“Which is where you…?”
She shrugs with the shoulder not currently hefting her overstuffed vegan-leather attaché. “I’ve never been down there.”
“Wait, you’ve worked here for five years and you’ve never been in there? Not even on an introductory tour?” I suddenly get the sense that I’m being watched. When I glance back, Ryan’s eyes are trained on me (was he lying about the contacts?) until he notices me noticing him, at which point he picks up a phone that hasn’t rung.
Okay, I’m really creeped out. The ding of the elevator nearly makes my skin spring off.
CeeCee steps in first. “I work in marketing, not productdevelopment. I’m swamped enough with my own projects. There’s no reason for me to go snooping into the Doop Lab, okay?”
I feel distinctly like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have. All that hallway needed was flickering lights and a screeching violin score to have been straight out of a sci-fi/horror flick.
“Speaking of, there’s an opening in my department with the social media team,” she says, so blasé, nails tapping out an email on her phone.
“I have a job,” I snap. There are only so many times you can fight with your sister-slash-second-mom about your life choices. “Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
She folds her arms over her chest as the elevator begins its descent. “I never said I don’t like it. Just thought you might be ready to settle into a career.”
I hug her bag to my chest, right up against my fitful heart. “I have a career. I’m a comedian.” Though that is feeling less and less true the longer I stagnate, but I won’t admit that. Most certainly not to her. CeeCee and I are not the kind of siblings who have heart-to-hearts.
“The social media team could use a comedic voice to spice up their content, so it’s too perfect to pass up,” CeeCee argues.
“Social media content creator for a fad lifestyle brand is not in my five-year plan,” I retort, standing my ground but keeping my tone as calm as possible.
“Because that plan’s going so well for you,” she snaps back, eyes fierce over the top rim of her sunglasses. I mask the upset by looking away, which I think softens her. “Just please consider putting in an application. It would make Mom and Dad happy. They may not even hire you.”
“Love that vote of confidence,” I say as the elevator stops.
“Jesus, I’m just trying to help.” She’s always trying to help, which leads me to believe she thinks I’m helpless.
I wave the bag of her unmentionables in her face. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be helpingyouright now,” I say. The last thing I need is this argument brewing between us all day. I want this mister of honor business to bring us together.Backtogether. The way we were as kids. Friends, or at the very leastfriendly. And that won’t happen if we’re at each other’s throats over nonsense like where my paycheck comes from.
The doors slide open with awhoosh, letting in a rush of cold air and a slew of workers.
“Whatever. Sorry I said anything.” CeeCee doesn’t even wait for me as she strides across the lobby.
Outpacing me in every respect.
Chapter Three
“Nap on your own time,” Wanda, my boss and this club’s owner, crows, slugging me with a slightly wet tray from the kitchen.
My eyes snap open, and I’m rushed back to the bleak reality of sticky floors, drunk tourists, and the pervasive scent of trying-too-hard-to-impress-your-date. Don’t get me wrong. The Hardy-Har Hideaway is a New York City staple and one of my favorite places on this godforsaken planet, but it’s much less illustrious on nights when you’re hocking nachos and mopping up spilled beer pitchers instead of soaking up the spotlight in front of that famous redbrick wall and weathered, painted sign.
“I don’t pay you to doze off in the middle of my club, got that?” Wanda warns in her stern but fair tone.
She’s right. She pays me to take orders and bus tables, so I accept the tray while simultaneously accepting the fact that after four years of paying my dues in the everybody-knows-everybody comedy scene, I’m still making a living as a server, not solely slaying onstage.
On my way to table twelve, where a gargantuan stack of soggy napkins and half-drunk cocktails awaits me, I sneak peeks at the girl performing tonight: Taylor Pemberton, a club newbie—spunky, blond, sporting a pair of bright-purple combat boots. She’s shaky yet still commanding the room with every tug of the mic cord, every cheeky wink.
She’s a gentle reminder of how far I’ve come from my open mic days.
After countless workshops, networking events, showcases, and classes, my stand-up skills are sharp. I know they are. My skeleton is made up of 206 funny bones rattling around inside a relatively attractive skin suit—modesty, meh. Who needs it when you’re twenty-three and already hosting your own night in New York City?
Granted, it’s Monday nights, butstill. Major.
I only wish that meant something to my family. Meant more in terms of fast-tracking me for global stardom.
Part of the reason I took this job was so that I could get paid to learn by example. Soak up some genius by sheer proximity. And I figured getting in the good graces of Wanda Howard, the queen of comedy club owners, wouldn’t be a bad bet either in my five-year plan for success, which dovetails into my ten-year plan for comedy domination. A plan that most resolutely does not include a detour into working for Doop.
