CONTENT WARNING

Stand Up

by Merick Humbert

It was a small room of about one-hundred and sixty. Couples and friends were sitting around tables, laughing and conversing as waiters weaved their way between all the fray, taking orders and replenishing drinks. The bar was in the back where certain patrons dwelled and others waited to place their order. As Tim walked across the stage, attention was directed toward the front of the room.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” he asked taking the microphone out of its stand.

The conversation around the room began to dissipate; there was a short round of applause, and someone whistled and yelled out: “Yeah!” Tim looked in that direction and noticed his friends, Elizabeth and Harry, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, to the left of the stage. The spotlights made it difficult for him to see most of the crowd and his eyes quickly went to the floor where they would mostly remain with short glimpses intermittently dispersed over that small sea of souls.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I’m happy to be here tonight.” He slowly began to pace to the left of the stage and then back to the right, very reserved, and despite his many times on stage, the same fear and discomfort coursed through his veins as the very first time he set foot in front of a crowd, ten years before. Comedy was his calling, something he felt he must do, something he was meant to do. It wasn’t the discomfort that he relished, but the feeling of accomplishment that overcame him the moment he stepped foot off the stage—not to mention the laughs, there was nothing like getting laughs.

“So, I live in Brooklyn…over in Bed Stuy.” There were a few hoots and hollers. “Yeah, yeah. So, I always see shit when I’m walking. Dogshit. It’s everywhere. And the thing is, I’m always out walking my dog! And I’m nervous, worried people are gonna’ think I’m the one leaving it behind…looking over my shoulder like, it wasn’t him.” Tim pointed to indicate where his dog might have been. “I swear! that’s cold. And hard. See…see…I got a bag right here.” He held up his arm. “It’s warm. And soft…I don’t know who that belongs to…So inconsiderate, I know, I know…It’s disgusting…” he paused. “You see dogshit everywhere and you start thinking, ‘Why am I picking this up? What’s the point?’… Cause I’m a good person, that’s why. That’s what we should do. We all have to live on these streets… But you can see how that mindset starts to creep up on you. ‘Why should I do it? No one else does.’ The garbage and the shit begin to seep into your soul. You can understand…a bit. But you got to push through. You can’t live with that mentality. You can’t control it. It’s powerful.”

Tim continued pacing for a moment, seemingly in thought.

“I went to NYU for a couple years. That’s what got me to New York.”

Some people cheered, perhaps students who currently attend. Maybe alumni. One guy booed.

“Right?” Tim said. “I fucking hate that place.” He paused for some laughs, looked at the crowd and smiled. “I didn’t have any money, see, so I had to take out a bunch of student loans. Figured NYU is going to look great on a resume. It will be easy to get a good job…Didn’t think that through. There must be hundreds of thousands of people in this city with degrees from that school. I got mine in Interdisciplinary Studies—SMAAAART,” he said sarcastically pointing to his head.

“They’ve been talking about forgiving student loans, which would be awesome……But they shouldn’t.” he said emphatically. “Not only do they pay for your tuition, but they give you money for the cost of living—food, apartment, subway card…And if you live off of pb&j sandwiches and ramen noodles in a crappy apartment, do you know how much booze and cocaine you can buy with that money?”

He paused for laughs and smiled again.

“Me neither, of course! But I know a couple of guys…” he paused.

“It shouldn’t be forgiven. That’s all I’m saying. What should be forgiven, or at least lowered is the interest. That shit is ridiculous. Never heard anyone even suggest that idea. That’s what really makes them almost impossible to get out from under…Hated college…Always knew I wanted to do this. But I learned some stuff…Read some good books I had never heard of…Read some shit, too…I don’t know how I even got in.”

“No one cares,” some guy yelled. There were laughs. Tim glanced in the direction of the voice but quickly turned back and continued on.

“Seemed like everybody there came from a different world,” he said. “With a foundation of knowledge that I just didn’t have.”

“Imposter syndrome,” somebody called.

“That’s exactly right. It felt like everyone came from private schools and had personal tutors. And I…I just felt dumb…” he paused.

“Everything’s an allegory and kids are using words like ‘pedantic’ and ‘efficacy’ in every other sentence. No one speaks like that. You’re twenty you pretentious little prick…Guy says to me, ‘you’re being didactic.’ WHAT THE FUCK YOU CALL ME?! Motherfucker, I haven’t sucked a dick in years. Damn.”

Tim paused for a few laughs from the crowd, chuckled to himself and said, “Stupid joke,” and he shook his head.

“So, I have to take the subway in from Brooklyn, obviously, for school or whatever. And whenever I’m riding the subway, I’m never on my phone—unlike most. I like to people-watch, look around, observe what’s going on. Of course, you don’t want people to notice you looking at them. Oh no, that’s weird. ‘WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?’ Nothing, nothing, definitely not that big fucking knob on your forehead, oh no, definitely not that…… But I also like reading all the ads, up top, you know,” Tim gestured his hand out and toward the ceiling, “of the cars, above the seats.”

“There’s this one guy,” he went on, “this Sid-Guru, I think he’s called. Spouting his wisdom in an ad on the J train. ‘You are in charge of your own happiness,’ this ad says, just as this homeless woman comes walking by, dirty, emaciated, begging for change, talking about how she was the victim of domestic violence and has no place to go, just had to get out, escape that horrible, horrible situation. She’s got a daughter (who is not with her at the moment) but she needs to get them food and shelter… One lady gives her a dollar. Well, excuse me, Miss, but Mr. Sid-Guru over here says, you are in charge of your own happiness. Hope that helps. And Peter tells Wendy to think happy thoughts. Must be true. He’s got an ad on the subway!”

Tim paused. The crowd was mostly quiet, but still paying attention.

“Helpful stuff.”

Tim paused again, paced a little to the left and then went on.

“There was one ad that read, ‘Sell Your Ex’s Clothes on Postmark.’ REALLY? People, man. People. I could picture some chick going through her ex-boyfriend’s clothes, cataloging each one.” Then Tim began to speak softer, in imitation, “I can get five dollars for this shirt, fifteen for these pants, aw look at this cum stain, I remember that night. That was a good night. What the fuck is this lipstick!? That’s not mine! Motherfucker!”

“Alright, last sign. I just can’t get over some of these, my mind just…trying to figure out society. Alright, so this one says, ‘Build a website. Start your business. Make your family proud… Or prove them wrong. We don’t know your family.’ Real ad. And I could just imagine them coming up with it, bouncing on their big fucking rubber balls, in their super hip office drinking wheatgrass. The guy who is giving the presentation: ‘Make them proud, it will say.’ Then this idiot in the back says, ‘what about all the people that hate their family,’ and the boss is like, ‘hmmm, yeah. People that hate their family make up 75% of our demographic. Add a line for them. And while you’re at it, I want ideas for ten different types of poop bags on my desk by Monday.’”

Tim felt the laughs from the crowd enter his body like a surge of energy and strength.

“So many choices… Ten different types of poop bags… It’s crazy. What do we need all these for—these ones are environmentally friendly, these one’s smell like lavender, these ones come in a variety of colors. THEY ARE FOR PICKING UP DOGSHIT.”

Tim paused and took a sip from a water bottle that was sitting on a stool toward the back of the stage.

“So many choices. I was in Trader Joe’s the other day,”

“YEAH,” yelled some guy from the crowd with a clap. Tim looked at him, disappointment in his face, and went on.

“I see this maple syrup variety pack with SIX different types of maple syrup. ‘What type of maple syrup would you like?’ I’d like a little of each, a little dark, a little light, a little medium, a little spicy. What about you? Maple, Bitch. MAPLE.”

He paused for some applause.

“I was in a restaurant the other day; I ordered french fries and the waiter asks me, ‘How would you like those cooked?’ FRIED. What the fuck? Where am I? Too many choices.”

Tim paused and took another sip from his water bottle. He wiped sweat from his forehead on the sleave of his plain green t-shirt.

“I used to walk dogs,” he continued. “One day, I’m walking this regular of mine; he’s a little schnauzer named Jose. So, I’m walking Jose and we come across this Asian dude with a pomeranian. The dog’s just sitting there, patiently, as we walk towards them—obviously he, or she, wants to say hello to Jose, which, normally I really don’t like to do… But I did...”

“So, I walk up, and the dogs start sniffing each other, everything seems fine—maybe fifteen seconds. Then, all of a sudden, the pomeranian goes apeshit, rah, rah, rah,” Tim imitated a dog. “I quickly pull Jose away, the pomeranian bites me, and I yell, AHHHHH...And the dude just walks away with his dog. I check Jose—he’s totally fine. I roll up my jeans, and my leg is bleeding. And then I have this, well, maybe a little bit of a racist thought… And I feel terrible about it… So, I imagine I’m the guy and I’m like, ‘That’s it Sparky! You’re going in the pot; you’re dinner tonight. That’s the last leg you’ll ever bite!’ And then I think to myself, ‘Tim, you can’t be thinking things like that, that’s racist. It’s terrible.’ Wait…that little bitch just bit me… I’m bleeding. That motherfucker just walked away… Fuck him...And that dog. Why am I feeling guilty? What did I do? I’m always feeling guilty. Guilt and shame, that’s all I got. But it made me laugh. Thank you very much; you guys have been great. I’m Tim Caudrey.”

Tim walked off the left side of the stage and around the outside of the room to the bar. He was shaking, filled with anxiety and adrenaline. Maggie, the bartender, had a beer and a shot of whiskey waiting for him. He took the shot, sipped the beer, and then took a deep breath trying loosen his twisted guts, and calm his racing heart.

“What’s up, jackass?” Harry said as he approached their table.

“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming.”

“You know, they already passed the loan forgiveness plan?”

“Yeah, well, I wrote that joke months ago. Need to rework it, I suppose.”

“You were great, Tim,” Elizabeth said. “Really funny.”

“Aw, thanks so much.”

Tim appreciated it, but always felt awkward getting compliments. At that moment, a man and a woman, smartly dressed and looking a bit out of place in this dingy bar, walked up and introduced themselves.

“Hi, Tim,” the woman said. “My name’s Cheryl Feinstein.”

“Ken Dorne,” the man added.

“Hello,” Tim said, shaking both their hands.

“It was an excellent show…”

“Very funny,”

“We’re executives from TXC,” she said as they each pulled out a business card, “we’re looking to develop a half-hour comedy; we’ve been speaking to a few comedians and we think you could be a great fit for it. We’ve been following you for some time.”

“Wow. I’m so flattered…Like a sitcom?” Tim asked.

“Exactly,” Ken said.

“Well, it could be,” Cheryl added. “We don’t have anything too specific in mind. We also like how you explore some darker material in your work…We’re really just looking for comedic talent and we would be interested in exploring, you know, some of your ideas, and what you’d be interested in developing…within that half hour timeframe. We’re hoping to launch a few new programs in the upcoming seasons. Or maybe it could be a possibility to have you join us in the writers’ room on another project.”

“That sounds amazing!” Tim said.

Elizabeth and Harry were just standing there, quietly listening. Tim was in shock. A moment like this was all that he dreamed of. The opportunity to create his own show. He looked up to people like Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld—people who started out just like he had, on stage, night after night, grinding away, racing from one venue to the next, writing jokes, bombing, being heckled, booed off stage—he even had a beer thrown at him once. But all the while getting laughs and getting better. He was okay with how his life ended up—some time on the road, but mostly bouncing around New York, trying to get in three shows a night, six days a week, making just enough to eat and pay his rent. He didn’t see this coming. He knew there was a high likelihood that nothing would come from it. But he couldn’t be more thrilled. It was his dream.

“Well, we’d love for you to come in to our office, pitch us some ideas, tell us what you’re thinking. Maybe sometime next week?”

“Yes! Of course. I’d be happy to.”

“Wonderful. Just call the number on the card. Speak with our secretary. He will be expecting to hear from you, and you can set up a time.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Likewise,” Cheryl said.

“We’re excited as well,” Ken added.

“Have a good night.”

“Holy shit!” Harry said as they walked away. “You’re gonna’ be on TX motherfuckin’ C.”

Tim let out a laugh from deep in his gut.

“I can’t believe it, dude…Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. Nothin’ might come of it.”

            “Shit, man. You can’t think like that. Even being a writer on another show would be sweet!”

“Just getting the meeting is a huge deal, Tim,” Elizabeth said.

“It’s true, man.”

“No shit,” Tim said.

“It means that you are being noticed,” she went on. “And even if it doesn’t work out, and you don’t get a show. At least you are on their radar.”

Tim had a huge smile on his face.

“I feel so happy,” he said. “I can’t even tell you.”

“Let’s celebrate! Shots!”

“I can’t. I’m doing another show in Williamsburg in an hour…I’m actually gonna’ go now. Thanks so much for coming, guys. We’ll hang out soon.”

“Don’t forget about us when you’re big and famous.”

Tim laughed.

As he was making his way to the subway, he felt his phone buzz. It was a message from his mother with a news article attached.

“New York Governor Passes Bill Expanding Grant Money Availability for Teaching Certifications,” the headline read. Below she wrote, “I always thought you would make an amazing teacher.”

Annoyed, Tim closed his phone and walked down the stairs to the L train—on his way to his next gig.