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Thirty-Two
It’s Independence Day. A day that we celebrate freedom (from our buddies, the British). With no job, no Imani, it’s a different kind of Independence Day for me. I’m no longer under anyone else’s control, no longer dependent on anyone for my livelihood, no responsibility to anyone else but myself, and free to make my own way. I had no idea liberation would feel so uncertain.
I need an anchor. A good show with lots of laughs would help.
New Orleans has an electric vibe—one I’ve never quite experienced before. It’s as charming in person as it is on television—colorful town houses, bushy palm trees, and zydeco street musicians. We’re performing in a club in the heart of NOLA—The Wild Moon. I know, sounds more like a pagan store than a comedy club. It’s really neither, hosting both comics and bands—I dunno, maybe witch shows too.
With my stage time just minutes away, I set my legal pad aside and let out a nervous breath.
“How you feeling, Olivia?” Nick asks from a lounge chair in the corner.
“Honestly? Pretty raw.”
“Good. Raw is good.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel good and I could really use a win tonight.”
Nick leans forward and I feel a pep talk coming on. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Please.” I sit up straight.
“Go out there and just have fun. Pretend you have a hard lemonade in your system and you’re going up for shits and giggles.”
“Shits and giggles? It’s been so long since I’ve done that. I don’t think I remember how.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares at me, tapping his chin. “Let’s jog your memory then. Tell me a joke. Not one of your jokes. Just a fun joke. The sillier, the better.”
A silly joke, huh? I snap my fingers, trying to conjure something. Then, I remember the joke my dad loved to tell. It always got a laugh. “Okay, I got one. Stop me if you’ve heard it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Go,” he says.
Here goes nothin’.
“There’s a pirate ship sailing along the sea—a captain, a first mate, and a full crew on board. One day the first mate comes running up and says, ‘Captain, Captain! There’s a ship on the horizon!’ The captain says, ‘First mate, bring me my red shirt. We’ll go to battle.’ First mate brings him his red shirt, they defeat the ship, and sail on.” I’ve got Nick’s attention now.
“Next day, the first mate comes running up again and says, ‘Captain, Captain! There are three ships on the horizon!’ Captain says, ‘First mate, bring me my red shirt.’ So the first mate looks at him and says, ‘Captain, how come every time we go into battle you ask me to bring you your red shirt?’ The captain says, ‘Good question. You see, this way if I’m shot during battle, the blood will blend in with my shirt and the crew won’t get scared and run away.’ ” I nod as if I’m the first mate. “The first mate says, ‘Very smart, Captain.’ And he brings him his red shirt and they defeat the fleet. Next day, the first mate runs up to the captain and says, ‘Captain, Captain, there are sixteen ships on the horizon.’ Captain says, ‘First mate, bring me my brown pants.’ ”
Nick applauds with a chuckle. “That joke is the definition of shits and giggles.”
“No kidding,” I say, feeling better. More playful.
“Now go out there and have fun.”
“I will. Thanks.” I turn for the door but then look back. “Hey, wish me laughs.”
Nick’s smile grows wider as his gaze meets mine. And all I can think is I want more than laughs with him. So much more. Is that even possible with my dad’s death and his divorce hanging over us? Can two stand-ups really make a couple?
A couple, Olivia? You cry in front of the guy once (or twice) and now he’s your soul mate? This is exactly why I don’t get emotional. Once you open that door, who knows what will come out. Or who you’ll let in. Nick sees me off with a salute, reminding me I have a show to do.
Hovering in the doorway at the back of the room, I notice the crowd is less dense than I expected, given the masses of people outside. Perhaps locals aren’t as interested in stand-up as they are the outdoor festivities like hosting backyard barbecues, drinking cold beers out of coolers with melting ice, and setting off illegal fireworks (RIP, Jeremiah). If I can have a little fun, maybe I have a chance of being explosively spectacular onstage.
I stretch out my hands and my mouth and adjust my glasses as the emcee calls out, “Please give a howlin’ welcome to Olivia Vincent!” The audience cheers and howls like a pack of wolves. I never got a welcome like that before but it’s a lot of fun. I grab the mic and feel my wild emotions from the day begin to steady. As I go through my set, something about performing feels different. Lighter. More open. For the first time since I left New York, I feel exuberant, full of beans, as my grandma would say.
The crowd is loving it. Loving me. Laugh after laugh after laugh. All the laughs. Finally, I’m connecting with the audience in a way I haven’t in a long time, maybe ever. How refreshing to forget the fear of all the things that could go wrong. My last punchline lands with a bang and the crowd explodes with applause.
Yes! Oh, yes! That feels good.
“That’s my time, everyone! I’m Olivia Vincent and I’m back!” I wave and capture the crowd in my mind before returning the mic.
