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Five
After a long hot shower, I emerge from our tiny white-tiled bathroom, steam spilling out into the hallway. My dark, damp hair is crimped from the towel-dry because it’s too late to run the dryer. I never sleep well with the smell of comedy club lingering in the strands of my hair.
The sound of Imani’s giggle seems to slip beneath the crack of her closed bedroom door as I pass it on the way to my bedroom. It echoes out into the apartment and I freeze. Muffled voices grow steady. There’s movement too. So much for keeping it quiet.
Screeeeech.
Are they dragging the chair across the floor? Oh, Lord. There’s only one reason to rearrange furniture at this hour. Good. For. Them. Welcome to New York roommate life, where everyone’s listening to everyone’s everything all the time. I roll my eyes, hurry to my room, and close the door. Imani might be my penguin but I can’t listen to whatever sexual acrobatics she and the German Hamburglar are experimenting with now.
I yank my phone from the charger and dig in my nightstand for a pair of headphones. If I were smart, I’d pull up a meditation podcast and allow five minutes of deep breathing to lull me unconscious. But instead I’ll indulge in my favorite pastime—stand-up comedy.
Curled up on one side, I prop up my phone on the nightstand next to my glasses, careful not to yank the headphone cable. A few feel-good jokes should release the right neurochemical cocktail for rest and relaxation. My new favorite stand-up special begins. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it never gets old. There’s something comforting about watching a comedy special in the dark when everyone else is asleep, or busy, in Imani’s case.
On my summer breaks as a teen, I’d stay up late in bed sipping on sweet tea, the fan blowing on my feet kicked out of the covers, and watching specials on The Comedy Channel or HBO. All while trying not to wake my dad with my laughter. My favorites were Margaret Cho, Wanda Sykes, Judy Gold, and Chris Rock. Little did I know it was the caffeine in the tea that was keeping me up. It was so much fun discovering comedians for myself and developing my own taste in stand-up.
I carried that tradition into my college years but by then the stand-ups weren’t enough to keep me company. I longed for someone—a man to lie next to. Someone to laugh at all the same jokes with. It’s a rare thing, you know, a shared sense of humor. Trust me, I’ve looked. For some reason I always ended up dating guys who liked stand-ups that just don’t do it for me. But since I know the comedy grind, you won’t catch me trashing anyone.
Now this special streaming on my phone totally does it for me. Not to mention how inspiring it is to see a woman who’s not much older than me produce her own hour-long special that no one can stop talking about. Hello, goals!
I try to fight my heavy lids with a laugh while Ali Wong cracks jokes about trapping her husband and mistaking hot homeless men for hipsters. Soon Ali’s voice is in my head but my mind drifts beyond consciousness.
—
Sirens blare down the street, alerting me awake to a sun-filled room. I suck in a deep inhale, rub the crust out of my eyes, and attempt to wet my desert-dry mouth with my tongue.
Shit. What time is it?
With a plastic headphone stuck to the side of my face, I blink my eyes wide and pull the cable, reeling my phone over. Uh-oh. I was supposed to be at the office ten minutes ago. I sit straight up like I’ve just been administered a double shot of espresso intravenously. Patting around the nightstand for my glasses, I shoot off a panicked text to Imani and scramble out of bed.
OLIVIA:I overslept. Why didn’t you wake me up?
Sometimes we act as each other’s backup alarms. Her more than me since I’m the one always running on fewer hours of sleep.
IMANI:I left early. You want me to cover for you?
Since she’s in a different department, there’s not much she can do. Scrubbing my molars with a toothbrush in one hand, I tap out a response with my other.
OLIVIA:Thanks but I got it.
It’s a good thing I started that food poisoning rumor. It’ll make the perfect alibi for my tardiness. Besides, why is arriving at nine a.m. considered late? At the law firm of Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein, come in past eight and the partners look at you like you’re rolling in past noon with sneakers on. Maybe it’s because I’m from take your time Texas but I don’t understand what’s so glamorous about the seventy-hour workweek grind. I don’t care how many vitamin B–infused green juices you chug a day, we’re not machines. I do it now only as a necessary evil.
I fly into work just after nine, carrying my nearly empty twenty-ounce travel mug. No time to stop for coffee, so I had to make it the old-fashioned way—at home. Passing through the halls to get to my office, I expect the usual nice of you to finally join us glares. Instead, no one makes eye contact with me. It’s like they’re giving me the silent treatment. Nah, it’s probably in my head. I am the teensiest bit self-conscious since this is the fourth time I’ve been late in the past two weeks. But who’s counting?
At my desk, files are stacked haphazardly in one corner, the slate-colored phone cord is tangled up in itself, and my company-issued laptop waits to be opened. Everything is exactly as I left it except for one small detail—a blinding, Day-Glo yellow Post-it stuck to my coffee-stained ceramic mug.
See me ASAP—W.
W.for Whitley, my boss. Uh-oh. His handwriting does not look happy.
