“Better than you feared?”
I laughed. “Okay, the only improv I’ve seen was in college. Lots of cunnilingus jokes and Britney Spears references.”
“Oh, we do those, too. If you’d just put in a request…”
“Next time,” I said.
“So you’re coming back, then?” he asked, grinning.
We quieted down as the next person got up, a Black stand-up comedian who gave a very funny set based on moving to Newfoundland from Uganda as a child. When he was done, he came and joined the table. Clearly, he and Paul knew each other, and Paul introduced him to me as Raahid while the final woman got up, another earnest folk singer named Amber.
“You were killing it, man,” Paul quietly told Raahid as the singer tuned her guitar.
“Thank God for you guys…every time I go after Lachlan…” Raahid began.
“Oh, we’re aware,” Paul agreed.
“Look at that asshole,” Mark muttered. We all glanced over and saw the folk singer seated at a table with three young women leaning in closely as he gave each of them looks full of world-weary longing.
“Unbelievable,” Raahid agreed. “That mournful son of a bitch does better than anyone except you, Mark.”
Mark shrugged. “I do alright.”
“Are you kidding me? You get more girls than me and Lachlan put together.”
I gave Mark a glance and then looked away, listening to Amber Sorelli’s throaty alto singing. She wasn’t bad. In fact she wrote the kind of music I liked best, filled with complex lyrics and catchy melodies. The only issue was that her songs had precisely one topic: she had clearly had the world’s worst ex-boyfriend. Her ex sounded like a cross between singer-songwriter Ryan Adams and Charles Manson. Between songs, I whispered to Lisette, “If you tell me her ex-boyfriend is Lachlan, this will be so much better,” and Lisette laughed so hard she snorted.
The show wrapped up a little after 9:30 p.m. because the space had to clear out for a band coming on at ten, and I found myself tumbling out onto the street with Raahid and the Newfingers, wandering up the hill to find another bar where we could drink and chat. It was a warm evening broken up by great gusts of wind, and Paul walked next to me, blocking the worst of it, though I couldn’t be sure if he was doing it on purpose.
“So…” he began. “Why Newfoundland?”
“They told me there was good improv comedy here.”
“Better than New York?”
“I was told the New Yorkers are all sellouts and this was the purest form of the craft.”
“Oh, we’re nothing if not pure,” Paul said. “On stage at least.”
That was flirting, I realized. He was definitely flirting with me.
Lisette ran up behind me and threw her arms around me. “Paul,” she said, “where are we taking her this weekend? I have off on Sunday. We have to show her around.”
“I guess we do,” Paul agreed. “What do you want to see?”
“Anything,” I said. “I’m a Newfoundland virgin.”
Paul looked away, amused; it was fun to watch him deliberately not make a dirty joke. “Have you been down the coast at all?” he asked. “Witless Bay?”
“I have been to the Coleman’s Market half a mile from my house, which is the extent of my travels.”
“Well, it’s a plan, then,” Paul said. “We’ll show you puffins. Newfoundland is famous for them.”
“Brooklyn is famous for rats,” I replied. “Your puffins better steal pizza and get into fist fights or they can’t measure up.”
Paul smiled. “I’ll have to tell my students to get more of our puffins on TikTok.”
“You teach?”
