Cherry on Top

by Bobbie Brown

  “Oh, look what you’re up to. You’re such a good friend, huh? Oh yeah, now you’re fucking her boyfriend?”

  I wrote back to Josh, furious that he would drag poor Leven into his mind games.

  “A) I’m not sleeping with anybody, and B) Mind your own fucking business.”

  As I sent Josh the “fuck off” message, Tilky lay on my bed next to me while Caroline sat on the couch, typing.

  “I’ve known you for so fucking long, Bobbie,” Tilky said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, distracted. “How old were you when we met? Eighteen?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Hey, maybe I should also tell my entire life story to the world in a book.”

  “You should.”

  “But I’m scared. I’m private.”

  “Well, then don’t talk about it.”

  “Let’s do it. Let’s start right now.”

  Caroline held up her voice recorder. “Ready when you are. So, what exactly happened with your ex? Was she cheating on you with the guy who played Tommy in the Mötley Crüe movie? ’Cause that would be so interesting and meta for the book.”

  Writers, I thought. Very strange people.

  Tilky shook his head, sadly. “Nope. That’s not what happened. It’s a good movie, though. I was proud of her.”

  Tilky hadn’t talked to Leven since the day they split up. He knew it was best not to, so they could both heal quicker.

  “I have two other friends who are breaking up with girls and you know what they do?” he asked me. “Text them, call them. But I have to be stronger than that.”

  I wish I could be as disciplined as Tilky is, I thought, readying myself for a barrage of messages from Josh. My breakup with him felt like it was longer than the relationship, and I was starting to realize why. A part of me still craved the attention. I liked saying “no” to him because it was better than saying “no” to nobody. That’s why I kept myself in this toxic loop. It was my ego. I was breadcrumbing him and he was love bombing me. We went back and forth, playing a pointless game of ping-pong neither of us would ever win.

  Three’s Company

  Before moving into my condo in Arleta, I had a place in Studio City that I shared with a girl named Sam2. While we were living together, she received some terrible news. Her mother had gone missing, and not long afterward, her body was found in Mexico. The murderer was never caught, and the death remains a mystery.

  Sam’s little sister, Chloe, took it especially hard.

  “She’s too much, I can’t handle it,” Sam said. She was on the phone with her sister, whom I could hear crying on the other end of line. Eventually, I went to the hotel where Chloe was staying and did my best to comfort her. Clearly, she needed a shoulder to cry on.

  Around the same time Tilky moved into my condo, Chloe reached out and thanked me for being a such a good friend to her. She said she’d recently divorced and had moved to Los Angeles for a fresh start. She asked if I knew of any rooms available for rent as she was looking for a place to live and had been couch-surfing with friends since arriving in LA.

  And that’s how a week after Tilky moved in, we found ourselves with a third roommate. Chloe, a thirty-six-year-old bartender and former tattoo shop owner whose heart was as broken as ours.

  Sharise, as usual, had doubts about my decision. She had been trying to help me find roommates, setting up profiles for me on three different roommate-finding websites.

  “This person is not going to be a good roommate for you, Bobbie,” she said when I told her about Chloe moving in. “I can tell.”

  “But I want to help the girl. And Tilky doesn’t mind.”

  “Bobbie, you need to live with someone who is a stranger and who has a stable job—preferably in the movie business because they work eighteen hours a day. Someone normal.”

  Sharise is really good at giving advice. And I’m really good at ignoring it.

  Once Chloe moved in, every day felt like an episode of Three’s Company—a trio of single people, each of us reeling from trauma and finding solace in one another. We also had a whole lotta fun. We’d go to Sally’s Beauty Supply, cook food together, and at the end of the day we’d convene in my bedroom, the three of us giggling in bed wearing face masks, watching TV, or just talking. Chloe even had an eight-month-old male Chihuahua Piaf, who looked exactly like Nupa. As an added bonus, he and Nupa were obsessed with one another. It was so sweet to watch.

  Of course, having new people around always brings its challenges. Chloe, it turns out, had a habit of breaking appliances—specifically, my washing machine and dryer—and Tilky is no Mr. Fix-It. I didn’t care, though. Broken appliances are a small price to pay for the sense of family Tilky and Chloe brought. My condo was no longer a lonely, dangerous place; it felt like a home. And best of all, I no longer had to go to comedy shows alone. Whether the show was good, not so good, or downright cringeworthy, they would be there cheering me on.

  •••

  One night, my ex Jay Gordon from the band Orgy, the Frankenscissors who once told me I wasn’t funny, showed up at one of my shows. I was pleased he’d made the effort considering his lack of previous support for my comedy career. He showed up with a broken foot and said he was very excited to see me perform. My obsessive feelings for Jay had faded long ago, and I was glad we were friends. Also, what is it they say, success is the best revenge? That night I made sure I was extra confident on stage—a part of me wanted to show Jay just how wrong he’d been.

  Back home, after the show, Tilky, Chloe, and I were in my bedroom, unwinding and listening to music. Chloe could not stop talking about Jay—turns out, she’s a huge Orgy fan.

  “Oh, my God! He’s so cute, Bobbie, I love him!” she said.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty cool,” I said.

  “He’s trying to hang out with you, Bobbie. I can tell. You should totally go for it. He’s sooo hot.”

  “No, honey. Been there, done that.”

  “Yeah, but you guys used to have great sex, didn’t you?”

  I guess she must have read my book. Jay was the first man to make me orgasm from oral sex. No one before him—not Jani, not Tommy—had ever managed it. Jay and I had one of those strange, pheromonal connections. Even though he was a sulky cyber Goth who plucked his eyebrows and I was a blonde Valley mom who wore Uggs. In bed, we fit perfectly.

  Speak of the devil—a message from Jay popped up on my phone.

  “YOU WERE BRILLIANT TONIGHT. A GENIUS.”

  I showed it to Chloe, who smiled with a mischievous look in her eyes. Suddenly, she grabbed the phone out of my hands.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Nothing!” She hopped off the bed and ran into her bedroom.

  Tilky and I looked at one another and shrugged. “She probably just wants to geek over Jay’s messages,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Chloe came out of her room, a triumphant look on her face.

  “Jay’s on his way over.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “He’d better not be!”

  “Yup, he’s coming over.”

  “CHLOE! It’s three a.m. and this is not happening!”

  Before long, it was happening. Jay was outside the gate, ringing my door bell.

  “Oh, my God, Tilky. He’s here!”

  “Open the door?” Tilky said.

  “No! Let’s pretend I’m asleep and can’t hear.”

  Then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Chloe had let him in.

  “Shit! Lock the door!”

  Tilky locked my bedroom door. Then, a soft knock.

  “Bobbie? It’s Jay. I’m here…”

  I got into bed and pulled the covers over my head.

  He kept knocking until Tilky, fed up, unlocked the door.

  “
Hi. Welcome.”

  Jay looked confused.

  “Oh. Hi. Is Bobbie here?”

  I peeked up from under the covers and pretended to be sleepy.

  “Oh…Jay? What are you doing here?”

  “Well. You told me to come over.”

  “I did?”

  “She sure did,” said Chloe, grinning.

  “Yeah, and I said okay,” said Jay.

  “Oh, I didn’t get that part. My phone must be dead.”

  “I was just working on Bobbie’s computer, by the way,” Tilky chimed in.

  I looked at Tilky, then at Chloe, then at Jay.

  “Well, I guess everyone’s here now! I need a drink.”

  A few hours later, it was past 5:00 a.m., and everyone was still in my room. Chloe was making goo-goo eyes at Jay while Tilky was looking up YouTube videos on my computer.

  Jay whispered to me, “Are they ever going to leave?”

  By this point, I just wanted to get in bed too, whether Jay was with me or not.

  “Guys, it’s getting late,” I announced.

  Chloe and Tilky looked at one another, then got up and left the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Jay pulled me up off the floor and threw me on the bed, kissing me passionately.

  “Bobbie, you’re so beautiful. And you’re funny, it’s so fucking hot!”

  Oh, my gosh. Was Jay my first chucklefucker?

  Tilky walked in the room, a deadpan look on his face. Without saying a word, he walked up to Jay and I, and held his phone in Jay’s face—a photo of a cantaloupe being fingered, the insides oozing out. Then he turned around and walked out.

  “What the hell was that about?” I yelled after him.

  “Who cares?” said Jay, getting back to eating my face, slowly working his way down until his head was between my legs. His mouth was performing its signature move, the dance of the silver tongue. Back in the 2000s, I was powerless against that tongue. But this was 2018, at five thirty in the morning, and the tongue had lost its luster. There was no way I was going to orgasm. I just wanted this long night to be over.

  “We’re going to have sex, Bobbie,” said Jay, coming up for air.

  I had to think fast. “Don’t you have to drop your daughter at school in an hour?” I said. “I mean, I’d hate to rush things, you know? After all this time.”

  He looked at me, fire in his eyes.

  “You’re right. We can’t rush this moment. Call me later, I’ll come back. We’ll pick up right where we left off.” He put on his clothes, kissed me passionately, and left.

  Within minutes I was asleep, Nupa curled on the pillow next to me.

  The next day, after Jay’s unexpected visit, I asked Tilky what was up with the cantaloupe video. He shrugged and admitted the whole thing had felt a little strange for him. He was used to being the only man in the house. I gave him a hug and told him not to worry. I had no intention of inviting Jay back into my bedroom. I’d had a taste of chucklefucking, and frankly, it was exhausting.

  * * *

  2 Names have been changed.

  Marsh Gasses

  It was the week before Christmas and I was back in Baton Rouge about to perform my homecoming show at the Comedy Étouffée club.

  It was a nightmare right off the bat. Taylar’s fiancé drove us there and had to keep circling the venue, round and round, looking for parking. Patience is not my best virtue, and I actually screamed at him to stop so I could get out and just get into the club. When I did, my heart sank—there was no green room where I could prepare, no VIP room nor designated area for me to sign books, merch, or give autographs. Just a huge sea of faces from my childhood, judging me. At least that’s how it felt.

  I pulled my mother aside in a panic. “I can’t talk nasty in front of these people! They all know me: it’s going to be so embarrassing!”

  My mom, for her part, did her very best to calm me down. “Bobbie, this is what you do. Look at these people as dollar bills. You need to make them laugh because that’s what they paid for. Please don’t worry about embarrassing yourself or your family. In fact, I’d encourage it.”

  “I’m freaking out, Mom. I can’t even remember any of my jokes!”

  “Do the one about having sex that sounds like you’re running in flip-flops, I love that one. The one about the guy’s testicle coming out of his pants, I’m not crazy about that one. You should do the one about doing head on that guy where he’s having a seizure—I like that.”

  The stage was only about a foot higher than the floor. Once I stepped on it, there was no escaping the sea of faces from my past. The little boys who chased me on the playground were now grown men. My best friend from dance class. The girls from high school. Old boyfriends. Neighbors. I’m pretty sure all the Tiger Droppings guys were there—theparadigm, kingbob, BuckyCheese, Hot-Carl—hoping to catch a whiff of White Diamonds. And in the front row, my entire Goddamn family minus the Minnesota contingent—my mother, my stepfather William Williamson, Taylar, and her fiancé. I was so grateful to see them.

  I nervously lifted the mic to my lips, and got to joking.

  I was in a really good place earlier. Well, actually it was a liquor store. And nothing says “I mean business” like using a shopping cart at a liquor store. I ran out of coffee that morning, and I thought tequila seemed like a reasonable replacement. People can call me an addict, but I say it’s not “addiction” until you’ve sucked a dick for it. Right?

  Find the funny, Bobbie, find the funny…

  The other night, my boyfriend said, ‘Sorry for calling you a whore all those times. I didn’t realize a lack of love from your parents leaves a hole in your heart only dicks can fill.”

  The people in the room looked shocked. There was nothing intelligent coming out of my mouth except a jumbled mess of one-liners that I’m sure had sounded good at some point, but not in this order. Only now did I finally concede that Jimmy, Sharise, and Jamie had been right about doing a new set for each show. It was bullshit. A mistake. I only wished I could have figured it out sooner. If I hadn’t been so full of piss and vinegar, so prideful, maybe I wouldn’t be on stage right now humiliating myself in front of my entire hometown.

  I will say this, though. My favorite part of the body has got to be the taint. I call it “the silky skin highway from hole to hole.”

  I looked around the room and saw a lot of open mouths. I am blunt; I am crude; I think farts are funny; I am a thirteen-year-old boy trapped in a woman’s body. And I’m not sure that’s what they expected. They wanted the Cherry Pie Girl. But didn’t they know that wasn’t me?

  A lone heckler yelled, “Show us your tits!”

  Fuck you, kingbob. It was time to roll out the big guns.

  So the other day I go out and have sex with the first man I see. We get naked and immediately I’m like, oh shit, he’s FULLY HAIRY! This guy is so hairy, when he goes to wipe, it’s like peanut butter stuck in a shag carpet! I’m not going to suggest he needed a pube trimmer, but when you get an erection and it looks like Pinocchio joined the Taliban, you gotta ask yourself, is it time?

  My mother might have laughed, but no one else did. This is awful, and I want to die. This crowd was more intimidating than any other. More so than the people in Hollywood. The actors and the jokers, the entertainment industry people and the people buying VIP tickets—I didn’t care about them. I didn’t care if some agent thought I was hot stuff, or some producer thought he could “package” me into some showbiz product. But I cared about this. About showing my mom and Taylar and all the folks I grew up with that I was funny, that I was cool, that I hadn’t made a mistake when I left Baton Rouge and moved to Hollywood and let down every person that loved me because of my own fear and weakness. This was the audience I cared about most. And I was terrified that I was about to let them down again.

  My friend is su
ch a slut that when she eats a hotdog she puts a hand behind her head. When she burps I smell cock and bacon. Her favorite color is dick, and when she has sex, it’s like throwing a hotdog down a hallway.

  Then, I felt it coming for me. That strange floating feeling, the one I’d managed to avoid since my first two shows. As a series of random thoughts spilled un-controllably from my lips, I tried to use all the techniques Jimmy had taught me to stay present. But as I launched into a joke about how the light at the end of the tunnel is just us being pushed out of another vagina, I began to drift away, and I stopped trying to fight it. I welcomed it. I left my body and traveled deep into the Southern night, the air laden with the scent of creole seasoning, blackened shrimp, my dad’s old aftershave and Winstons, the sounds of blues guitar and Pink Anderson singing I got a woman, way across town…I floated, glided into the swamp, toward the faint glow of gasses burning in the marsh…

  I heard the soft voice of my father: Bobbie…I’m gonna show you how to play the blues…

  •••

  Despite the horrible show I put on for my good Southern brethren, Christmas in Baton Rouge with my mom and my daughter had been shaping up to be one of the best I’d ever had. Not just because of the warm sense of belonging that always envelops me the second I step foot on my mom’s porch, but because for the first time in years, leaving that porch behind wouldn’t feel like a mistake.

  Yes, they teased me about my performance—most of which I could not remember—but they also insisted they’d enjoyed it, even if no one else in the audience did. Taylar was so supportive it made me cry.

  “I could never get up in front of a big crowd and do stand-up,” she said. “But you’re brave enough to do it, and you’re actually good at it. I’m so proud. I’ll still be proud whether this turns into a real career for you or not. I really hope it does.”