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“You don’t know?” he asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, why don’t you go find out? He’s in the greenroom.”
“You’re such a tease,” I say.
“Takes one to know one,” he snaps back in a singsong tone.
As much as I would love to continue this little banter session, I’m already late for... I still don’t know. Though now I know he’s a guy. No surprise there. Eighty-five percent of comedians in the U.S. are men. But I see more and more ladies take the mic every day so we’re catching up, slaying that shitty rumor that women aren’t funny. Still, I’ve come to learn firsthand that when you’re a single female comedian in New York City trying to make a name for yourself, the odds are stacked higher than the Empire State Building. And not in your favor. I imagine it’s about the same for female comedians in relationships too. Only their friends back home don’t pity them as much.
I pass through the wood-paneled lobby and through the warm, red walls of the hallway. The deeper I go, the cooler and darker it gets, like a comedy cave. I’m sure most women my age find these sorts of places filthy but I find the drabness sort of romantic. Especially here at Funnies. This club is legendary.
When I first moved to New York, this is where I wanted to perform. So I took their workshop for new stand-ups. Best four hundred dollars I’ve ever spent. Got to know the staff and made a ton of connections. It’s even where my agent, Bernie, found me. Now I perform here usually two nights a week, three if I’m lucky. Like so many who came before me.
I glide through the hall of fame. Framed headshots of some of the most famous comedians of all time—Chris Rock, Adam Sandler, Wanda Sykes, Eddie Murphy, Sarah Silverman, and of course Jerry Seinfeld. Standing here, staring at these icons is like being sprinkled with magical funny dust. I get to remind myself that before they were superstars, they were just like me. If these walls could talk, they could tell me what it was like for these guys to perform here for the first time. Did they bomb? Did they kill? Did they fall in love with the euphonious sound of laughter right here in this club?
I’m sure everyone feels a little thrill when they get a chuckle out of someone but comics are particularly compelled by it. We’re sort of a special bunch. Not the extraordinary, revered kind of special. More like bless your heart kind of special. I’ll never forget when I popped my Funnies cherry. It was one of those amazing moments when the world falls away and it’s just you, the mic, and the audience. And there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that you’re exactly when and where you’re meant to be. That’s how I feel when I perform. That’s why I ditched that dinner meeting.
Turning the corner for the greenroom, I hold my breath. Usually before a show, it’s packed with comics and buddies—jokin’, smokin’, drinkin’, havin’ a good time. But tonight it’s just a guy lounging in a chair, tapping his fingers on his chin like he’s trying to remember why his wife sent him to the grocery store. Though I don’t catch a glint of a wedding ring. He turns to me with a familiar face that I can’t quite place.
“Are you Olivia Vincent?” he asks with a bold, smooth voice like a good bourbon—the kind that can be intoxicating.
“Yeah. And you’re, um...” I speak slowly, buying myself time that neither of us has. The guy walks over. Pretty suave for a comedian in his black leather moto jacket (no, not like Andrew Dice Clay).
“I’m Nick Leto.” And so the mystery of the headliner is finally solved. Nick’s a pretty big name on the circuit, though I’ve never seen him perform. If I remember correctly, he spends most of his time touring venues up and down the East Coast. He slides his fingers back through his touchable, wavy hair and a tendril falls across his forehead. I straighten my glasses, getting a better look. Oh, yeah... he’s got a Stamos-meets-Springsteen kinda vibe. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Hardly, and it’s not like you’re gonna start without me.”
Nick smiles and two identical dimples reveal themselves beneath his two-day-old stubble. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Actually, I told my cab driver to take out any cyclist needed to get me here on time.”
“That’s very admirable of you.”
“Thanks, but seriously, apologies. I just got the call and had to come from my office,” I say.
“Well, I appreciate you coming last minute. What’s your nine to five?” he asks.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“My condolences. What kind of lawyer?”
“A funny one.” This provokes a small laugh and Nick’s dark brown eyes glimmer in the light.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish preparing. You should be going on soon. Are you good?”
“I’m great. Thanks. I’ll see you after the show.”
I leave Nick to his preparatory process and find a cool corner in the hall for me to do the same. Studying scribbled notes is so much more fun than combing through contracts. I let out an easy breath, then hear the emcee over the mic. It’s almost showtime. I set my phone to airplane mode and hit record on my voice memo app. Ever since I started recording my sets and playing them back, listening closely to what works and what doesn’t, I’ve been able to improve exponentially. And maybe that’s why Bernie called me tonight and not someone else—because there are so many of us champing at the bit for a slice of the comedy pie. The emcee gives me a short and sweet introduction ending with, “Now let’s hear some noise for Olivia Vincent!”
That’s my cue.
The crowd’s applause welcomes me onstage. I take my place in front of the funnies sign hung on the old brick wall and an upright piano on my left. It doesn’t matter how much stage time I get, I’m always a bundle of nerves right before I go on. My heart, my mind, and my adrenaline race a mile a minute. But the moment I step out in the spotlight and feel the metal mic on my palm, my hands steady and I come to life. Eager for what I came for.
That gorgeous laughter.
