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Twenty-Seven
Triple pay, free hotel makes for a very good night of sleep (alone—in case you were wondering). After our continental breakfast, we get our second cups of joe to go and soon we’re cruising south down I-55 toward Mississippi. Gray clouds cover the sky but so far no rain. So we ride with the windows down, Boston’s “Peace of Mind” playing on the radio. I attempt to craft some new jokes on my legal pad—something about macing a man with Paco Rabanne has to have a good punchline in there somewhere.
“Question time.” Nick shifts in his seat then looks to me. “If you could have a burger tonight with any comedian, dead or alive, who would it be?”
“Is this our version of punch buggy?” I blow a bubble with my cherry-flavored gum that lost its flavor ten minutes post-unwrapping.
“Yeah, not a lot of Volkswagens in these parts.”
I gaze out at the long stretch of road, flipping through my mental catalog of favorite comedians. One legendary stand-up, who more recently kicked the bucket, comes to mind. “I’m gonna have to go with Joan Rivers.”
“Why Joan Rivers?” he asks.
“Well, aside from being a pioneer, she’s the only comedian who’s performed in as much makeup as I did last night.”
“Very true.”
“You know she was making single-girl jokes in the ’60s on The Ed Sullivan Show? And they were hilarious!” I have to imagine my comedic heroes as young girls, sitting on the floor in front of the family television, watching Joan Rivers, opening their minds to roles they never thought possible—the single female stand-up comedian.
“So what about you?” I ask.
“I’m in a classic-comedian mood too, so I’ll say Lenny Bruce.”
Oh, Lenny Bruce. The original icon of every rebellious stand-up. “You two could certainly have a smoke together.”
“Yes, we could.” Nick pats around the center compartments for his cigarettes and flips the top of the box open, slinking out a stick.
“He was only forty when he overdosed,” I say.
Nick drops the smoke back in the box. “It’s too bad. A lot of great comedians die young—Chris Farley, Bill Hicks, Mitch Hedberg, Andy Kaufman—”
“Patrice O’Neal,” I add.
“His last special had me rolling on the floor,” Nick says, glancing my way.
“Me too!”
“You have to hear this song Bob Dylan wrote about Lenny Bruce.” Nick grabs his phone and with a few swipes, a soft, simple piano melody begins. It’s not the only song that mentions the trailblazing comedian.
“You think Lenny Bruce ever thought so many people would memorialize him in their music?” I ask.
“I doubt it. I doubt he knew how much he meant to people. How much he was loved. It’s a special thing, when a comic puts you, or a moment with you, in a joke, or a writer in a book, or a singer in a song.”
I think back to Nick’s joke about the flat tire. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll be this world-famous stand-up, playing Madison Square Garden, and talking about the girl who changed the tire for him. That would be pretty cool. I sit quietly for a moment, taking in more of Dylan’s lyrics. “You really like music, huh?”
“Yeah. Before you it was my only road companion.” He smiles. We may be talking about comedians from the past, but I can see by the look on his face we’ve moved on from yesterday. “A good song is like a good set.”
“Yeah, except music is rarely ever funny.”
“Yes, but a good joke and a good song require the same ingredient.”
“What’s that?”
“Pain. The kind that connects with the audience on a deeper level. It’s like that quote, ‘To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it.’ ”
“Liza from Funnies said that to me last week. Charlie Chaplin, right?”
“That’s right. Tapping into that is what makes a song memorable. It’s what gets the punchline a real laugh. And isn’t that why we got into this business? For real laughs.”
