Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22)

by Nicolette Dane

  Once we banged to completion, resulting in the two of us becoming sopping hot messes, George passed out and this time she actually stayed over. I really didn’t think she would but was happy she did. I had snuggled into her, my small arms snaking around her body just under her breasts, feeling the warmth, happy that life was lining up for me. As I started to fall asleep, I hoped that George and I could go out for brunch the next morning, begged whatever power was listening to my thoughts that she’d start acting more like my girlfriend, and tried to forget about Petra. No more Petra, Macy. No, you can’t do that.

  The next morning, however, George begrudgingly agreed to some toast and jam in my kitchen before speeding out to get back to her writing. Or, at least that’s what she said. She never shared any of that with me. Really, I had no idea what her novel was about, how far along she was, or what the plan was. I thought about doing a bit of Googling, to see if I could maybe dig up more information on her, but that’s about as far as I got. I figured she’d share when she was ready.

  Hefting my bag up onto my shoulder, I prepared myself to leave the house and head to the coffee shop to start working on some more material. But as I considered it, I figured it might be a good idea to try a different cafe for the time being. If George happened to be at our shared usual spot, it might be a little distracting for both of us. I didn’t want her to think I was stalking her or anything. If she was over there writing, I didn’t want to join her. I knew of another spot I could hit up to get some work done.

  As I moved toward my apartment door, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and I stopped to pull it out. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID, though it was a local Chicago 312 area code, and although I didn’t normally answer calls like this I knew that too much had been happening lately and it could be something important.

  “Hello?” I said in the phone.

  “Hi, is this Macy Maxwell?” asked a chipper female voice on the other end.

  “You caught me,” I said. “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Meghan and I’m with Oppenheimer Talent Associates,” she said. “Did I get you at a good time?”

  “Yes,” I said, moving away from my door, dropping my bag to the floor, and slinking down onto the couch. “Yes, I can talk.”

  “Great,” said Meghan. “We got your information from Mark Feinstein at Comedy Junction. He told us you were looking for representation.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I am.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with our agency,” said Meghan. “But we represent a large number of actors and comedians in Chicago, including some big names that have gone on to star in blockbuster films.”

  “I mean, that’s great,” I said. “I’ve heard of you guys before. Yeah,” I mused, shaking my head, blown away and feeling a touch dizzy. “Yes,” I reiterated. “Definitely know about your agency.”

  “Mr. Feinstein told us that you’ve already been offered a slot on the television show Funny Thirty,” said Meghan. “And we’d be delighted if you could come in, meet with us, and begin a relationship together that will hopefully last your entire career. We also have offices in New York and LA, so if you end up leaving Chicago you always have a home base, a place you can get support.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Um, yeah, sure. I’d love to set up a meeting!”

  “That’s terrific, Macy,” said Meghan. “Mr. Feinstein recommended you specifically by name to Mr. Oppenheimer, who happens to be here in Chicago visiting this week. Mr. Oppenheimer himself represents some pretty, um, big celebrities that you’ve probably heard of. One you may be familiar with is Amy Schneider, the comedian.”

  “Never heard of her,” I joked. “No, I’m kidding, Meghan. Of course I’ve heard of Amy Schneider.”

  “I know,” said Meghan. I could hear her smile over the phone. “Is there a time in the next couple of days that would work for you to meet with Mr. Oppenheimer?” she asked.

  “Today?” I blurted out. “I’m free today. Does he have any availability?”

  “He does,” said Meghan, drawing out her affirmation as though she were searching for something. “Let’s see.” The pause in our conversation was palpable, my heart was cranking hard, my palms grew clammy with a cool sweat. “Does 2PM today work with your schedule?”

  “Yes!” I said eagerly. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Great,” said Meghan. “I’ll add you to his calendar, Miss Maxwell. We’re located down on Wells in River North, just north of the Merchandise Mart. Do you know the area?”

  “I do.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “When you get here, just sign in with the receptionist and she’ll send you up. Thank you, Miss Maxwell, we look forward to seeing you soon!”

  “Thank you, Meghan,” I said. “Goodbye.”

  Pulling my phone down from my ear, I looked into it and watched the call timer continue to tick until Meghan hung up. After a moment, I let it fall down onto my couch as I sat there in disbelief. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t find the voice inside of me. I was just bewildered, dazed, wondering if I was living out somebody else’s life other than my own. This was the kind of thing people work their entire lives for. Every single one of my comedy friends would be shitting themselves if this happened to them. Reaching around to my backside, I had to make sure I hadn’t actually shit myself. Still clean.

  As I sat there in silence on my couch, I began to daydream about my future. It was a fancy future. Cocktail parties with celebrities. Dressing up nice for award shows. Performing in front of packed, sold out crowds. Maybe even my own TV show. I knew I was jumping ahead a little bit but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t get the smile off my face. And I didn’t want to get rid of it either.

  “Hi,” I said to the receptionist as I walked into the talent agency’s office. “I’m Macy Maxwell and I’m here to see Mr. Oppenheimer at 2PM.” She looked over her horn-rimmed glasses at me and smiled.

  “Have a seat over there,” she said, pointing to a couch. “Mr. Oppenheimer will be with you shortly.”

  As I made my way to the couch, I heard the receptionist pick up her phone and place a call on my behalf. Plopping down on the couch, I looked down at myself to once again check if I was presentable enough. Dark blue slim jeans, white blouse unbuttoned at the top, black jacket over top. I had taken extra care in doing my hair, forcing it into thick ringlets so that it would fall over my shoulders in a mess of curls. Yeah, I mean, I looked as good as I possibly could. I could definitely get on TV with this look.

  I took out my phone and cradled it in my hands, anxiously checking the time. It was already past 2PM but I figured that’s just how these things go. They want to exert their power and they do so by making you wait. I was fine. Deep breaths. My only worry was that I would blurt out something too weird or too insulting, something that said, ‘this girl isn’t quite ready yet for the big leagues.’ I was still so new to all this, after all, and I really had no idea what I was getting myself into. It was crazy new territory for me.

  “Macy?” said a woman’s voice. I looked up and saw a pretty blonde girl with straight hair and a put-together office chic style. She smiled as she approached me and I stood up from the couch as she got closer.

  “Yes?” I said with a trepidatious smile in return.

  “I’m Meghan,” she said. “We spoke on the phone. I’m Mr. Oppenheimer’s assistant in the Chicago office and I can take you back into the meeting with him.”

  “Oh, terrific,” I said, grinning and extending my hand. “It’s great to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” said Meghan, shaking my hand. “Follow me.”

  We walked through the fancy, modern-looking office, Meghan just a few steps ahead of me, my head turning side to side as I took in the scenery. The various individual offices were all opaque glass cubes, like you would be able to see through almost the entire office if it wasn’t for the foggy glass. Meghan trotted in front of me, a file folder under her arm, leading me around a corner until we
reached what was obviously one of the nicest offices on the entire floor. She turned around and smiled reassuringly at me.

  “Mr. Oppenheimer is a bit… idiosyncratic,” she said, tilting her head to one side in thought. “Just roll with it.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, trying to imagine what he could possibly be like.

  “Let’s go,” said Meghan, pushing through the door and leading me into Oppenheimer’s office.

  As we entered the office, I could see Oppenheimer sitting at his desk, his back to us, his face buried in an overlarge computer screen. The screen was split into two windows, one was a bunch of charts and graphs with what seemed like a list of stock prices up one side and at the bottom. The other side of the screen was quite obviously pornography with the sound off. I mean, this chick was really getting rammed on the screen. I watched the porno from behind Oppenheimer’s back, tilting my head to one side, trying to make sense of the position of the two actors. Meghan then tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of Oppenheimer’s desk.

  “Mr. Oppenheimer?” said Meghan once we were both sitting. “Macy Maxwell is here for the 2PM meeting.”

  “Huh?” said Oppenheimer, swiftly swiveling his chair around to catch sight of us. He was an older man, probably over 70, with a wrinkled face, a full head of faded red curly hair, and a grey mustache. He wore a white button-down shirt, slightly rumpled, two buttons at the top unbuttoned to show off chest hair and a gold chain. Oppenheimer squinted at me for a moment and then smiled wide.

  “Mr. Oppenheimer?” said Meghan again, pointing behind him to his computer screen.

  “What?” he said, completely oblivious.

  “The porn,” said Meghan.

  “Oh!” he said. Oppenheimer once more swiveled around, quickly pushed the power button on his screen to shut it off, and then returned to us. “Macy Maxwell,” he said to me with an old guy grin. “Marshall Oppenheimer,” he said, extending his hand to me. A gold chain jangled around his wrist and he wore a pinky ring on his hand. I took his hand and shook.

  “It’s great to meet you, sir,” I said. “I appreciate how quickly you were able to see me.”

  “Of course!” he belted. “Feinstein tells me you’ve got talent. We’re a talent agency. The two things go hand in hand.”

  “That’s true,” I said, nodding along.

  “You’re looking for representation?” said Oppenheimer. “That’s what we do. We represent the stars. Our roster is full of Hollywood household names and we can make you one of them.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t have an agent and I thought it was about time I got me one.”

  “Everybody in this business needs an agent,” said Oppenheimer. “We make sure these studios don’t try to fuck you, literally and figuratively. I can be your bodyguard!”

  “And I can be your long, lost pal?” I said, molding my lips into a silly smile.

  “Huh?” said Oppenheimer.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just a thing, a song… a joke.”

  “A funny girl,” said Oppenheimer. “That’s what Feinstein says. You’re a… a comedian.”

  “That’s right,” I said. I looked over to Meghan in the chair beside me. She was taking notes.

  “You got a good look,” said Oppenheimer. “A little feisty lookin’ thing.”

  “Uh, thank you,” I said with a bit of confusion, but opting to just roll with it, as Meghan had advised.

  “You don’t have a sex tape out there or anything, do you?” said Oppenheimer. “Ugh, we just had to deal with a client who had a sex tape and it’s a pain in the ass.”

  “You were just watching it,” I said, pointing behind him toward his computer screen.

  “What?” said Oppenheimer, turning his head quickly to look behind him.

  “Another joke,” I said. “You were watching porno when we came in, I’m just saying that it was my tape. A joke.”

  “That girl had much bigger titties than you, dear,” said Oppenheimer.

  “A joke,” I repeated.

  “So, no sex tape,” said Oppenheimer. “Did you write that down?” he said to Meghan.

  “I did, sir,” she said.

  “Good,” said Oppenheimer. “So what’s your schtick?” he continued on. “What kinda gags do you do?”

  “Um,” I mused, trying to think, looking off and retreating into my own thoughts. How could I describe what I did? I wanted to avoid labels, but without someone seeing my set it was a bit hard to really encapsulate what my jokes were like. And, of course, something in the back of my mind kept repeating what a phony I was. How I was betraying who I really was. “Well, I—“

  “C’mon,” interrupted Oppenheimer. “You gotta know what your schtick is. You gotta be able to tell me in one sentence what it is you do.”

  “Well, I guess,” I began, not wanting to say what I was about to say but feeling it to be inevitable. “I’m kind of a raunchy sex comic,” I said finally, though a bit dissatisfied with myself. “Small, cute girl talking about sex stuff.”

  “I get it,” said Oppenheimer. “That’s pretty hot right now. You mean like Amy Schneider?”

  “Right,” I said. “But, you know, my own thing.”

  “Sure sure,” said Oppenheimer, waving at me flippantly, his gold bracelet jingling as his wrist moved. “I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “There are about three joke premises in the entire world. ‘Isn’t it weird,’” said Oppenheimer, counting off on his fingers. “‘Isn’t it scary, isn’t it hard,’ and, um, ‘isn’t it stupid,’” he said, four fingers counted out. “Okay, so, four joke premises. It’s not really about the joke. It’s about you. It’s the attitude. Women have been doing the sex comic stuff since I was wearing short pants.”

  “I’m always wearing short pants,” I said. “Because I’m, uh, short.”

  “Listen to me bubbeleh,” said Oppenheimer. “This business is about image. It’s about personality. And it’s about perseverance,” he said, pounding on the desk. “Talent? Eh,” he said, making an unimpressed face. “A lot of people are talented. But can you play the game, that’s what separates the winners from the losers.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I can play the game.”

  “Good,” said Oppenheimer. “Good. Now listen, here’s how the whole shebang works. We get you work, we take 10%,” said Oppenheimer. “For the little things you do, working at a rink-a-dink club and getting a handful of peanuts and some stale beer, you can keep that sort of thing. It’s more of an accounting headache for us than anything,” he said. “But the work that actually pays, that we take 10% of.”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  “This TV program that Feinstein is roping you into,” he said. “We take 10 points on that also. It’s gonna put you in the union, being on TV like that, so all this stuff is mandated percentages, par for the course, it’s out of our hands.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding slowly.

  “You act?” asked Oppenheimer.

  “I don’t really,” I said. “But I could, I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for me.”

  “So you’re not against it?” he said, scrunching his forehead. He then looked over to Meghan. “Write down that Maxwell can act.”

  “I did, sir,” said Meghan.

  “I don’t have a ton of experience acting,” I corrected. “I’ve done it before, but I wouldn’t say that I can—“

  “I’m gonna stop you right there,” said Oppenheimer. “We can make almost anybody an actor. We’ll put you in some classes, you’ll be fine. We’re not shooting for any Academy Awards here, baby, just some passable comedic acting. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “So this TV thing is about a month away or so?” asked Oppenheimer, looking over to Meghan. “What did Feinstein say?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Meghan. “They’re finalizing the production now and it should be within four to six weeks. It’s in Bost
on.”

  “Boston,” repeated Oppenheimer. “We’ve got a connection at a club there. Chuckle Fuck’s or Harry Humdinger’s or something stupid like that. We’ll get you a middle slot before the taping to try your act out there.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “That would be great.”

  “And what about here in Chicago?” Oppenheimer asked almost rhetorically, searching his own mind for a name. “What’s the club here called? Um, Gary’s Goof Garden or Stupid Sal’s,” he said, scratching his head. “I mean, these club owner come up with just the most idiotic names for their comedy clubs.”

  “Loonies,” said Meghan. “We have a connection at Loonies.”

  “Loonies?” I repeated. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Macy, dear,” said Oppenheimer with mock-offense. “Would I fuck with you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just met you.”

  “The answer is no,” said Oppenheimer. “No, I wouldn’t fuck with you. I’m your agent. Well,” he said, beginning to correct himself. “I’ll be your agent once you sign a few papers.”

  “So you can get me a spot at Loonies?” I asked. “You just make a call and I’m in?”

  “Sure,” said Oppenheimer coolly. “They probably owe us a favor.”

  “I’m just blown away, sir,” I said. “This is all happening so fast. I mean, why me? I know that’s a silly question to ask but the deeper I get into all of this the more confused I become.”

  “First,” he said, holding up a finger. “Never ask ‘why me.’ I want you to say, ‘of course it’s me!’”

  “All right,” I said. “Of course it’s me.”

  “No, no,” he chastised. “With chutzpah!”

  “Of course it’s me!” I said with greater passion.

  “Good,” he said, then holding up a second finger. “Two. I told you this is about image. You’re cute, you’re young, you’re funny, you’re raunchy, you’re sexy. That’s in right now. Keep it up and milk it for all it’s worth. You gotta get paid.”

  “Getting paid would be nice,” I said.