“Character?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. You dress like a man and act like a boy. There’s a comedic duality to the narcissistic shtick. It works for you.” Her smile is weak. “I have no place to critique what sells.” This is strange to hear. Back in the day, which was only maybe a week or two ago in my real time, Wanda never withheld when offering me feedback, always pushing me to be the best stand-up I possibly could be. Her harshness was how I knew she thought I could succeed. She saved the gratuitous praise for those whose egos would never withstand this business.
“What if I said I hated it?” Jessalynn would probably have a stroke if they overheard me ask that. Too bad. It’s the truth. “What if I said I felt slimy up on that stage tonight and doing those jokes for a special feels wrong?”
The crystal hunt starts banging pots and pans in the back of my mind. Tonight was a nice diversion, but I’m serious about getting back to my proper timeline before the special. Committing those jokes to tape for millions of viewers to watch would tarnish my ultimate goal forever.
I wish I didn’t have to act normal and follow my predetermined schedule, but Drew made clear that if I started acting erratically and began shirking my responsibilities, we’d have a whole other set of problems to deal with.
Wanda pauses for longer than I expect, maybe puzzling over what to say next. Maybe recognizing the old me underneath the tailored Willy Wonka–colored suit and slicked-back hair. “Then I’d say trust your gut, but don’t be surprised when the bottom falls out.” The Wanda I know and love pokes through the nice veneer, reminding me that even if this life is confounding to me, it’s still mine. I’m the consciousness inside this body, and it’s my choices steering the ship. If I want to rock the boat, then so be it.
“Thanks,” I say, renewed somehow. “I needed to hear that.”
I grab my bag and start toward the exit. Wanda lets out anuh-uhand leads me toward the back, the door that opens into the alley. “Too many fans know you’re here tonight because of social media. There’s a mob out front.”
A mob of fans just for me was always a part of my wildest fantasies, but now the thought of stepping out into the spotlight as this man-child Wanda described ties my stomach in knots. Somehow, I braided together all my worst qualities and made them a brand. Distilled them into millions of dollars. The American dream is seriously fucked up.
So am I.
Out in the back, in the alley where Wanda first called me Maggot, beside the dumpster that still reeks with food scraps, Wanda hugs me again. Harder this time. “For a while, I was afraid you’d forgottenwhere you came from. Thanks for wanting to perform here tonight. It’s going to boost us for the next few weeks.” It’s then that I realize how hard the Hardy-Har Hideaway has been hit over the intervening years. One night here means fans will show up for many more to come in the hopes that I’ll reprise my set. Jessalynn would never allow that, but I’m glad it did some good.
“Thanks for having me,” I say. “I guess the saying ‘You can’t go home again’ isn’t true after all.”
Her smile grows stronger, more genuine, and before she lets go, she drops another wisdom bomb on me. “Home always holds the answers.”
After saying our goodbyes, I shoot off a text to Drew asking if he went home already. He doesn’t need to respond, because when I walk around the corner, he’s standing on the edge of the sidewalk in his oxfords, unsuccessfully trying to hail a cab.
I call out to him and he turns, the back of his coat catching the breeze and setting everything into dreamy slow motion. Those two drinks, not to mention the whiskey he was nursing before he left home, cast a warm flush across his cheeks. His shy smile is spotlighted by the nearby streetlight. “Great set,” he says as I approach.
I echo Wanda’s sentiments: “Lying doesn’t change the reality.”
“Okay, then it was pretty cringe,” he says with an honest chuckle. “But I laughed a bit, and you looked very handsome.” We both freeze. Clearly, the drinks are talking for him. “And the poke bowl was delicious,” he adds quickly, moving the conversation along.
Once I tame my blush and recover from the compliment: “It’s my usual. Isn’t it weird that I have a usual at a pricey poke bowl place? Before this whole ordeal, I existed entirely on a diet of ramen, egg sandwiches from the bodega on our corner, and your leftovers.”
“The three major food groups,” he jokes. “Though I’d have preferred to eat my own leftovers. Can you even call them leftovers ifyou didn’t eat the meal originally? It’s just a small portion of old food at that point.”
“Sly observation there, Techler. Sure you’re not the stand-up comedian?” I give him a playful punch in the arm the way we used to. The way that seems childish when shared between two thirty-year-old men on a New York City street in late spring. But not in the bad way Wanda described my ghoulish onstage “character.” This is authentic to us. Who we’ve always been to each other. Even if we’re mostly repressing that for the sake of the crystal hunt.
“No, I could never keep a comedian’s hours,” Drew says, glancing down at his watch. “Speaking of, I have to get back. I’ve got a delivery coming in early for the shop tomorrow.” Responsibility has always been integral to his makeup. Something he must’ve gotten from his dad, whom he rarely talks about.
Before he has a chance to flag down the oncoming cab, I ask, “Can I give you a ride?”
“You drove here?”
“Let me rephrase,” I say. “Can I have my driver give you a ride?” I point across the street to where a woman in a white shirt and black pants leans up against a large SUV, patiently waiting.
Drew shakes his head. “It’s really out of your way. There’s no need.” He’s stepping out into the street again, looking like an Alanis Morissette lyric come to life, so I reach out and grab his hand. The warmth of his palm and the surprise on his face cause rapid-fire fluttering in my chest.
“I’d really like the company,” I say. “Besides, I owe you for coming all the way out here tonight. I never would’ve gotten through that without you.” Again, I realize I’m speaking recklessly. From afar, I can’t fuck things up. I learned that hardily in the last timeline. I can strive for a revival of our friendship, but that’s it. No more becausemorecould prove catastrophic.
Except, he came. He’s here. Looking striking and tentative, yetgrateful and beautiful. And if I can squeeze even a silent car ride beside him out of this night, then I want that. There’s nothing inherentlycomplicatedabout sharing a back seat, is there?
A couple minutes later, Marjorie, my driver, holds the door open for us as we scoot into the back seat. “Where to?” she asks when she’s buckled into the driver’s seat.
Drew gives her the address of the bookstore.
“What, are you going to sleep in your office until the delivery arrives?”
