“You were going to take me toHamilton? I didn’t know we were at that level. That’s, like, the queer equivalent of a marriage proposal.”
“You literally invited me to your sister’s wedding!” His arms flap at his sides.
I don’t dare divulge my ulterior motives. The truth that when I saw his DM in my inbox, I was wooed by his impressive résumé, his squeaky-clean internet presence, and his disarming smile. He seemed like the kind of guy who owned—and didn’t have to rent, like the rest of us plebeians—a tuxedo. Not Mr. Right, but Mr. Pick-the-Chicken-or-the-Fish Right Now! “You didn’t have to say yes!” I protest, aggravated and wishing I’d never broken my cardinal no-dating rule forthis.
“I said yes because I like you!” he cries. “Orlikedyou. I’m really not sure right now.”
It’s a diplomatic answer that would be charming under different circumstances. I shrug one shoulder, at a loss. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I wouldn’t ask you to miss an important rehearsal.”
He scowls. “That’s different. Directing is how I pay my rent, live my life. Not the thing I do after serving reheated foods and watered-down drinks to out-of-towners.”
Ouch. I thought him being in the arts would at least make him sympathetic to my situation. Instead, he’s standing there, discrediting me to my very core. He shouldn’t get to hold this much power over me when I don’t even like him that much. I thought that feeling went both ways; I was just a placeholder for him to get off with and monologue at until someone better came along, but the evident upset on his face says otherwise.
Jessie’s back at the door now, shouting at me. “Nolan, wrap this up and get your ass in here! Wanda’s getting angry. You’re on in three minutes.”
I swallow any unsaid, hurt words. “I have to go, okay? I’ll be twenty minutes late. Thirty, tops. Order an appetizer. Enjoy some shrimp cocktail. You love shrimp cocktail! And later? Later, I promise to make it up to you.” I waggle my eyebrows in an ill-advised attempt at seduction. “I might even do that thing I said I wouldn’t do because it seemed unsanitary but have thought it over and would totally do on this one occasion as a li’l treat. Foryou.”
Should I wink? Too late. I’ve winked. God, if I ever wondered why I wanted to be a comedian, it’s this. The ability to make every situation cartoonishly awkward with minimal effort.
“You know what, Nolan? Be as late as you want.” He holds his hands up in defeat, backing down the sidewalk with no regard for anyone trying to get around him. “Better yet, don’t come at all. Save yourself the trip and the ‘li’l treat.’”
“Are you…are you breaking up with me right now?” I ask, watching in horror as my perfect wedding date—my buffer—slips away.
“Yeah, I am,” he declares, no holds barred.
“After I offered to do the Chris Evans inNot Another Teen Movie? Cherries and all!”
A chortle to my left makes me realize a few people vaping and chatting outside the comedy club have stopped what they’re doingto take in the scene. One might even be surreptitiously filming this on her phone. Embarrassment races through me.
“I’m not interested,” Harry snaps. “And, for the record, if you listened to anyone but yourself, you’d know I’m allergic to shellfish!” He turns away in a hurry, marching off in long, stomping strides.
I stammer, properly hurt by his insult and thrown off by the onlookers. “Well… Well, then it’s a good thing you’re breaking up with me and not coming to the wedding!” I yell after him. “There’s going to be shrimp! So much shrimp! All they’re serving is shrimp!”
Instantly, Jessie’s outside, jostling my arm and yanking me toward the door. “Are you the new Bubba Gump spokesperson or something? Get your ass inside, now!” They really have all the makings of a cutthroat manager.
I take one last look at Harry’s gym-toned backside before he disappears around the corner.
Fine. Whatever. Good riddance. I’d rather be dateless for the wedding than miss this.
Jessie’s pushing me down the Hardy-Har Hallway of History—the dark passageway between the green room and the stage where Wanda displays photos of all the famous comedians who got their start here. The faces on the walls of all those who’ve come before me, memorialized in red frames with sloppy Sharpie signatures in the corner, whiz by. Some of these people have gone on to world tours, to Netflix specials, and to movie franchises. To fame and fortune, awards and first-look deals. These are my idols, and one day, someday soon, my face is going to be among them.
I made the right decision.
I blow away the post-breakup brain fog as best I can, enough to hear the emcee’s loud introduction: “Give it up for our very own homegrown comedy cool kid. Emphasis on the kid, light on the cool. Heeeeeeeeeeeere’s Nolan Baker!”
I push out from behind the curtain, the spotlight slapping me with so much force and heat that I nearly keel backward. As soon as my eyes adjust and I spot Clive with a freshly filled lager by his left hand, I throw on my show face. Only problem is, when I step up to the mic stand, innumerable pairs of eyes looking at me expectantly, my whole set flies out of my head.
It’s like a bad dream. I glance down, and at the very least, I’m not in my underwear. Even though I did put on a scandalous black pair tonight, which I assumed I’d be showing off for Harry.
Harry.Did I ever really like him, or did I just like that he liked me enough to be my wedding date? The latter seems more probable, and yet his rejection still throbs inside my chest like a beesting.
The belligerent man from earlier, unimaginably drunker than before, shouts, “Get on with it!”
An uncomfortable laugh rolls through the room, and flop sweat starts on my brow. God, I can’t bomb in front of Clive Bergman. My reputation will be ruined. I can kiss the Broadway Laugh Box goodbye like I kissed Harry goodbye.
Without an opening line, I take a breath and fall back on my improv training, allowing a truth bomb to trip off my tongue: “Sorry, I’m a little shaky. I just got broken up with.” Tension takes over the crowd. “Not, like, a couple hours ago or days ago. I mean, literally right before I stepped onstage. Right in the middle of the sidewalk outside. He dropped me like burnt pizza crust on a dollar slice after a drunken Saturday night out.”
One or two tentative laughs ring out. They loosen my muscles. Remind me that I own this stage. This is my time, and I’m going to take it and wring it out for all its worth, regardless of Harry’s rejection. I can use this feeling as fuel.
