AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Twenty-Eight
We’ve been cruising down a two-lane highway lined with trees for almost an hour listening to Cheap Trick. Nick follows the GPS off the main highway. Having just traveled from major cities like New York, D.C., Atlanta, and Memphis, this place really sticks out. Because it’s the sticks. Even Midland looks like a metropolis in comparison.
“What exactly is this place? I thought we were going to Gulfport.” I survey the gas station on the side of the road, catching a Wendy’s up ahead.
“No idea. We’re just outside of it.”
“Are you sure this place even has a comedy club?”
“Yep, it’s new. Just opened up.”
I like the idea of a small town like this in the middle of Mississippi opening a comedy club. It must mean they have a good sense of humor down here. At least I hope they do. “So Bernie booked this for you?” That woman never ceases to surprise me.
“Actually, they called me directly,” he says. “I guess someone special-requested me. And it fit perfectly between Tennessee and Louisiana so I figured why not.”
“Aw, Nicky.” I bat my lashes. “You have a fan.” He shoots me a sideways glare. If his merch sales are any indication, he has many fans. Now it’s only a matter of time before someone special-requests me (even in a podunk town like this).
A couple hours later, after getting settled at our motel, we arrive at The Comedy Club—both its name and function. It sits in the middle of a quaint main street area of some little town in Mississippi that I keep forgetting the name of. The moment we walk in, my nose crinkles from the stench.
What the... the place smells like an ashtray—the old-car kind that can’t close because it’s jammed with sticky tar. The farther we get inside the club the more I see why. Sooty old ashtrays litter each tabletop. Either the city hasn’t gotten the smoke-free memo or they just don’t give a damn.
“Ugh. People actually smoke in here?” I ask.
“Oh, hell yeah! I love this club.” Nick whips out a cigarette and pops it in his mouth.
Gross. “How is this even legal?”
“Why don’t you chill and have a smoke.” He offers his open pack for the second time this trip. I didn’t take it then and I sure as hell ain’t takin’ it now.
I swat his hand away the way they taught us in the D.A.R.E. program. “What about smoking kills do you, and the patrons of this club, not get?”
My tour buddy puts his arms around me, an unlit cigarette resting on his lip—Slash-style. “Let me share some wisdom with you.” I glance up at him. “Nonsmokers die... every day. That’s a fact.”
“It’s also a Bill Hicks joke. You gonna steal any more of his routine tonight?”
“Nah,” he says. “But I will enjoy one of these onstage like him. I really missed out on the ’90s comedy scene.”
Nick gets his wish because The Comedy Club in Sometown, Mississippi, is like living in a ’90s time warp. The moment I step out in the spotlight, cigarette sparks flicker throughout the room and smoke billows out from the audience. I let out a rough cough. It’s like Philip Morris’s wet dream in here.
When I take the mic, some dickwad whines, “Oh, man, not a woman.” I don’t know what idiot started the rumor that women aren’t funny but I’d like to chop his balls off so he knows what not-funny really looks like. (C’mon, like you’ve never threatened a man’s scrotum before?)
I don’t let his misogyny throw me. Instead, I hold my head high so all the ladies in the audience know that we don’t back down. This time, I’m ready. Besides, Nick has fans here tonight and I want some too. So I lean into my Texas twang as I deliver my first punchline. It lands better than expected. Good. I keep truckin’.
Then, thick clouds of cigarette smoke barrel onstage in what feels like a deadly assault. I wave my hand to clear the air but the smog sticks to me like a spiderweb. Stay calm, Olivia. Don’t let it get to you. Even smokers deserve to laugh. Assuming they can do it without wheezing.
As I set up my next joke, my muscles stiffen as if the smoke is coiling around me like a boa constrictor. The mic trembles in my hand. What’s happening? I gasp for air but I can’t breathe.
Oh my god, I can’t breathe. Am I dying? I think I’m dying.
I can see the headline now—Unknown Comedian Olivia Vincent Drops Dead During Stand-Up Routine.
That can’t be my story. I have to get out of here.
My foot miraculously breaks free from this death spell and I take a step, leaving the mic in my place. After two steps, my blood surges with adrenaline and I run out of the club. I run until I reach the black Jeep and grab the door handle. It’s locked. Still gasping for air but not dead yet, I manage to climb on the hood and lie back, staring at the dusky sky.
My shallow breaths grow deeper and the tingling feeling in my feet and mouth subsides. I slap two fingers on my neck and feel a thumping pulse. Is it normal?
What the hell just happened?
