“You ever take a shit that smells like pussy?” the kid says and hammers the final nail in his own coffin. It’s all over for him. Executions have ended better. His time is up, and he wasn’t able to pull the crowd around, leaving an awkward silence hanging over the room like someone who just confessed at the dinner table to having an abortion.
Spence starts to feel uneasy and looks at his watch. This isn’t good. It’s been thirty minutes. The kid was supposed to do twenty minutes but is running long and no one seems to notice. He’s still struggling to get chuckles, yet keeps hitting them with more alleged jokes. The audience isn’t even lukewarm at this point and dangerously close to becoming hostile.
Spence looks around the club and looks down at his watch. Someone needs to give the kid a signal and let him know it’s time to get offstage. It’s hard enough to follow an act that bombed. It’s even harder to follow one that ran too long and sucked all the life out of the audience. A root canal is easier.
Where the hell is Frank? he thinks to himself. Outside with his penis in the tailpipe of his new car, actually trying to have sex with it?
When forty minutes rolls round, a blind man could see that Spence is pissed off. The kid is still onstage and still eating it, yet still ranting away. Every comedian knows before he goes onstage just how much time he’s expected to do. Going over by a few minutes is usually forgivable. Doing double the time you were supposed to do is absolute bullshit. But since Frank is apparently masturbating all over his car, there’s nothing to be done about it this time around.
What the hell are you doing? Spence wants to scream at the stage. They aren’t into this. Read the crowd, you idiot. Do they seem like they are remotely into this kind of crap?
Just watching it makes him cringe. Every comic has a night that goes badly. Everyone knows what it’s like to be bombing and wanting to turn it around. But there comes a time when you simply accept that you’re never going to win them over. You do your time, cut your losses, and go home to lick your wounds. The only thing you do by digging the hole deeper is drag the next comedian down into it with you.
It used to be inexcusable and was the kind of behavior that got you banned from comedy clubs. At some point over the past several years, a trend started with young comics who find it more amusing to offend the audience than to make it laugh. Rather than adapt and try to read them a little better, young comedians started going onstage almost daring audiences to laugh. The desire to shock the crowd is more important than making it laugh.
It’s because of that kind of thinking that this kid onstage doesn’t know he’s digging himself into that hole. He doesn’t see that he’s bombing. The few awkward chuckles he’s getting is the best response an audience has ever given him. To that kid onstage, this is a good set.
“That’s it for me, bitches.” He finally wraps up the disaster that was his act. “Peace out, muthafuckas.”
With that, the kid takes the microphone and slams it to the ground. The audience makes a noise that sounds like a mixture of mild amusement and disgust. A table of five people gets up and walks out of the club. That leaves only fifteen audience members left to watch a show that is now running almost thirty minutes behind.
“They’re a rough crowd, yo,” he says to Spence as he brushes past. Spence nods when what he really wants to do is punch the kid in the throat.
He is not looking forward to this. He’s been more optimistic about getting a catheter inserted into his penis. He takes the stage with the same smile and high energy he gives when the club is packed. Taking the dented microphone into his hand, he goes straight into his first joke. He cannot see through the lights, but he feels himself slip right into the same persona he always does. Here is where he belongs. Here is where he lets everything that was bothering him go away for at least forty-five minutes. Here he doesn’t think about Frank or the unfunny kid or the has-been who makes a truckload of money. Here he is ready to just enjoy himself. Here is where he is in charge. He is ready for them.
“And that’s why I only date Asian women,” he says.
Nothing happens. The audience doesn’t laugh; they simply look at him. It’s the same joke he has done a million times before. They don’t go for it at all. He’s had some jokes go over better than others, but his opening bit always kills. That’s why he uses it. It gets the audience on his side right away. Not this time. He is shocked.
“When he said he was smacking the midget, I just assumed he was talking about masturbation,” he says. Nothing again. He can’t believe it. He wonders if the audience is too tired. Maybe that opening act pulled all the energy out of the room by going too long? Is everyone in the room an Asian midget and he somehow missed it and offended them all? It’s bad enough to feel like he’s not connecting with the audience, but now he’s flat-out bombing. This hasn’t happened in years.
“I’ll tell you the best part of being divorced . . .” he says. He rolls into another surefire hit; an old joke about divorce that he pulls out of the cobwebs whenever he needs a quick fix to a dull show. Again, he is met with blank eyes and a silent room. The cold feeling of sweat down his back hits him. He hasn’t felt it in years.
You did this to me. Spence imagines his opening act standing in front of him and wishes he could break the microphone over his head. The same microphone the kid threw to the ground when he strutted offstage. You sucked the life out of this room.
Now his mind is working a million thoughts per second. He’s going through jokes in his head, trying to find random tracks on Spence’s Greatest Hits in his mind and then toss them out to the handful of silent audience members. He’s like a duck, looking calm on the surface while paddling furiously to stay afloat. Every great joke he’s ever told in front of roaring applause is being met with . . . nothing.
The next twenty minutes creep by at a snail’s pace. When things are going great, ten minutes can feel like one. When a comedian bombs, twenty minutes feels like hours. He feels as if he’s been onstage all day. The flop sweat rolling down his forehead is just a reminder. At any second he could win this crowd and feel relief pass over his entire body. Or, at any second, he could burst into tears. It’s a toss-up whichever happens first.
But there comes a time when you simply accept that you’re never going to win them over. Spence hears his own advice coming back to haunt him. You do your time, cut your losses, and go home to lick your wounds.
His mouth is dry, and the sweat on his back suddenly feels cold. He is only a minute away from calling it quits. He knows it’s over, and he isn’t about to rebound.
“Next!” A voice comes from the darkness. A guy in the audience has made a buzzer sound like on a game show. The audience laughs at this, which only makes the jab sting even more. Having a heckler sucks. Having one the audience likes is murder.
“I’ve got it from here, thanks,” Spence says to the heckler. He always starts nice. Hecklers don’t always want to cause problems. Sometimes they actually think they’re helping the show; they’re just trying to have fun. It’s for that reason he often leaves them alone. But sometimes they need to be put in their places.
“I don’t think so,” the heckler yells from the darkness. “You’re losing it, buddy.”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I do this for a living, so let me do it without you.”
“Not our fault you aren’t funny,” the heckler says. This is followed by oohs from the audience.
“But it is your fault you wore that shirt tonight,” Spence responds. This actually gets a laugh. It also gets some more oohs. Seven people like him, and seven more think he’s an asshole. Either way, it’s not remotely the turnaround he needs on this show.
“This shirt cost more than you make in a week,” the heckler yells.
“So does sex with your mom,” Spence says. This gets a few more laughs.
“Who cares? Sex with your wife is free,” the heckler says. The audience laughs. It makes Spence want to hang himself with the microphone cord, mostly because it�
��s actually a pretty good comeback.
“Every time you open your mouth, I smell some other guy’s cock,” Spence says through his teeth. This normally gets a huge laugh, but it stalls. It’s almost as if the audience hates him for actually trying to outwit the heckler. Hope is pretty much lost at this point. Once the audience has decided to side against the guy onstage, all bets are off.
“Next!” the voice calls again.
Stepping forward to the very front of the stage, Spence shields his eyes from the lights. Just like being stuck behind a bad driver in traffic, he has to know what this guy looks like. He can’t leave the stage without knowing just who it was giving him hell while he was already having his worst set in years.
There, in the middle of the room, sits a short, old man. He’s got a potbelly and is wearing an old golf shirt and he’s leaning on a cane. He’s at least seventy-five years old. It might as well be Santa Claus talking trash in the darkness.
“This is who is heckling me?” he says and points at the old man. “The dude from Cocoon?”
This gets mild laughter. Before the old man can speak, Spence goes right back at him.
“No, really,” he says, “I’m up here trying to entertain you people, and I’m getting yelled at by freakin’ Father Time.”
Again, a little laughter. Some groans. Even the people laughing obviously don’t like him very much at this point. Less than fifteen minutes to go and he can leave the stage. In the meantime, he’s got to do something to kill the time and telling jokes apparently isn’t working. He decides to keep going after the heckler because it’s the only thing at this point keeping him entertained.
“I’m surprised you even know you’re here,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be at home, changing your own diaper?”
The old man doesn’t look pissed off, and he doesn’t look like he’s ready to come at Spence with another crack. He actually looks hurt.
“When you say ‘next,’ are you really just talking about when you’re actually going to finally die?” Spence says. “Well, do everyone a favor and make it tonight.”
He thinks it’s funny, but he’s alone in this thought. This is not the first time he’s taken it too far with a heckler. It can be fun at first. Push it too hard and the audience will turn away. Sure, it’s only fifteen people and they never found him that funny to begin with. Now they think he’s a complete asshole. If he walked offstage right now, that wouldn’t change. But he’s so angry that he wants someone else to feel as bad as he does. The fact that it’s the old man means nothing to him—just collateral damage.
“I know that’s not new to you, hearing someone tell you that you should hurry up and die,” he says to the old man, practically standing in the front row when he does it. “Your wife must say that every single day that she wakes up and you’re still here.”
“My wife is dead,” the old man practically whispers.
Spence knows he should back off, but he’s too pissed to stop. Instead, he delivers one last blow. “You call her dead. I call her lucky.”
Checkmate. The old man slumps in his chair and has nothing to say. It’s as close to retribution as a comic will ever have when staring down the double barrels of a failed show. There is no joy in this kind of victory. Spence knows he does not win by humiliating the old man. All he does is share the pain.
“Thank you, good night,” he says and storms off the stage. He’s out of the showroom and in the parking lot before he realizes what just happened. He wants to hit something. He wants to scream. He wants to choke his opening act and Frank and the CEO of whatever car company makes Corvettes. He wants to knock that old man’s cane out from under him. And he wants a cigarette. He hasn’t smoked in ten years.
SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT, he keeps repeating in his head, over and over again. He stretches his fingers out and then balls them back up into fists, over and over again. He walks around in circles. He stomps his feet on the pavement like a child who didn’t get what he wanted at the toy store. He sulks, he curses to himself, and he generally lets himself fume for what feels like forever.
He waits until he is certain all fifteen people in the audience are gone before he walks back into the club. He can’t even remember the last time he bombed. He does not want to be there anymore in the place where it happened. He just wants to get his coat and go back to his hotel for the night.
“You”—Frank comes storming around the corner and into the lobby—“my office. Now.”
Being almost forty and spoken to like he’s fourteen doesn’t sit well with Spence. The waitstaff pretends to be looking the other way as he follows Frank into the office. Even there, the furniture costs more than most things he has ever owned. There’s probably a joke there, but he’s too upset to think about it. He knows that what’s coming isn’t good.
“I have never seen anything like what I just saw,” Frank says.
“Really,” Spence says. It’s not a question because he knows that Frank is lying on two counts. First of all, he knows that what just happened isn’t that outrageous. Comics bomb all the time, even famous pros. And second, Frank wasn’t even in the room to see it. He was probably out back polishing his car with a diaper.
“Never,” Frank says. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“Responding to a heckler,” Spence says.
“You mean Earl?”
“What?”
“His name is Earl.”
“How should I know what the hell his name is?”
“He’s a regular here,” Frank says. “Comes here every week and sits in that same place.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“He’s always here. Everyone loves him.”
“If he’s here every week,” Spence says, “then he should know better than to be yelling shit at the stage.”
“What did you do to provoke it?”
“Provoke what?” Spence has to remind himself not to yell. “Since when is it my fault if a guy in the audience won’t keep his mouth shut? You’re supposed to take care of that so I don’t have to.”
“You open your own comedy club and you can tell me how to run mine.” Frank points an index finger in his face.
“You ever become a comedian and you can tell me how to do my act.” He points back. He knows full well that Frank has never so much as set foot onstage.
“If I’m paying you, then I can tell you whatever the fuck I want,” Frank says. In the end, he’s right. It always comes down to the money.
“That was bullshit and you know it.”
“What’s bullshit is that you walked offstage ten minutes early,” Frank says.
Spence looks at his watch. “The show ended when it was supposed to end. Nine thirty, just like you said. That idiot you put onstage before me ran over his time.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what does that have to do with anything?” Frank says. “You were supposed to do forty-five minutes. You did thirty-five. What that kid did doesn’t concern you.”
“It certainly does,” Spence says, “when I have to go onstage and mop up his mess.”
“You were supposed to do forty-five minutes,” Frank says.
“Which is it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you pissed at me for bitching out your loyal customer or for running short on my time?”
“Both,” Frank says.
“That’s just stupid.”
“You watch your mouth.”
Spence wants to reach over and punch Frank in the face. He could do it easily and probably knock the man off his feet. It certainly would have a better outcome than arguing; no matter what he says now, he’s already lost. There is no coming back from this. It’s over. He might as well kiss Peoria good-bye right now. He wants to bitch Frank out and tell him exactly what he thinks of him, his Corvette, and his buddy Earl.
“It won’t happen again,” he says after thirty seconds of tense silen
ce.
“You’re absolutely right about that,” Frank says. “You know goddamned well I could fire you right now.”
“I know.”
“I could get Rodney on the phone and tell him to send you packing,” Frank says.
“I know.”
“I’m cutting your pay in half,” Frank says.
“What?” Spence turns around again and faces Frank. That cuts his pay down to four hundred dollars for a week of shows. It comes out to fifty bucks per show at the end of the week; fifty bucks to be the closing act at a successful comedy club.
“You heard me,” Frank says. “Half.”
“For what?”
“For running short and getting out of hand onstage,” Frank says.
“You can’t be serious,” Spence says.
“It’s either that or you walk right now,” Frank says.
This is the hard part. Spence could tell Frank to go straight to hell right now and walk right out the door. He’d never work there again, and Frank could easily replace him tomorrow. At least then he’d have his pride intact. But then he’s got to put himself up in a hotel for the next seven days. He can’t afford that. He can’t afford to be without eight hundred dollars, but he certainly can’t afford to leave with nothing. He practically lives week to week as it is. Losing the gig could cripple him.
“Fine,” he says, “but that’s really an overreaction.”
“There have to be repercussions,” Frank says.
“I had a terrible night,” Spence says, “that should be punishment enough.”
“But it’s not,” Frank says and sits behind his desk. He props his feet up and seems oddly comfortable despite what just went down.
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