If I quit comedy, at least for the time being, I can’t keep working at the Hardy-Har Hideaway. Even if I’d miss Jessie, Declan, Marco, and the gang, I can’t be reminded of my failed pursuit every time I clock in. It would only make the transition to offstage life harder.
Comedy has been my dream for an eternity, and I’ve been striving for this audition for almost two years, but going back to the club now feels like returning to my kingdom after a hero’s journey without the head of the beast I was sent to slay. No sword or armor could protect me from how cast out I feel.
Given that CeeCee already offered to put in a good word for me with HR at Doop, I’m practically guaranteed the job. I’d end up like Ryan, that hapless guy at the front desk, filling my days with mindless tasks to help sell a brand I don’t believe in, that may or may not be doing witchcraft behind a retina-scan doorway, that cheats people out of their money so they can make money.
Capitalism. Gotta love it.
Before I begin filling out the application, I text CeeCee to hold myself accountable:You win. I’m applying to Doop.
She writes back:Ha. Ha. Your funniest joke ever.
Post-submission, swallowing my pride, I send her picture proof of the screen that says, “Thanks for your application!” and then my phone lights up with her contact picture. An incoming call. I go to answer it, but then I hear Drake’s “Take Care” booming from a Bluetooth speaker hidden somewhere in the hallway. I decline CeeCee’s call so I can see what’s going on.
My door opens a crack and in pops one pale leg like a showgirl.
Right as Rihanna begins to sing the song’s hook, Drew makes his grand entrance in a ridiculously short nurse costume, skirt swishing with each swivel of his hips. Pinned in his hair is a white cap with a red cross stitched on the front. He carries a comically large prop needle that squirts water onto my floor. “Care for a littleexposuretherapy?” he asks, pumping his chest to the beat.
He’s seen way too many episodes ofDrag Race. The showmanship is next level.
I’m erupting with laughter over this absurd display as hecontinues a mildly awkward dance around my room—not quite sexual but notnotsexual—carrying a tray with a tiny cup of Tylenol on it. “Time for your medication, Mr. Baker.”
“Please,” I play along. “Mr. Baker is my father. Call me Nolan.”
“Alrighty then, Nolan. Open up.” He bends over in a way that suggests he’s showing off his cleavage and not a flat chest speckled with a light smattering of red hairs. “Say ‘ahhh.’”
“Ahhh,” I echo.
Drew breaks the act by laughing heartily. Our gags always go a little far.
“Where did you get that outfit?” I ask when we both calm down.
“My cousin came by the shop to pick up one of her preorders today. I remembered she was a nurse for Halloween last year, so I asked if she could bring the costume. We’re about the same size.” He takes a seat on the edge of my bed, stopping the music and smiling warmly at me.
“‘About’ is the operative word there. You’re busting out of this thing.” I point at a seam begging to break free right at his shoulder peak. I’m flush with a thought of what that outfit ripped off and flung to the floor might look like.
It’s not as if I’ve never seen Drew naked before—all freckles, limbs, and plentiful hairs the color of autumn leaves dappled in sunlight. But this probing thought is different. It strikes my chest, snakes south through my stomach, and settles somewhere low in my gut.
Drew inspects a fraying area around his midsection. “Shit. Can’t believe I’m going to IOU a slutty nurse costume to my cousin. Is this rock bottom?” He laughs.
“You’re definitely asking the right person.”
My joke is met with a pinched-mouth expression. “How are you feeling?”
“The swelling has gone down, and my face doesn’t feel like it’s onfire anymore, which is nice.” I dry swallow the two pills he’s brought me. “I have an appointment with the ENT in two days. They said they can reset the fracture and put me in a cast now.”
“How long will you have to wear that?”
“Ten days. Which means…”
“You’ll be wearing it at CeeCee’s wedding.”
“Bingo.” Groaning, I fall back on my pillow, nearly kicking my laptop. I’m already deep in a money hole over the urgent care visit and now this procedure. A full-time job with real benefits would be a godsend right now, even if it’s with Doop. “Weddings are kind of traps when you think about it. Trapped in a room with a bunch of people you know and don’t want to talk to, and then another bunch of people you don’t know and don’t want to talk to. Weddings could be emails.”
“Subject line: We Did It! Send Gifts.”
“It would save everyone a lot of time and money.” I pick up my phone, ready to jot this down in my notes app. There’s a nugget of a joke in here somewhere. But then I stop myself.
If I’m leaving the Hardy-Har Hideaway, I probably won’t be performing for a while. New material needs to take a back seat to this new life that may include a desk job at Doop.
