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Thirty-One
Nick white-knuckles it all the way to the highway—both of us staring out ahead. Shell-shocked. Slowly we turn toward each other. Tension fills the Jeep from the front to the rear windshield. Until finally, it breaks.
Hahahahahahaha!
Huge belly laughs barrel out of us one after the other. Those good, deep, rich laughs that threaten your bladder control (you know what I’m talking about).
“We just dodged a catfight,” Nick says between chuckles.
“No one’s ever come at me like that—earrings off and everything.” I can hardly breathe. “Okay, but seriously. No more funerals this tour.”
“Agreed. Well, unless they’re paid.”
“I hope his real side piece is far away from Mississippi. That woman’s out for blood.” I hold my stomach, laughing so hard that my cheeks hurt. Then the tears start coming. “Oh, no!”
“Are you crying again?”
Through laughter and swiping at trickling tears, I say, “Yes. I swear I never get this emotional.”
“Maybe you needed it.” There are so many things I could cry over but I don’t want to. How does it help anything? It doesn’t—better to just suck it up and keep going. “So how come you never said anything about your dad? I wouldn’t have been such a scumbag about smoking if you told me.”
“Probably the same reason you didn’t mention your divorce. I don’t really know how to talk about it. I guess it was bound to come out sometime. This tour has strangely brought up a lot of stuff about him.”
“Like what?”
“Like this Jeep, which is basically a newer version of my dad’s. Your damn ’80s rock playlists and...” I stop myself, not wanting to say it out loud. Not even wanting to think it.
“And what?” Nick asks.
I let out a long sigh. The man’s already seen me cry. I might as well tell him this. “He wasn’t keen on me doing comedy. I keep thinking about what he said.” Nick glances at me, and even behind his Wayfarers I can see a curious look in his eyes. So I continue. “Back when I was in college, there were these open mic nights on campus. One night, I had a hard lemonade and went onstage. Even with liquid courage I was still so nervous. But the moment I heard my own voice over the sound system, it soothed me, which I know sounds so narcissistic.”
“No, I get it. Holding the mic is powerful.”
“Exactly. So I made some off-the-cuff cracks about the university, and I actually got a few decent laughs. And that was it. I was in love. I knew that night this is how I wanted to spend my time. Not stuck in an office somewhere, blinded by fluorescent lights and trying to prove my worth with every single legal brief.
“So I started performing, and performed some more, and eventually went to mics off campus. And since my dad was such a fan of stand-up, I decided to tell him about it, somehow thinking he’d be supportive. Maybe even tell me to quit school and just do that, which is what I secretly wanted to do anyway. So I came out as a comic.”
“Uh, I know how that goes. What did he say?”
“He looked at me like I was turning tricks or something. And then he said to me...” I pause, not wanting to say it because it hurt so badly when he did. The sting of his words still hasn’t completely faded. “He said, ‘You’re never gonna be able to take care of yourself if you’re a stand-up comedian.’ He said I should finish my law degree and get a job so I could afford to go see the best comedians live. That that would be a better use of my time and talent.”
“Ouch. That’s pretty brutal.”
“It broke my heart but... he was my dad, and he hadn’t steered me wrong before so I listened to him. Well, mostly. I still performed when I could but at that point it was just an outlet, the one place I felt like I was being myself, and accepted for who I really am.”
Nick smirks. “I knew you were a bit of a rebel.”
“I wish I had been all rebel because now he’s gone. For all the time I’ve been an attorney, I believed he was wrong to discourage me. But now, without steady income and Imani moving across the world, I’m starting to wonder if he was right. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take care of myself if I’m just a stand-up comedian.” I half expect to break down and cry. Again. But I don’t. Actually, in a funny way, I feel better. Like saying what I’m afraid of gives it less power over me. Even if the fear is legitimate.
“Everyone in this business has to pay their dues,” Nick says. “And sometimes, yeah, that means getting a second job. Especially in a city like New York. I mean you were a fuckin’ lawyer and you still needed a roommate to live comfortably. It’s unreal. But here’s what I know for sure. No matter how you pay your bills, getting up on that stage every night is how you take care of yourself.”
It sounds strange but I get what he’s saying. For people like us, stand-up is self-expression, self-realization, and self-care. Like fresh air, allowing me to breathe and survive in this wild world. He continues. “If I didn’t have the stage, I’m sure I’d be dead by now too.” I think back to the photo of my dad. A photo I’m not quite ready to share with Nick. But I wonder, if my dad hadn’t given up on stand-up, would he still be alive today? “And, Olivia”—Nick brings me back to our conversation—“when you want something big, something worthwhile, there’s always going to be a good reason not to do it.”
“Do you have any good reasons?” I ask.
He looks over at me like he’s reluctant to speak. “I guess since you told me all that stuff about your dad, I can let you in on my story.”
“Let’s hear it.”
