Imogen is standing in the center of the living room, holding an old toy microphone from the plethora of toys I had still stashed in my room, and is wearing a rainbow wig from CeeCee’s dress-up box, which we found in the basement. Me, Mom, and CeeCee are squished in on the old couch. James is in the recliner nearby, the one Dad used to occupy every night when the ten o’clock news came on.
Over the last few days, I helped Imogen come up with five minutes of her best knock-knock jokes collected from her friends, her dad, and the internet. While I’m not a proponent of plagiarizing material, I told her, a lot of comedians learn by watching other comics. Much like a painter might recreate a masterwork to examine brushstroke techniques, some stand-ups borrow material in a class setting to work out timing and joke construction. Imogen yawns when I tell her this, and I have to hand it to her, it’s the best laugh I’ve had in a while.
To get the house ready, we find low stools and an adjustable microphone stand on Facebook Marketplace. I string up an old red tablecloth as a curtain between our living room and dining room and get Antoni and Jerome to source us some workable stage lights that give the place a club vibe.
After crafting construction paper tickets and programs done entirely in marker, it is time for the main event.
“Knock, knock,” Imogen says into the mic, while wearing a frilly floral dress and a matching headband atop the rainbow wig. She insisted CeeCee help her look show-ready, which included a ridiculous amount of blush that makes her already rosy, freckled cheeks look like fresh-picked strawberries.
“Who’s there?” we all call in response. We’ve got plates of store-bought birthday cake in our laps, cans of soda resting on coasters on the coffee table.
“Who.”
“Whowho?”
“When’d’ja get all thethe owlth?” she shouts, laughing already at her own joke. It’s bliss distilled.
Five jokes later, Imogen gets bored and complains the wig is too hot and itchy. I instruct her to take a bow, and everyone except Dad climbs to their feet to give her a standing ovation. Even CeeCee, who seemed mildly annoyed her daughter would want to emulate me of all people, looks misty-eyed. Though I suppose when you’re a parent watching the petite human you grew inside yourself do just about anything, you can become misty-eyed.
“What a great warm-up act,” Mom says, eyes flicking toward me with anticipation.
“That was the only act in our program,” I say, waving the purple paper James was dutifully told to fold and hand out by his daughter as he accepted tickets.
“Well, since your special didn’t happen, I was thinking you could do it now. For us.” The only person in the room who appears indisputably excited by this is the home care aide, and probably only because this will make a good story later.
“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s Imogen’s day,” I say with performance anxiety I don’t usually have. Onstage with a mic stand in front of strangers, I can speak freely. Here, even if the jokes aren’t at my family’s expense, they are infinitely more vulnerable. The lack of a laugh will hit harder.
James says, “I wouldn’t mind a good laugh right now.”
CeeCee peers at him, first with shock and then with what looks like agreement. She turns to me and offers a full smile. “Get on up there, Nolan,” she says encouragingly.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” Like I said in my live stream, I don’t feel funny right now. Taking the spotlight after Imogen feels like the opposite of what I should be doing.
But then a pair of tiny hands land on top of mine, which are folded in my lap. Two doe eyes stare up at me from beneath a flurry of unkempt bangs. “Pleathe, Uncle Nolan. It would be the betht birthday prethent ever.”
How can I say no to that face?
I take the microphone, which isn’t plugged into anything, don the rainbow wig for confidence, and take a deep breath. There’s a charge of anticipation through the room like a heartbeat at rest. Like not just my family is there ready to listen, but so are the walls and the floors and the photos, the furniture and the plumbing.
And as I begin to tell the jokes, it feels…good. I skip the saucier material for everyone’s sake, but give them the highlights of the special. Delivering this kinder material to my family means more than doing it wearing a fake smile in front of expensive cameras for millions of people.
Millions of people don’t matter. The five people in this room do.
It dawns on me that I spent such a significant portion of my late teens and early twenties trying to outrun this place. I’d convinced myself that stages and clubs and sticky floors and stale beer would provide a better foundation than this town and these people ever could. But I never stopped to consider that without them, this life that I’m stuck in right now would’ve never been possible.
And at the very least, for that revelation I’m grateful.
A surprise guest knocks on the door right as we’re cleaning up the party.
“Nolan! It’s for you,” Mom says, which catches me off guard.
When I enter the foyer, still wearing the rainbow wig from earlier and holding a filled-to-the-brim trash bag, I find Drew standingin the doorway, holding a gift bag with balloons all over it, tissue paper spewing out the top, and a second smaller brown paper bag.
My entire body lights up at the sight of him. What Doop product did I use this time to magically materialize him out of the blue? I can’t figure out if I’m awed or worried. The erratic pounding of my heart tells me it’s a lethal combination of the two.
I’m so stunned that I can’t get any words out.
“Hi,” Drew says, winded. “Sorry I’m late. By the time I got CeeCee’s message, I had to close the store and then the train was delayed. I’m a mess.” I notice the stains under his armpits, sweat darkening the lush purple fabric. Even disheveled, he’s heart-hammeringly handsome. “I hope I haven’t missed it.”
