Fault Line

by Janet Tashjian

“Well, maybe this will bring you good luck with your new routines.”

  “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  “As long as you don’t go with that chocoholic bit, you’ll be fine.”

  I told him I had worked on it all weekend, that it was much funnier now.

  He looked at me with disapproval. “You didn’t put that on the tape, did you?”

  I knew I should’ve run the tapes by Kip before I’d stuffed and addressed them to every club within a three-hundred-mile radius. But Abby and I had gone through the pain-in-the-butt ritual so many times before, it seemed silly to change the drill.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It came out great.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “I leave for three days, and you and Abby turn into two mad scientists trying to take over the comedy world.”

  “No, I—”

  “I thought I was helping you.”

  “You are—I totally count on your input.”

  “I guess not anymore.”

  He took the collage from the bed and placed it back in its box. “Did you take my suggestions about the driving instructor jokes?”

  “Yes, definitely. They were great.”

  Another disaster averted. I was getting better at zigzagging through the land mines of our conversations.

  “Did you use the bit about putting plastic on the seats because the guy is so old you’re afraid he’s going to piss himself in your car?”

  I told him that was the only one I didn’t use.

  “Why? You could work that one for more than a minute.”

  “It’s just not me.”

  “What? Too gross? You need to push the envelope, Becky. I tell you that all the time.”

  I was drained from defending myself yet again. I picked up my purse from the floor and told him I had to go.

  “You just got here!”

  “I know, but I’ve got two tests tomorrow.”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “Didn’t you study this weekend?”

  I lied and told him Abby and I had studied all morning.

  “Good. Then you can stay.”

  “I can’t.”

  I quickly kissed him good-bye and headed to the door.

  I thought he was reaching for the knob to open the door; instead, he grabbed me by the braid I’d worn all weekend. I was so shocked, all I could do was yell, “Hey!”

  I fell backward onto the floor with Kip on top of me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

  He still had my braid in his hand. My entire head throbbed like some kind of halo from hell.

  “God, I’m sorry. I was trying to stop you.”

  Mission accomplished. “Get off!”

  He got up slowly and held out his hand to help me up. I half expected to find my braid on the floor, disconnected from my head.

  He almost seemed as shaken as I was. “I don’t know what happened.”

  That made two of us. I sat on the couch, shaking. “Come here.” He inched his way closer to me. Slowly, he unbraided my hair, brushed it out, and started to rebraid it. I hid my face from him as I cried. The way his fingers moved so quietly through my hair was almost more painful than the yank that had brought me to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to leave.”

  I nodded. All I wanted to do was go home.

  He turned to face me. “You know that was an accident, right?”

  I nodded again. The whole thing had happened so fast, I wasn’t sure an instant replay could decipher what had just taken place.

  He gently helped me up and handed me my bag and gift.

  “You’re at Goodwill tomorrow, right? I’ll stop by with two mochas. We can sit outside during your break.”

  I could barely get any words out; I mumbled something inaudible and left.

  The drive home was a daze. Kip was funny, generous, and smart, right? He was passionate and spontaneous—what just happened was an accident. Like two people bumping into each other on the street, a wrong-place, wrong-time collision.

  I looked at the collage on the seat next to me. Kip had obviously spent hours on this gift. That’s who he was. After the five months we’d been together, he certainly deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  As I lay in bed that night, I realized tomorrow would be March 1. There wasn’t a February 29 this year; today hadn’t really been my birthday at all. I decided that’s where I’d file tonight’s incident with Kip: into a black hole of time, on a day I wasn’t even born.

  3/14

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Stop fixating on what Abby would think about

  Tomorrow— ask Mr.Perez again about adding Basic Instinct to the tour—don’t these people know their movies?

  The rumors are true—new club opening. Auditions next week! Kip has been great helping me prepare.

  I’ve been spacing on my new jokes lately—make sure to write them down.

  Things with Kip are fine.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of Kip Costello

  l feel like such an asshole.

  First the chilly reception back home in Napa, then this. Becky’s face—so shocked and hurt. I wanted to pull my own hair out at the sight of her crying. It’s not like I didn’t know it was wrong—of course I did. It was over in a matter of seconds, but still, it’s unacceptable. The thought of her leaving the apartment, thinking I was some kind of monster …

  It made me remember when Mom made the decision to leave Dad. Selling all our furniture while he was in Denver so she’d have enough money to leave. (A roundabout way into the antique business, to be sure.) I remember the smell of paint and polyurethane while she, Zach, and I refinished those pieces in the driveway late Friday night for the yard sale the next day. We were so with her, wanted her to leave, sick to death of Dad’s bullying too.

  And now this …

  What if Becky left and never came back? It kills me to admit how much I need her.

  I’ve got to hold it together.

  Won’t make the same mistakes Dad did.

  Can’t let it happen again. Won’t let it happen again.

  I spent the next week perfecting my driver’s license set for the new club. Fortunately for Kip, he didn’t have to audition, since he’d worked with the owner, Tom, in Napa. Plus, he’d been doing well, even opening for Blues Traveler at San Francisco State last week. His place in the opening-night lineup was assured.

  Even though Kip had been supportive, there were times I felt like I couldn’t do anything right. I wanted to go to his niece’s birthday party and the brunch at Yvonne’s, Kip’s friend from the frame shop. But unfortunately, I also needed (and wanted) to keep my two jobs and good grades. No matter how much work I did in the relationship, it was never enough. Making him happy was my top priority, but it seemed like the harder I tried, the more I failed. He thought the Lit paper I wrote for him on Fitzgerald wasn’t interesting enough to hand in. When I couldn’t figure out how to put a new cartridge in the printer, my lack of coordination was no longer adorable, but pathetic. My nickname went from Cinnamon Girl to Red. I longed for April vacation—then summer—when Kip and I could spend more time together. That was probably all we needed.

  At the audition, I recognized several booking agents from clubs in Silicon Valley. Some were from over the bridge in Marin, people I had pitched and sent tapes to before. A few of the men and women in the back could have been corporate bookers or scouts from L.A. The audition suddenly became much more important than getting one gig at a new club.

  “Are you nervous?” Abby asked.”Because I am.”

  “Petrified.”

  “Maybe it’ll make us better.”

  “Or worse.”

  We hung out in the greenroom and waited our turn. The small room was downright posh compared to the hallways and lobbies where we waited at most clubs. When I looked around, I realized Abby and I were the youngest performers by far.

  Our friend Chris from Oa
kland walked offstage in a cold sweat. “Throw away everything you know about Rick’s,” he said. “Between the size of the room, the lights, and the sound, you might as well be doing your set on the moon.”

  I tried to tell myself auditions were part of the process, even bad auditions. I braced myself for the worst.

  “Hey”

  The familiarity of the voice shocked me. I whipped around. “What are you doing here?” I had made Kip and my parents swear not to show up.

  Kip popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Figured I’d lend some support.”

  “I asked you not to come!”

  He waved me off, so I pulled him into the small hallway next to the bathrooms. “If I had wanted you here, I would have asked. I have a thing about auditions—you know this. I wouldn’t let my mother come.”

  “I know you a little better than she does, wouldn’t you say?”

  The ludicrousness of his argument only made me angrier. “Kip, I’m begging you to leave. I’m on next. Please go.”

  He looked at me and smirked. “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “I want to watch. I’m proud of you.”

  People buzzed by us. I told myself to stay calm. But I could feel the tears burning in my eyes.

  “Kip, please.”

  When he reached for me, something inside me flinched. He pinned my arms back firmly, then kissed me.

  “I’ll be in the back.”

  Even with the good wishes and kiss, I could feel my anger rise. I had explicitly asked him not to come. He had promised he wouldn’t. The next thing I heard was Tom calling my name. I hit play on my tape recorder and took the stage.

  My plan was to do the getting-my-license set I’d done in L.A. It was now my best set, but what came out of my mouth was miles from what I’d rehearsed so many times before.

  I’m a big believer in not swearing onstage. As any comic will tell you, using the f-word is a surefire—yet cheap—way to get laughs. Besides, Rick insisted everyone in his club work clean. But my adrenaline catapulted an entirely different set from deep inside me. My words were electric, venomous; at one point, my lines came out with so much force I was actually spitting. I was Denis Leary without the cigarettes but with all the attitude. The lights, the acoustics, they didn’t even dent my consciousness. What spewed forth was pure vent and bile. And is there anyone who doesn’t hate the DMV? I torqued up the driving instructor rant, and the crowd loved it. I barely noticed the audience, but when I did, they looked aghast. By the end of my set, half the room jumped to their feet. The last thing I remember seeing was Kip’s face in the back row, beaming.

  I walked offstage, sure I was going to get sick. And if I heard “Congratulations” one more time, I wouldn’t even make it to the bathroom.

  The first person to catch up with me was Kip. “You’re a shoo-in.”

  When Tom approached, I wanted to hide under the table. My set was a far cry from my audition tape. Despite the audience reaction, I didn’t know what his policy was and feared the worst.

  “You,” Tom said.

  Here it comes.

  “You’re in. It’s a definite. Your friend Abby too. Stop by this week, I’ll give you the details.”

  Kip looked at me as if to say “I told you so.” I hurried to the ladies’ room.

  Abby stood at the sinks, waiting.

  “Well, that was different.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be doing it again.”

  “That was so not you. But they loved it. Closet rage-oholics, all of them.”

  “The two of us are in,” I said. “Tom just told me.”

  Abby put out her cigarette in the sink. “Really?”

  We jumped up and down like two kids and planned how we would celebrate. But the whole time Abby talked, I was thinking of one thing. I remembered a time in fifth grade when I’d done a project on France for social studies. I had just thrown it together in twenty minutes, but for some reason my parents and teachers went nuts over it. The stupid thing even made it to the local news. I remember how embarrassed I was, getting so much praise for something I knew wasn’t my best work. I felt the same way about my set tonight.

  When we left the ladies’ room, Kip was stationed outside. He congratulated Abby, then put his arm around me.

  “Are we okay?” he asked.

  “Besides the fact that you don’t take what I say seriously?”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t have missed you for the world.”

  The three of us celebrated afterward with a late-night dinner of salads and tacos. When we got to my house, Kip asked if he could come in. I said it was too late, that I’d see him tomorrow. As much as the night had been a success, I was still confused by his behavior.

  When he kissed me, he wouldn’t let me go. “I love you,” he said.

  I nodded and slid out of the truck.

  Inside, Delilah was writing checks at the kitchen table. She was dressed to the nines, this time as Shirley Partridge. When she asked me how the show went, I broke the news about Abby and me making the cut. She hugged me for a long time, then looked me in the eye.

  “Was that Kip’s truck in the driveway? Your mom’s upstairs waiting to hear how it went—she’s going to be angry if you let him go and not us.”

  I told her he surprised me, and I wasn’t happy about it.

  “Men who don’t respect boundaries—that’s not a good thing.” She stacked the envelopes in a neat pile. “You keep your eyes on that boy.”

  I was getting boyfriend advice—good boyfriend advice—from a six-foot-two-inch man with a shag and a miniskirt. And this was the most normal conversation I’d had all day.

  I lay in bed awake for hours. There was no denying the night had been a success; no audience had ever responded to me that way before. My routine would never reach such an angry crescendo again. And what about Kip? Was he there to help me push past my own obstacles? Was that the point?

  If so, he’d gone too far.

  3/22

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Do a postmorten on the audition tape—who was that girl?

  when I was getting dressed today, I noticed small black-and-blue mark on my arms. It was probably from that rough game of football with Christopher. Couldn’t be from Kip at the the club. Besides, he didn’t grab me that hard .

  Don’t tell Kip where my next audition is? Or rethink my own superstitions? After all, I did get

  No matter what Kip says, I am not writing that Lit paper over again.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of kip Cosfello

  I never should have grabbed Becky at the club. I jusf wanted her to be quiet and let me enjoy her show! what’s wrong with trying to be Supportive anyway? I’m not taking all the credit, but Becky’s act has gotten so much better since we’ve been togeher. That set she did the night we met? Terrible! I’m proud of how far she’s come.

  But it was wrong to hurt her. I had to fake being happy over dinner the rest of the night. What was I thinking?!

  I don’t care how many problems we have, or if it seems like she’s slipping away, blowing by me in every way—I can’t let that happen again.

  Delivered my sleigh bed—thanks a lot, Mom—to Snob Hill yesterday. This old woman is turning her sewing room into a space for her granddaughter (a little older than Hannah). I had two more deliveries to make, but this woman just wanted to talk. I had three glasses of lemonade and helped her hang a few pictures before I left. I actually didn’t mind.

  My father stiffed Mom on his payments this month. She had to sell half the stuff in my room to make the rent. Heard from that coffee shop—I start on Monday. Hey, do two crappy jobs add up to one good one? I’m not going to tell Becky I’m making lattes—it’s too embarrassing.

  Hey, who put the stop-payment on my reality check?

  I ’d only fallen asleep in classes a few times before—a result of late-night gigs—but I got caught snoozing twice in McDonnough’s lab this week. Charlie nudged me so hard that I almost fell off
the bench. That time I couldn’t blame my comedy schedule; I was sleeping in class because I was barely sleeping at home. My mind just wouldn’t stop—either planning ahead to ward off future fights with Kip or deconstructing our last argument to see what went wrong. Sometimes it seemed as if our passion had transformed itself into a weird kind of Hitchcockian tension. I constantly caught myself scanning each sentence before I spoke, looking for some kernel of trouble that might ignite Kip. The pressure of continuous self-regulation kept me staring at my poster-covered walls well into the light of dawn.

  At Goodwill, I could feel someone staring at me while I priced a box of books. When I looked up, I spotted Peter, my old boyfriend.

  As much as our relationship had rated a two on the maturity scale, it was still good to see him. His hair was matted in a pathetic attempt at dreadlocks; he never did get over that reggae thing.

  “Hey, Beck! What’s up?”

  From the size of his smile, he was genuinely happy to see me. One thing about Peter—what you see is what you get.

  “How’s the comedy scene?” he asked. “I hear you’re working all the time.”

  I told him I had opened Tom’s new club, that I was even hoping to perform around the state this summer.

  “I always knew you had it in you.”

  As he paid for the X-Men comic books, I looked him over. Maybe not the brightest or funniest guy on the block, but kind. And kind was moving up on the scale of important qualities lately. When he asked me to go next door for a coffee, I told Harold I was taking a ten-minute break. (But not without mentally checking Kip’s schedule to make sure he was still at the frame shop.)

  We ordered two mochas and sat in the corner of the restaurant. I asked if his sister was still working at the Web design company; he asked if my dad had seen the Stones when they stayed at the Ritz. (He had—Keith Richards ordered four bottles of wine and two Caesar salads.) I sipped my mocha and gathered up my courage.