I open my mouth to let the smartass have it, but no witty retort comes out, so I’m left like a fish out of water, just gaping at the situation I’ve landed myself in.
Flick,flick,flamegoes the lighter as Gertie tokes up and then passes to Bette. “It’s your big night, after all.”
Bette inhales and coughs, waving the smoky air in front of her as Leora takes a puff.
“It just wasn’t done in my day, women touring from city to city.” For a dream Bette claims she’s had her entire life, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I sometimes suspect they’re cooking up the wildest of pursuits for amusement. “Sure, there were a few outliers: Gilda Radner, ‘Moms’ Mabley, and Carol Burnett.
“Those women are the reason I sweet-talked a stagehand at the county fair into letting me warm up the audience for the next band. This man began heckling me a few jokes in, booing and hollering that women aren’t funny, and I…” Her voice cracks, and it’s so obviously a core wound, guilt twangs over even my mental dismissal. “I always wondered what would’ve happened if I didn’t let him run me off that stage.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I say softly. “This is exactly whyyoushould do it.”
Bette’s lower lip pops out in an exaggerated pout, and I do my best to avoid her puppy-dog gaze. “Oh, so you’ll help everyone but me live out their dreams and regrets?”
“Whoa there, no reason to start tossing out allegations. It’s a lot of pressure living out anyone’s dreams and regrets, nor am I able to do so.” I just felt like that needed to be said, regardless of audience inattention or lack of participation. “I’ll hold up my end of the bargain, and I promise I’ll go in there and give it my best…”
Gertie and Leora get the giggles, so I have to raise my voice.
“But you have to prepare for the reality of people not laughing or connecting with the material, not because it’s not funny, but because I’m no good at being in the spotlight or delivering jokes.”
“You’re funny,” Bette counters, stifling her laughter only to titter and lose it again.
At the same time, Sophia says, “You’re more of an acquired taste,” demurely blowing smoke from her nostrils while shredding my ego.
Great, I’m beer. Not a fancy craft brew that’s been curated by lumberjack hipsters, either. I go down hard, no notes of anything besides yeasty sourness.
“I’ve written out my set for you,” Bette says as if that’s my primary concern in this bizarre scenario. While I spend a lot of my time around her laughing, I have no idea how her jokes will translate over a microphone in a nightclub, where people have come to be entertained.
How awesome is it that I’ll get to find that out while standing onstage in the middle of the spotlight?
“Your turn.” Wanda swings the smoking joint toward me, and I don’t have the heart to tell them this is my first time.
What can I say? I’m a rule follower with complicated issues toward authority figures, so even the idea of taking a puff kickstarts my guilty conscience and heart rate.
“We’d never pressure you, but smoking dope helps turn down the volume.” Grandma Helen plucks the doobie from Wanda’s pinched fingers and brings it to her mouth for an inhale. She holds in the breath, demonstrating, but also providing an out if I want it. “It takes off that edge.”
What if all I have are edges?I want to ask, because turning down the volume has been my deepest desire since the dawn of my intrusive thoughts.
I suppose there’s only one way to see if I like “smoking dope,” which is such a goofy way to say it, so I assume the position and pause as instructed so Gertie can relight the tip.
I breathe in fire and transform into a dragon in an instant, smoke billowing out around me as I hack and cough. My eyes water, probably relocating my charcoal liner and mascara to my cheeks, but I’m caring less and less by the second.
“You okay?” Noah’s grinning at me, a hint of mockery in his tone and the curve of his mouth.
I smile back, a high-pitched titter spilling out. That causes another wave of laughter to roll through the group, and seconds elongate and merge together as we puff, puff, pass.
My head feels pleasantly floaty, my mind blissfully quiet, and would it be weird to congratulate Arlene on having such an attractive grandson? He’s legit such a gentleman as he herds us toward the entrance of the club, even though I can sense his exasperation when Sophia, Ruth, and Rita get distracted by a shiny red sports car in the well-lit parking lot.
The unamused bouncer with the “Mr. Clean Haircut,” as Leora loudly pronounces him, stamps our hands. We’re still cackling over it as we spill inside the Laugh Shack, and the vibes are so great, I suddenly feel ready for wherever the night takes us.
Even with my brain stuffed with fuzzy cotton, I’m not delusional enough to think I’ll nail Bette’s routine. But when I bomb, and the crew and audience members ask why did I get so high before taking the stage, I’m totally telling them my grandmother and her friends peer pressured me into it.
Chapter Twenty
The thing about having Generalized Anxiety Disorder is that you experience it so often, you almost forget it can get worse. I haven’t gone breathless in a while, my chest heaving with the strain of lungs turned ornamental, not since that dark stretch after I lost my job, but I feel the squeeze now. I sip the last of my rum and Coke, assuring myself I’ll survive the five-minute slot my grannies signed me up for. After all, I’ve spoken in front of hundreds of strangers and bleachers filled with angry basketball fans.
My last boss was so demanding, I discovered at least three new forms of anxiety.
What if I bomb so hard that Bette’s new regret is making me do this?
