From AJ’s spot on the back wall of the black box, she had a clear view of the stage, a central floor surrounded by risers on three sides. As her Maude teammates stepped out to perform her latest sketch, she inhaled the scent of beer and Axe body spray and felt a wave of nausea.
God, she loved sketch writing, but AJ always dreaded her shows—even if the material landed in rehearsal, it could still crash and burn live. It never got easier, standing at the back of the house, waiting to see which jokes would fizzle, which actors would flub their lines, or disregard them entirely.
It mostly came down to Dave Marans, one of AJ’s roommates and her good friend. Dave had always reminded her of Mike—same slight build and dark coloring, same intense nerdiness—but while Mike now lived for his large D&D following on YouTube, Dave lived for a live crowd.
In addition to being on AJ’s sketch-writing team, Dave was also on Harold Night, the house improv show, and was arguably the bestimproviser at UCB. If he didn’t love one of AJ’s lines, he’d swap it out for one of his own. As he took the stage now, AJ held her breath.
“Is Dave gonna Dave all over this?” Toni O’Brian, the third member of their trio, whispered.
AJ smiled despite her nerves. “Dave wants to Dave so hard right now.”
Toni laughed, revealing deep dimples, her halo of black curls bouncing gently. Toni self-identified as Blewish (Black and Jewish), with light-brown skin, a wide smile, and hazel eyes that looked green or brown depending on her outfit.
Which was, at the moment, a firefighter’s costume.
Tonight, AJ’s sketch hit close to home: a send-up ofTurn It or Return ItcalledTurn It or Burn It.Onstage, a couple announced their plans to renovate a crumbling monastery.
“You didnot,” said Ian, sandwiching AJ in on the other side.
AJ had once heard New York media described as an incestuous self-cannibalizing octopus, and she was living proof of that. Not only was Ian her boss at HGTV, but he was also a pillar of her life at UCB and a member of a weekend improv team (the Saturday Knights).
AJ felt Toni stiffen at Ian’s arrival. “Age just writes what she knows.”
Ian’s eyebrows flicked up at the obvious challenge in her tone. Toni only had two years on AJ, but the way she talked to Ian always floored her—like Ian was not a full decade older andAJ’s boss.AJ loved them both and couldn’t understand why they had never clicked.
Onstage, a bunch of monks began to chant.
“Ope, that’s my cue,” said Toni, donning her fireman’s helmet.
She strode up the aisle and took center stage. “I’d say it’s time to fight friar…with fire.”
She delivered the line perfectly, and the audience howled.
Toni, AJ, and Dave had intersected in AJ’s first sketch-writing workshop three years prior, bonding over a shared love ofBack to the FutureIII.Theirs was an alliance of ability; they belonged to the same world and understood one another’s ambitions. It was a collegial kind of closeness, which suited AJ. Afterthat summer,she felt safer keeping other people at arm’s length.
Toni served the next joke, and the crowd ate it up. AJ let out a short breath of relief.
“You know, there is a way to ensure your lines are said the way you want,” said Ian, his eyes still on Toni. “And that’s to say them yourself.”
“Thank you, wise one,” said AJ.
AJ had known Ian so long that he had actually seen her perform, albeit drunkenly, with her NYU comedy troupe. That was why he had first encouraged her to get involved at UCB.
But after that first sketch-writing class, AJ never looked back. Okay, she’doccasionallyfantasize about being onstage. But Toni was the actor, Dave the improviser, and AJ the writer. Theynevercompeted—a rarity in New York comedy, which was as cutthroat as it was thrilling. And while AJ knew she could count on her friends, she saw no point in stressing their ecosystem.
She felt someone’s eyes, and looked up to see her sometimes-hookup “U up?” Jeff approaching along the back wall.
“Hey,” he whispered, passing AJ. “You’re killing it right now.”
“Thanks,” said AJ, smiling quickly, then looking back at the stage.
AJ’s love life was best described as “play on demand.” As someone who worked full-time, spent her nights in a comedy basement, and churned out, minimum, one sketch a week, her baseline level of arousal was tired, and she rarely “met” anyone, which did not concern her.
Yes, her brother Patrick’s wife was pregnant, and her sister Libby was engaged to a lawyer. But in the past year, AJ had written two viral sketches, a spec pilot, and most of anSNLsubmission packet. The jump to scripted television was in her sights.
And if she got horny, there was always Jeff.
Who, incidentally, was correct: this sketch was on fire. The lines were crisp and good and crackling, and the audience was loving it, right through the final Silly String inferno.
