“Dad,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder as we walked. “You know I don’t drive very well.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, his eyes widening in agreement. “You bet I know.”
“Well,” I continued. “I suddenly feel a lot of weird pressure that I’ve never quite experienced before,” I said. “It’s starting to eat away at my brain.”
“Where’s the pressure coming from?” he asked. “Has anyone put any pressure on you?”
“I mean, not really,” I said. “Not yet.”
“So it’s coming from inside,” he said. “And what’s the pressure all about?”
“I guess it’s the pressure to really be successful,” I said. “The pressure to be funny and not screw up.”
“You just have to do your best,” he said. “Cliche advice, but it’s true. As long as you do your best, even your failures are successes.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I said.
“Your mother probably would have been a lot better at this than me,” said my Dad. “She at least had a bit of a handle of the world you inhabit.”
“She would have been a great comedian,” I said admiringly. “I would have loved to see her on stage.”
“You’re funnier,” he said. “She always talked about how funny you were, even as a child.”
“Stop,” I said, a happily embarrassed smile on my face, a bit of a tear in my eye. “I don’t want to think of her anymore right now.”
“Okay,” he acquiesced. “I understand.”
“I’ve got another thing I’m trying to work through,” I said, trying to stop thinking about my Mom.
“I’m your therapist,” said my Dad. “Lay it on me.”
“Girly stuff,” I said. “You know, relationship woes.”
“Well, Macy,” he began. “You know I’m not much of an expert on that. But I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I want,” I said. “So it’s a tale of two girls.”
“Lucky you,” said my Dad. “I guess it comes with success.”
“Oh c’mon,” I laughed. “No, really. I’m seeing this chick, and I like her, but she’s a bit absent. You know? Like, she does her own thing, not the most present type of girl. But I really dig her. She’s so… I don’t know… mysterious I guess!”
“Okay,” said my Dad with a bit of disbelief in his tone. “And the other?”
“The other is a good friend of mine, who I, um, had a quick relationship with in the past,” I said, thinking of Petra. Since things were ramping up with George, Petra and I had seen a lot less of each other and I could definitely feel myself missing her and her friendship. “She’s more of a friend, you know? But she’s the kind of girl who gets me, who understands me,” I said. “She’s also a comedian.”
“Classic Betty and Veronica,” said my Dad.
“What?” I asked, scrunching my forehead.
“Like the Archie Comics,” he said. “He’s always trying to choose between Betty and Veronica.”
“No, I get the reference,” I said. “I’m not that young.”
“Veronica is pretty alluring, sort of forbidden and wild,” he said. “But Betty, well, she’s understanding and sweet.”
“It’s not like Betty and Veronica!” I protested. My Dad just laughed at me.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s not. Only… it’s exactly like that.”
“So who does Archie pick in the end?” I asked. “Does he go for wild or sweet?”
“Um, I’m not sure,” said my Dad. “I think they did a story line with both possibilities. Sort of a cop out.”
“Damn it,” I said. “That totally would have made my decision a lot easier.”
“So you’re already dating this one girl,” he said. “You’re young. Why don’t you give the other girl a spin at the same time? See how many plates you can keep in the air.”
“You’re nuts, Dad,” I said. “I don’t even know if I want to date Petra… Betty… whoever!”
“Who would you rather accompany you through your newfound success?” he posed.
“John C. Reilly,” I said drolly. “I think he would really get me.”
“You know, I think your mother knew him back in the day,” said my Dad. “He’s from Chicago, I think.”
“He was in the musical Chicago,” I said.
“Yeah, but he’s also from Chicago,” he said. “I think your mother met him at DePaul.”
“Maybe I’m John C. Reilly’s daughter,” I mused. “It would explain so much.”
“Watch it,” my Dad warned, holding up a finger.
“Well, anyway,” I said, bringing our conversation back around. “I don’t have an answer to your question. I think Veronica would cope a lot better with the success, because she’s had a taste of it herself, but at the same time she might be a little bit indifferent about my success. While I imagine Betty being happy for me, excited, but possibly a bit envious.”
“It’s the eternal question,” he said. “Archie never definitively chose but that’s just a comic book. You do actually have to make a choice.”
“It sucks,” I groaned.
“Like I said, give them both a spin and see,” he said with a shrug.
“That doesn’t sound like a very fatherly thing to say,” I said. “You’re essentially telling me to be promiscuous.”
“I guess maybe being an unattached widower has made me a bit…” said my Dad, searching for the right word. “Loose.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” I said, unable to stifle my laughter.
“I could use a coffee,” he said. “Is there a cafe around here?”
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s one actually in the park now at the boat house.”
“Let’s go and you can break this all down for me further if you like,” he said.
With a smile on my face, happy to spend time with my Dad, we traipsed down the sidewalk and toward the lake situated in the middle of the park. While his words of wisdom didn’t give me all that much to go on, he did plant a seed in my head about Petra. I began to mull it all over.
“And, it’s like, sometimes three pairs of panties in a single day,” I said into the microphone, lifting a hand up to scratch at my head. “Guys, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about. The discharge. At the end of the day, it’s like a chalky residue, like someone clapped out some erasers in my panties and it stuck! I dunno, does that joke work?” I asked, amid laughter from the audience. “Do they even use chalkboards and erasers in school anymore?”
“Okay, better analogy,” I said, grinning into the spotlight shining down on me. I loved being on stage. It was the most comfortable place for me to be. “It’s like a white skid mark,” I said. “You’ve heard the phrase, ‘never trust a fart?’ Never trust a moistened vag.” I could hear one woman in particular, off to the side, cackling at the joke. It probably hit pretty close to home. I bowed my head slightly to acknowledge the applause and laughter.
“I don’t even know what I’m talking about,” I mused. “This gross-ass shit. I’m just trying to fill time. The comic who was supposed to be here got into a pretty bad car accident.” With that, the crowd fell silent and I tried to hide my shit-eating grin. “Oh — no, no! — he’s fine,” I continued. “That’s his day job. He finds car accidents, climbs into the cars while the people are unconscious, takes their wallets, phones, jewelry.” I had the audience back, reveling in their relieved laughter. “Gotta put that JD to good use.”
“You guys have been amazing,” I said, prompting the crowd to begin applauding. “I’m Macy Maxwell! Goodnight!” I waved to the audience, slid the microphone back onto the stand, and gingerly walked off stage toward the performer’s hallway. As I sauntered down into the hallway I saw Petra waiting there for me with a smile on her face. I approached her and raised my hand up for a high-five. Petra readily obliged. Behind us I heard Howie rush on stage, having run through the crowd after I got off, to inform them of a quick intermission for drinks.
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br /> “Not my best work,” I said to Petra. “The whole pussy discharge thing at the end there, I just don’t know.”
“Pretty gross,” she said. “I had to check myself to make sure I was clean.”
“The key is to just not wear panties,” I grinned.
“Then it gets all over,” mused Petra. We smiled at each other.
“So what are you doing back here?” I asked. “Just waiting to escort me to the bar?”
“I’m on next,” said Petra. “I’m just getting prepared. Thought I’d watch you from the wings.”
“Oh, nice!” I said. “So you’re first up after the intermission. Not a bad spot! Maybe I’ll hang around back here and watch, return the favor.”
“Yeah, if a joke’s going south I’ll look over to you and can give me a thumbs up or thumbs down,” she said.
“Boo! Hiss!” I exclaimed, pointing both thumbs down.
“Come on, now,” said Petra. “At least give me a chance!”
“Heya Petra,” I said, my voice softening a bit. “I’ve got some crazy shit to tell you but I want to wait until after your set. I don’t want to knock you off your game or anything.”
“You’ve got news that could knock me off my game?” she asked. “Okay, so that knocks me off my game.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You’re going to do fine. I’m just saying, after your set let’s go get a burrito or something so I can share with you. I think we’ve got some catching up to do.”
“All right,” she said. “I can do that.” She pushed a bit of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.
“What’s your opener?” I asked eagerly through a smile.
“Um, the one about liking a tight ass so it can cut thin turds,” said Petra with a straight face. I couldn’t help but giggle.
“C’mon,” I said. “That’s ridiculous. Give me the joke.”
“Some people like chicks with a big ass, some people like chicks with no ass,” said Petra, creeping into her stage persona which was kind of droll and snarky. “Me, all that matters is that her ass is tight. I like a girl with an ass so tight, the turds she cuts are translucent. It’s like when you’re at the deli counter and the butcher hands you a slice of cheese to check the thickness.” Petra grinned at me and paused for effect. “Nope, thinner dude.”
“That’s great, Petra,” I said. “Really funny. I like the cheese slicer thing.”
“Yeah, it’s funny,” said Petra. “I’m proud of that one.”
“I admire you,” I sighed. “I mean, you’ve never hidden the fact that you’re a lesbian on stage.” I suddenly felt emotional and I tried to push it down.
“You can do it too,” said Petra with a gentle smile, placing her hand on my shoulder.
“You’re gonna do great,” I said, shaking myself out of it. Stepping closer to Petra, I wrapped my arms around her waist and hugged her on the side. Petra put a single arm around my shoulders and leaned her head down onto mine. I felt our hair softly touch.
“I’ve been a bit lonely lately,” she said. “You know, not hanging out with you like we usually do. I’ve got no one I trust to run my material by!”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll try harder to be a better friend.”
“I understand,” said Petra. “You got this chick you’re with, doing whatever it is that you do.”
“Just do a good show,” I said. “We’ll catch up afterwards, cool?”
“Cool,” said Petra.
We watched together as Howie mounted the stage once again and approached the microphone. Petra took a deep breath as she waited for her cue, shaking her arms out slightly, closing her eyes and lowering her head. I could tell she was trying to get into the zone.
“Next up,” called out Howie into the mic. “The very funny, very talented, moderately witty… Petra Cleary, ladies and gentlemen!”
Petra looked at me and smiled, then walking off from where we hovered in the hallway and toward the stage, waving to the audience as she moved toward the microphone. I grinned and excitedly watched as Petra began her act. She looked great up on stage. Howie wandered down off the stage and approached me, leaning in and whispering.
“Word travels fast, kid,” he said. He reached out and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t forget us around here.”
“Never Howie,” I said, beaming at his kind old face. “Never.”
“Okay, hold on, say that again,” said Petra, sitting against the wall in the booth, one leg stretched out over the seat, picking up a tortilla chip from the small paper bag on her tray.
“I’ve got an agent,” I said. “And I’m going to be performing at Loonies.”
“And, by the way, you’ve got this spot on the Funny Thirty,” said Petra. “No big deal.”
“I don’t want this to change anything,” I said. “I mean, I still want us to be friends.”
“Well,” said Petra, acting like she was calculating over things in her head. “That whole friend thing really hasn’t been apparent over the last couple of weeks.”
“I know,” I said with a hint of sadness. “It was all just a misunderstanding. I think both of us got a little… reactionary.”
Petra leaned her face down, grabbed her burrito in her hands, and took a bite. She chewed, almost dramatically so, as though she were trying to make me squirm. I knew it was an act.
“I got a little jealous,” she said finally. As she spoke, our waitress, a youngish Mexican woman, approached us with a smile.
“It’s okay?” she said with an accent.
“It’s great,” said Petra. “Do you want a drink?” she asked me.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Dos margaritas, por favor,” said Petra with a grin. “On the rocks with salt.”
“Bueno,” said the waitress. She picked up a few scraps from our table and shuffled off.
“I’m trying to keep this all kinda on the down-low,” I said. “Nothing is totally definite yet, apart from signing with the agent, and I don’t really want to inspire jealousy in some of the other comics.”
“I think a lot of them are already jealous of you,” said Petra. “You’re funny, you’re pretty, you’re going places. A lot of those guys, I dunno, they’re kinda losers.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I said. “But I find it hard to argue with.”
“A lot of people with chips on their shoulders, you know?” she said, digging back into her burrito. “I guess I’m one of them.”
“No,” I said, almost trying to console her. “No, you’re not like that.”
“C’mon,” she said. “I basically gave up my life to do this and here I am eating a cheap burrito at ten at night, sitting in the presence of someone who’s actually making this career work.”
“Petty,” I said, my lips flattening, feeling kind of serious now in our conversation. “The only reason I get to focus so hard on this is because my Mom died. You know that.”
“I know,” she said.
“And I know you wouldn’t give your Mom up just to get ahead in comedy,” I said.
“Well,” she said, as though she were weighing the options.
“Don’t even joke about that!” I said, giving the table a pound.
“Nothing’s sacred in this business,” said Petra. “If I can’t joke about dead Moms, I mean, where should I draw the line.”
“You’re right,” I sighed. “But I’d give all this up to have my Mom back.”
“I know you would, Macy,” she said. “But don’t sweat it. This is what life is.”
“Margaritas,” said our waitress, approaching us with a round tray and setting a bowl-shaped margarita glass in front of each of us.
“Thanks,” I said, picking up the straw and immediately taking a sip. She smiled at us and once more scurried away.
“You know it’s going to get around quick,” said Petra, returning to our conversation. “Everybody’s going to know sooner or later and they’ll start talking.”
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��I know,” I said. “I’m just trying to prolong any fallout.”
“It’s kind of unavoidable,” she said. “Once you start getting better gigs, once you’re on TV, stuff is going to change. Provided you don’t fuck up, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, sarcastically agreeing with her.
“Then we’ll see you on the Tonight Show promoting some raunchy comedy movie,” she said. “The Brazilian,” said Petra, moving her hand to indicate the movie title up on a screen. “Macy Maxwell stars as Lacy Laxgood, a plucky young marketing director on a journey to find the perfect Brazilian wax job. From New York to LA, and even down to the promised land of Brazil, will she find what’s she’s looking for? Or will her quest get too hairy?”
“I’d watch that movie,” I said. “If only to see if this Macy chick goes full-frontal.”
“I hear they use a body double,” said Petra. “That actress has got weird flappy labia.”
“Oh, come on!” I said. “It’s not that bad!”
“Yeah,” said Petra. “I hear the producers asked her not to shave for filming. Best to cover up that roast beef with a big ol’ bush.”
“I can’t believe I ever told you about that,” I said. “Stupid Macy!”
“Told me?” said Petra incredulously. “I think you broadcasted it to an entire room of people before.”
“Okay, so that happened too.”
“And it’s not weird or anything,” said Petra reassuringly. “It’s perfectly fine.”
“You wouldn’t even know,” I said. “That time that we, uh, got intimate, we were both a little too tipsy to do much thorough exploration.”
“Okay, then it is weird,” said Petra. “Happy?”
“Oddly… no,” I said.
“You know what we should do tonight?” said Petra, washing down a bite of her food with margarita. “We should hit up another club and try to do some late sets.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Yeah,” said Petra. “I think one of the improv clubs over on Clark is having an open mic night. Why don’t we head over there and see if we can get a spot?”
“That could be fun,” I said. “I’ve got a couple goofy new bits that I might like to try out around a new crowd.”
Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22) Page 11