by Lana Citron
‘Issy!’
And how did he know my name?
‘Issy?’
Phew, it was only the upstairs neighbour, carrying upon his person one too many. He staggered to my side and leant heavily against me.
‘Did I scare you?’
‘Yeah, fuckwit,’ and I gave him a dead arm.
‘Ouch, what was that for?’
‘For scaring the shite out of me.’
‘Sorry, I’m pissed.’
‘I noticed.’
We stumbled up the steps to the door and I kept trying to shrug him off. I have a very low tolerance of drunkards of his level. It reminds me of what I must be like. Anyhow, he’d begun rambling inchoate sentences.
‘It’s over.’
‘You OK?’
‘Issy, come upstairs with me?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause,’ and he wagged his finger in my face, ‘I need to talk.’
‘We can talk in the morning. Just make sure you grab the banisters on your way up.’
I turned towards my apartment ready with the keys to let myself in.
‘She’s dumped me.’
‘Who?’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Oh . . . Congratulations, that’s fantastic.’
He slumped down on the bottom stair.
‘We had a huge fight.’
He paused, having lost his train of thought.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back.’
‘Not sure I want her back.’ He staggered to an upright position. ‘Thanks for listening,’ then began a slow climb up the stairs.
‘You could do better than her. Believe me, you’re well out of it.’
He stumbled and fell, yeah, he was well out of it.
Maria was waiting inside, with a mug of tea at the ready.
‘I heard you with someone, thought maybe a new boyfriend?’
‘My upstairs neighbour.’
‘Oh, anything you want to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, actually, there is something.’ I told her about the upcoming gig. ‘So I’m depending on you for next week, OK?’
‘You really gonna do it?’
‘Yeah, why? Do you think maybe I’m crazy?’
‘No, is good idea, Issy. I know you can do it.’
‘And don’t tell anyone, OK?’
‘Why?’
‘Just don’t, it may well be, probably will be, the most mortifying evening in my life.’
THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY, 00.01 HOURS
Lying in bed, my belly already turbulent, I imagined standing up at the microphone attempting to make people laugh. The prospect was wholly daunting. Joe, true to his word, had helped me during the week with my material.
‘Remember, timing and delivery. You’ll be fine, Issy.’
‘You a hundred per cent certain?’
‘Ninety-nine per cent.’
God, it’s that one per cent of doubt. It gets me every time.
The intervening days had sped by. I’d called the Trap and was duly reinstated, whey hey, and then relinquished my general manager’s badge.
Good old Silvio understood.
‘No problem, is for best. I see your heart not in it.’
He was right, the novelty of waitressing had worn thin and I’d been slacking the last while. My upstairs neighbour had recovered from his hangover, but, feeling sorry for himself, moped around the café all week. I took pity on him and was nice for a change.
My head sank back on the pillows, my mind continuing to race. Why did I put myself in such impossible situations? I clasped my hands tight to my chest, ‘Dear God,’ I moaned aloud.
Yeah, time for a spot of praying.
Dear God,
I am lying here, looking up at the cracks in my bedroom ceiling – guess I’m going to have to redecorate soon. God, you wanna know something? For once I’m truly happy with my lot. Been thinking about recent events, about Sarah and how terrifying it is to be so vulnerable and alone. It’s made me realise just how much we need each other. How one can exist in a bubble of independence for only so long.
This evening, when Max was in the toilet, I was struck by the depth of feeling I have for him.
‘Max,’ I said, ‘you’re the most amazing boy in the whole wide world and I love you so much it hurts.’
His reply?
‘Do you want a plaster?’ And then offered me up his butt to wipe.
Then to top it off he asked, ‘Mum, what’s love?’
And without thinking I said, ‘Love, my boy, is being able to laugh through the shit times.’
Listen to me, are you cringing out up there? Oh, I dunno but I just feel feather-light, that anything is possible. I’m ready to give – do you know what I mean? Course you do.
Anyway, I’m doing this gig later today, so wish me luck ’cause . . .
HERE GOES EVERYTHING – THE DAY OF THE GIG
12 p.m. Illicitly scoffing a chocolate croissant, crouched beneath the counter, when Silvio caught me and then charged me full price. Bastard.
1.30 p.m. Neighbour called by with a good-luck card saying, ‘Please stop calling me neighbour and/or Scarface. I have a name.’ He left the card unsigned. Hilarious, not.
2.15 p.m. Methodically wiping down tables, I was suddenly hit with a rush of dread, ran to the toilet and puked.
3 p.m. Picked up Max from nursery. His teacher pulled me aside and, in a concerned voice, told me Max had got into a fight with an older child. Apparently Max had bragged to him that I was a spy and this kid, along with others, began taunting Max and calling him a liar. Irate, to say the least, I made her and the remaining children apologise on the spot for doubting his veracity. Then the pair of us went to Marine Ices and gorged ourselves on triple cones.
4 p.m. At the playground when Freddie phoned, wondering where I was, having called by the café. He announced he was getting married to the waiter, who happened to be a brain-surgeon student, and would like to spend more time with Max, as they might choose to adopt in the future.
5.30 p.m. At home, I fixed Max his tea and bathed him.
6.30 p.m. Maria called and said she wasn’t able to babysit.
6.31 p.m. ‘What do you mean? I was depending on you. I have a gig, my first ever gig. This is a huge deal for me. Don’t you have any idea how much work I’ve put into this? Jesus, Maria.’
My otherwise cool demeanour evaporated and I totally lost it.
‘I so sorry, I swear, is impossible to come.’
‘Why? Why? Why?’
‘I in Paris with Bambuss. He whisk me away, say we going to Brighton and be back by five. I’m so very sorry. Issy, you hate me?’
‘Very much, Maria.’
This I said coldly, quietly, then slammed down the receiver.
What now, think, think, was there anyone else I could call last minute to babysit?
6.45 p.m. Called Nadia – engaged.
Called Freddie – engaged, as in he and lover boy were otherwise engaged.
Called Fiona – on a date with a sailor she’d just met.
Called Silvio – in the semi-finals of a bowls competition.
Called Joy – in New Mexico living with an amazing guy and three months pregnant.
Called Trisha, as a last resort – she would if she could, but unfortunately was on a mission.
Called Nadia again – still engaged.
Called Joe – he said no and why not bring Max along.
Was he crazy? Had he no idea that after a certain hour children are lethal? It just wasn’t possible. No, there was no way.
Called the lovely Finklesteins – no, there was no way. After having three of their own and six grandkids, Gladys duly informed me, ‘We’ve suffered enough already.’
My neighbour! Bingo. Why didn’t I think of him before, my lovely, kind-hearted, generous, child-loving neighbour was – was out.
I knocked, I hollered, I looked out on to the road and his c
ar wasn’t in its usual parking space.
8 p.m. I sat on the sofa cuddling Max, trying to coax him out of watching his Transformers video.
‘Come on, it’ll be a laugh, it’s comedy.’
‘No, I want to watch my video.’
‘Oh what’s the point.’
I resigned myself to staying in. Besides, who was I kidding? It was a fancy, a mere daydream.
What was I thinking anyway, that I was young, free and single?
I crossed the room to draw the string on my new wood-slat blinds, a recent purchase – when who should appear right in front of me, only Mrs O’, what the hell was her name again? Eh . . . eh, it began with L . . .
I ran to the main door, yanked it open and blared at her as she scuttled down the road.
‘Oi, Mrs –’ It was on the tip of my tongue. ‘Mrs Lynch.’
My voice resonating from here to kingdom come.
‘Course I will. Sure, it’s not a bother. It’ll be a pleasure. Where is the little mite?’
‘Omigod you don’t know how appreciative I am.’
I rose up and brushed down my dusty street-soiled knees.
8.30 p.m. Already expected at the club, but in the shower.
Max and Mrs Lynch playing snakes and ladders in the front room.
8.45 p.m. Still damp, pulled on my clothes.
8.46 p.m. Out of the house and I ran, hell for leather, all the way there. I would do it. I could do it.
‘They’re not going to get me, they’re not going to get me . . .’
9.01 p.m. Arrived, drenched in sweat, and realised my T-shirt was on inside out.
Joe was at the door of the bar.
‘You made it, brilliant, we got a big house inside.’
Oh Christ, head swirling with panic. Not sure I could do it now. Hey, it was only five minutes, five whole minutes, a friggin’ lifetime, 300 seconds of . . . No, I could do it.
‘You’re first up, Issy. Let’s go.’
9.05 p.m. The place was packed. OK, so it only seated twenty people but that was twenty too many people to humiliate myself in front of. I stayed at the rear – Joe was on stage, warming the crowd up. Focus, girl, keep it concentrated.
And then . . . I heard my name.
OK, I could do it. I could do it.
Up I strode, side-glancing the audience. Oh Sweet Jesus, ’cause there they all were, Bambuss and Maria, Nadia, Fiona, Trisha, my neighbour, the Finklesteins, Silvio, even goddamned Freddie and his beau.
Here goes everything.
I . . .
I . . .
I took a deep breath and –
BOMBED
Goddamnit. It was excruciating, it was –
‘Not as bad as all that,’ my neighbour lied.
‘Really?’
‘The “Bohemian Rhapsody” scene was funny.’
Don’t ask – I’d done it as a last resort, pulled it from my subconscious, desperate to get a reaction from the audience.
My neighbour and I trudged home in silence.
‘Sorry if I wasted your evening,’ I mumbled as we reached the front door.
‘You didn’t.’
Aw shucks, there he was doing his utmost to raise my spirits.
‘Any news from your ex?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well. So what was the argument about?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘She reckons I fancy you and I’m in denial.’
‘Ha!’
‘And that applies to you too.’
‘As if.’
‘So, Ms Brodsky, can I kiss you?’
OK, OK, I succumbed and, in the cringe-inducing spirit of my stand-up, will always recall that evening as the night I died and went to –
A NOTE TO THE AUTHOR
Lana Citron could do better if she beat herself harder. Easily distracted, she is prone to daydreaming and should pay more attention to her grammar.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Sucker
Spilt Milk
Transit
The Brodsky Touch
ALSO AVAILABLE BY LANA CITRON
The Brodsky Touch
Issy Brodsky is back!
She’s not wiser. She’s not smarter. She’s not taller. She’s certainly no younger. But she has found a new meaning to life – comedy. And she is willing to do almost anything to perform her stand-up routine at the Edinburgh Festival. What she doesn’t realize is that this willingness will involve mingers, swingers, lovers and killers, and other fishy goings on . . .
Buy this book at www.bloomsbury.com
First published 2004 under the pen name Thea Wolff
This edition published 2007
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © 2004 by Lana Citron
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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