Harry’s frustrated sigh flings me back to the night he broke up with me outside the Hardy-Har Hideaway. Time has turned him into an Adonis but hasn’t softened his easily triggered temper. “You’re delivering the joke like you’re reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. It’s a rote snoozefest.”
I should be offended by this, but I know he’s right. The twenty-three-year-old inside wants to argue that it’s not me, it’s the material that goes low when it should go high. Michelle Obama would be deeply disappointed in me. Great, now I’m wondering if Michelle Obama has ever run for president… Time-jump brain farts are inundating.
“Are you even listening?” Jessalynn snaps.
“Yes, of course,” I lie, because I sense part of Harry’s annoyance is a by-product of those gossip-rag photos of Drew and me. In this timeline, I clearly was never taught to keep the personal and the professional separate. My former friend is my manager, blurring the lines between chumminess and capital gain. My former flame/recent fuck buddy is my director, a huge middle finger to decency. Instead of saying any of that, I apologize. Like I’m becoming so good at.
“We’ve worked too hard for this special to tank, which is why I’m booking you a warm-up gig,” Jessalynn says.
“What kind of warm-up gig?” I ask, dreading having to do these jokes any more than necessary before completing the crystal hunt and getting me back. Hopefully.
“Maybe at the Broadway Laugh Box as the surprise headliner. Take you back to your roots,” they say offhandedly. Sounding as if the Broadway Laugh Box, my former pinnacle, is now a bottomless pit they’d rather not think of. “Let you perform in a place you’re comfortable before moving into the theater. I think it will be good for you.”
My brain whirs. “What about at the Hardy-Har Hideaway instead?” I ask. I spent more time at the Triple H than I did in Drew’s and my apartment—it was my second home. There’s no stage in the world I’d be more relaxed on.
Jessalynn’s face scrunches up with disgust. “You want to perform at that dive?”
“It’s where I got my start.”
“For autobiographical purposes, you got your start with Clive at the Broadway Laugh Box,” they inform me. “We need to stay consistent, and the Clive connection is far more interesting than you serving reheated spring rolls to stingy tourists at a B-minus club.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“Oh, don’t give me that. You buried that past alongside me, and you know it,” they say, not realizing that I truly don’t. The more I piece together from the last seven years, the more I want to tear it all up and set it ablaze.
“What about all the good times we had there? All the dreaming about the future?” I ask. “Let’s stomp all over our old stomping ground. It’ll be fun.” I’m flying by the seat of my pants.
Jessalynn looks to Harry for backup. All he does is shrug.
“Fine, just this once.” My chest loosens, allowing more optimism to swoop in. Jessalynn must read it on my face because they squelch it quickly. “Don’t get too excited. You’re doing the show front-to-back as written for the special. No ad-libs. No new stuff. Promise?”
“Promise,” I say because it’s the only leverage I have to get what I want.
“Good,” Jessalynn says. “Wanda won’t love hearing from me, but I’ll make the call. Now get back in there and please, please,pleaseKO some punch lines!”
No word from CeeCee. Sorry.
Drew’s text pings in a little after eight.
That’s okay, I type back.I emailed her again but still radio silence. It was a long shot anyway.
Our whole plan is a long shot, but I’m trying to remain positive. Or as positive as I can be given the circumstances.
I’m sitting in the green room of the Hardy-Har Hideaway, getting ready for my set and saying hello to the budding comics who come up to me to tell me they love my work or that they “saw me when…” It’s gratifying, but in truth, it’s ridiculous. Mentally, I’m right where they are, even if physically I’m at the top of my form.
As I look around, I realize this place has lost what little luster it used to have. Wear and tear doesn’t even begin to describe how run-down Wanda’s place has gotten. Time has not been kind, and that doesn’t sit well with me.
To assuage some of the discomfort, I text Drew again:What are you up to tonight?
Nursing a whiskey and finalizing the next book club pick, he responds. I’m picturing him in a nice robe and slippers, laid back on a recliner, a stack of books and a stout glass on a table by his side. In this fantasy, he’s smoking an old-timey pipe and a roaring fireplace is nearby.
A second message from Drew comes in:Nothing exciting.
I hate that he feels the need to qualify that, as if I have any room to judge him.Are you looking for some excitement?I send back.
It’s way flirtier than I intend to be, given his vocal aversion to love and my realization that keeping things platonic while we try to get me back is healthier, but it’s out there. My twenty-three-year-old impulses are not getting filtered out by the thirty-year-old wisdom surely stored somewhere inside me.
Damn, you’d think after seven years Apple would’ve implemented an “unsend” button for those messages you invariably regret.
