Above the Surface
It was Tuesday so I got to the cafe around 6:45 which still wasn’t early enough since there were two or three extremely punctual comics waiting outside. I pull my keys out to unlcock the cafe. "You know Jaime, the Yelp account for this place says it opens at 6 I didn’t realize that means whenever the fuck Jaime wants."
"That’s what it means."
I should get there earlier, I think.
I run the open mic on Tuesdays, host the show, and simultaneously work the bar. I put it Islands new album and turn it up in the cafe, test the PA, set up the mic, the bucket, the bar. Please be a good turn out, please be a good turn out, please be a good turn out.
I’m making a smoothie behind the counter when The Boy finally shows up. He’s supposed to help me run the open mic, it’s supposed to be "our room" but I do all the work and he hangs out outside with the comics. "Thanks for finally showing up," I say. He smiles and laughs a little and I fall apart on the inside again, smile, "you’re such a jerk."
The mic goes swimmingly, all the comics come, I do new material up front, host, serve drinks. I pour the house white wine in a plastic cup and drink it with ice and a straw like it’s a soda. No one knows that it’s not. I think, "is that alcoholic behavior?" I’m getting too pulled into this comedy lifestyle, I think. I need to rest, take a break, eat real food, sleep 8 hours, stop making mistakes, stop stop stop.
After the show we stand around outside the cafe. Before I started the Tuesday mic The Boy and I found this shitty dive bar on the second floor of a building in midtown. It had big pretty windows and a friendly female bartender and on Tuesdays they offered an open mic. The first time we went we were the only two comics and we performed for a drunk cowboy and a couple making out in the corner. They had a beer he liked, and sometimes I’d stay over at his house after and we’d lay in bed and listen to something sultry. In the morning he’d go down on me or I’d go down on him and then we’d play fight under the covers until I had to leave for work. I was always late.
Tuesdays were always our night, but not as much now. Eventually, word of our secret open mic spot got around and now all the comics go there after my show. I ride with him to the next place and he seems distant, annoyed, put off. He leaves right after his set, he says "do you want me to take you home or can you get a ride with someone else?" I stay, he leaves, and I perform comedy for a packed bar and make all the people in the back shut the fuck up while I tell jokes about my vagina and not getting laid enough and how much camping sucks. I have a good set and there happens to be an important person there; the manager of the Punchline: the best comedy club in town. She likes my comedy, she invites me to sit with her and her bf, she invites me to their house after the show and I do three lines of coke with them in their spare room that has a vintage record player, ten million vinyls and a Gremlins poster. We listen to the Beach Boys, I talk about comedy, they talk about their relationship, I pass out on their futon.
I’m hung over at work and I haven’t eaten or been home in almost 24 hours. After work I go to a restaurant downtown and eat wings and beer by myself. I send out a dozen texts soliciting people to come hang out and day drink with me. Two people show up and we drink and talk about the sex industry and what comics we like and how to make it in San Francisco. I’m so tired my body feels heavy and filthy; I’m in the same clothes I was in yesterday. A friend that shows up brings me make up and other freshening up items and I spend ten minutes in a bar bathroom trying to not look like a wreck before another show.
I show up late to the show, The Boy is there, he’s booked tonight. He’s wearing a Daniel Johnson tshirt and he shaved. We keep our distance until finally I go up to him and say, "this guy sucks." The headliner did suck, he nods. "The guys out there told me I was milquetoast." "Milquetoast? I don’t think I know what that is." "Oh," he says, "I guess they’re smarter than you then." I squint my eyes, shake my head, and walk away.
The Boy and I ride together to another place where a bunch of the comics plan on doing karaoke instead of comedy tonight. He drives through McDonalds on the way and orders a four piece mcnugget meal, a mcdouble, and coke. He says, "I don’t understand what the problem is, I like you okay?" between bites of fast food in a parking lot outside a bar. I say, "you know, if this ends don’t think you can still exchange witty text banter with me sometimes. I’m gone, I’m gone." He says, "What is that? Leverage?" Probably, I think, but I say, "come on, let’s go have fun." Inside we have a great time. I laugh and sing and bullshit and buy cheap drinks. During The Boy’s karaoke session everyone decides to go have a smoke on the patio but I stay and sit in the booth and watch him yell and screech and laugh at himself and it makes me fall apart on the inside a little, all crashing down like a bridge that always failed its annual safety inspections.
It’s been 36 hours since I’ve been home. I go in my room, fall onto bed and watch the ceiling fan again. My dog licks my face, nuzzles my arm. My phone buzzes and I look at the text, it says, "Friday. You and me, no one else. Alone time." I text back, "okay."