someone else, let me explain. Fawn and I are not that different. Except that she actually likes being an attorney. It’s her dream. A dream she had to fight for when her hippie artist/activist parents had a fit, convinced she was to become a cog in the capitalist machine. The only thing worse would’ve been if she told them she voted Republican. I too had to face a parental tribunal when I came out as a comic. So if I can support her dream by letting her shine at tonight’s meeting while she helps me step into the spotlight in front of a brick wall, then all the better for both of us.
“Why?” Fawn’s suspicious tone is unexpected.
“Okay, I don’t have a lot of time so I’m just gonna level with you. I got an incredible opportunity to open for a—” I stumble, still unsure of whom I’m helping out tonight. “A super well-known comic at the same time as the Fenwick dinner. I wouldn’t ask if I thought you really needed me tonight because you don’t. You’re a rock star and it’s going to be a fabulous night because of you. What do you think?”
She shakes her head like she’s taking it in. “Yeah, okay, I guess I can do it alone. But where should I say you are?”
“Tell him I had some bad potato salad at lunch.”
“Potato salad?”
“You think I should class it up a little?” I ask, and she nods. “How about tuna salad?”
“Let’s go with shrimp.”
“Whatever you’re in the mood for.” I glance at my watch. T-minus twenty-four minutes. “Shit. I have to get downtown. Thanks a bunch. I owe you one.”
“Your office does have a better view,” she teases.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I begin backing out the door as she calls out, “Have a good show!”
“Shh!” I hush her like a crotchety old librarian and mime zipping my lips. She whispers an apology and mirrors the gesture back at me. As long as Mr. Whitley doesn’t come to Funnies tonight, I’ll be in the clear. Lucky for me, my boss doesn’t have a funny bone in his body.
