Spence and Sam, he thinks. It sounds corny, but he likes it.
He hasn’t been unemployed in years. Not since before he started doing stand-up comedy. He’s not exactly sure how to handle it. He hasn’t even had a vacation in ten years, so the idea of not working is something he can’t wrap his head around. He has a couple of gigs coming up next month that he lined up without Rodney, but he knows everything else was canceled the minute he hung up the phone. Six months’ worth of work, instantly gone. There might be an e-mail from Rodney confirming the lost work, but probably not. In a week, he’ll check club websites to see his photo replaced by some other guy.
“How about Second Cup?” Sam asks as she drops rice in her lap.
“What the hell is that?” he asks.
“It’s like Canada’s Starbucks.”
“But Canada has Starbucks.” He points across Yonge Street from the little sushi restaurant they are sitting in directly to a Starbucks on the corner.
“But we also have Second Cup,” Sam says. “And Second Cup is better.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you’ll work there?”
“Maybe it’s better than Starbucks.”
“What about waiting tables?” she asks.
“I’ve done that before, as you know,” he says. “I’m not against it. It’s been a while, though. Something like twelve years.”
“They’ll still hire you,” she says. “What about bartending?”
“I think I wanna stay out of bars if I’m not doing comedy. I don’t want to just work a different job in the same place.”
“Good point.”
Spence doesn’t tell her, but he thinks about caving in. It’s only Monday. He could take a couple of days off and then start making phone calls. He could rebook some of the dates he lost from Rodney himself. Plenty of clubs will hire him anyway, especially if they get to pay him a little less without an agent stepping in. He could call the clubs he likes and stay away from the dives and saloons. Maybe offer to work cheaper if he has to. He could try and find another agent. There’s some lady in Brooklyn who is just about as low-rent as Rodney. She’d probably sign him tomorrow if he called her.
Maybe Jamie wants the job? he thinks and almost smiles.
He looks out the window and watches the people walking down Yonge Street. The idea of not moving feels good, too. Just staying in one place for a while and going nowhere. If he could afford it, he’d take the entire month off and just sit in Toronto. Wait and see if anyone misses him. In the back of his mind, however, he’s scared to death because he’s pretty sure no one would.
He also thinks about calling Rodney. He doesn’t tell Sam because he knows she’d think he’s crazy. But he hasn’t had to really book himself for several years. He doesn’t remember how to do it every single day. He knows that he hated it, which is why he hired and kept Rodney in the first place. He never really liked Rodney all that much, but he absolutely hated making all of those phone calls to club owners.
And he doesn’t really know what else to do with his life.
“What are you thinking?” Sam asks. He realizes that he’s been staring straight ahead with the same piece of sashimi wedged between his chopsticks in front of his face for at least a couple of minutes.
“Thinking about working at Banana Republic,” he lies.
“I could teach you how to fold pants,” she says and grins like a clown.
“Perfect.”
This is not the first time he has fired Rodney. That’s probably why it didn’t seem like such a big deal at first. For a while it was a yearly thing. The most recent was that time a few years ago when Rodney booked him to open for some TV star that turned out to be a complete jerk. It was some fourth banana on a sitcom who constantly complained about how he hated that his opening act got more attention from the audience. The TV star demanded Spence be fired, and Rodney did it without hesitation. Spence swore that was the end of their business together. He hired Rodney back three days later.
“No regrets,” Sam says to him. It’s not a question.
“I’m fine,” he lies.
Rodney hasn’t tried to call. He usually doesn’t for at least a couple of days every time he’s fired. If the guy is smart, he won’t call at all. He should know that this time it’s serious. If Rodney is smart, he’ll stay away for good. But if there’s a paycheck to be had, Rodney will likely try to make a comeback. Spence has given Rodney more second chances than he’s ever been given in his life. In the past, he’s always thrown his hands up and gone right back to business as usual. But he won’t do it this time. Today is about starting over. With his life, his career, and Sam. He won’t go back to Rodney.
But he could.
Spence watches Sam as she eats more sushi. He secretly hopes that Rodney isn’t smart.
“How about selling cars?” Sam asks. He grimaces and remembers that year in pharmaceutical sales. His friends all made a mint selling Viagra while he barely got by because he had to peddle the world’s least popular antianxiety pill. Sam sees the look on his face and changes the subject back to waiting tables and being a substitute teacher.
You’d better grovel, Rodney, Spence thinks. You’d better beg me for forgiveness.
It’s every few minutes that he thinks that maybe he’ll take Rodney back again. But only if Rodney is the one who apologizes this time. If Rodney admits that he was wrong and has been screwing things up, Spence can take him back. He can work things out. He’ll take a couple of weeks off here in Toronto and recharge his batteries. He’ll spend time with Sam and then hit the road again with a fresh new outlook on it all. He’ll make better money once Rodney is really on his side and not taking such a high cut. If he makes more money, he can tour less anyway and spend more time with Sam. They both want that anyway. That’s the deal.
“Or you can just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Sam says, and he wonders if he was thinking out loud. He smiles at her and shoves the sashimi in his mouth. It seems a bit warm. How long was he holding it?
“I don’t know,” Spence says. “Maybe.”
“You’re leaning toward it, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes it scares me that you know me so well.”
Sam shrugs and looks out the window at the people walking by. For a split-second, her smile seems to fade away. They’ve been joking around and enjoying the conversation for a while, but she suddenly looks serious, even if she is trying to hide it.
“I know you love to be on that stage,” she says. “There is no taking the performer out of you, is there?”
He grimaces. “Probably not. It’s the thing I’ve done the longest. The thing I know best. The thing I always wanted to be.”
“What about part-time?” she asks, twiddling her chopsticks into her little dish of soy sauce. “What if you did something else and just did comedy on the side again?”
“It doesn’t really work that way,” Spence says. “It’s a demanding job, even part-time. There’s only so much local work before a comic has to hit the road again.”
“I know.”
“And you hate it, right?”
She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? Who wants to be with someone that is never home? Or the stress of worrying all the time?”
He feels a pain in the back of his neck, and the throbbing starts to grow a bit. He doesn’t answer her immediately, but looks at her and raises his shoulders a bit. He knows that there is no way Sam can think about him being on the road and not think about Syracuse and his night in the hospital. Chances are good she’ll think about it every time he leaves and goes back on the road. And he’ll always be wondering what’s next. If he stays with her and stays on the road, he’ll always be making up for that night. But he knows she’ll never stick around long enough for him to find out.
For a second, he wonders if she’s ever seen the good parts of his business or only the worst of it. He wishes he could show her the parts of being a comedian that are so addictive. He wishes he could share wit
h her the intense rush of applause and laughter. He wishes she knew that kind of addiction and that there was some way of sharing it with her.
“You know how I feel,” she says. “I won’t beat you over the head with it. I promised you that after the last time that I would never tell you what to do.”
“When a comedian gets famous, he can tour less and make three times the money,” he says. “But . . .”
“You’re not famous,” she says.
“And I have no idea how to get that way.”
“Right.”
“And if I knew something else that would keep me entertaining people and keep me happy and keep me here with you, I’d do it in a second,” he says. “The problem is, I can’t think of any such thing.”
“I know,” she says. “Neither can I.” She takes another bite of sushi and smiles at him. She looks guilty for a second, as if she feels bad for changing the tone of the conversation. They promised each other a nice day and to put the past behind them. No more talk of Syracuse. No looking back at those awful weeks when they didn’t speak. But he’s not angry with her anyway. He knows she’s right.
“Whatever you do,” she says, “don’t go back to Rodney.”
Spence winces and wonders if she’s been reading his mind. Every minute he tries to talk himself out of calling Rodney he feels a pain grow in his stomach. He had such amazing balls with Dustin in Iowa. Now he needs to have them again when it comes to Rodney. After all, that’s why he felt so alive and amazing just hours ago. Sticking up for himself was a shot in the arm that he needed. Now he needs to follow through by putting that same shot into the rest of his life.
“Maybe Second Cup is a good idea,” he says. She rolls her eyes and smiles and then touches his hand across the table.
And I wanna tell you that I love—
His cell phone vibrates on the small café table, and he looks down at it.
“You gonna talk to him?” Sam asks. She looks a little disappointed. He looks down at the phone. It’s not Rodney. He doesn’t recognize the number at all. If it is Rodney, he’s calling from a completely different area code.
“This is Spence,” he answers as he puts the phone to his ear.
“Hi there. This is Diane Perez,” a woman’s voice comes from the other end. “Is this Mr. Spencer?”
“Yes?” Spence says. He’s not familiar with the name or the voice, but it’s not a wrong number.
“I’m Greg Saunders’s assistant,” she says.
“Greg Saunders?”
“With The Tonight Show?” Ms. Perez’s voice seems to say “duh.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, “of course.” He holds up his index finger to Sam and walks out of the restaurant. Sam looks at him with an eyebrow up but doesn’t move. He steps out onto the sidewalk and is surprised by how quiet it is on a rather clear summer Monday evening in the middle of the city. “What can I do for you?” he asks and crosses his fingers.
“Mr. Saunders wanted me to call you to see if you’re available to be on the show.”
“The Tonight Show?” Spence asks.
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry, but . . . is this a joke?” he asks. He wonders if Rodney is just being a sadistic fuck. Or if Dustin is getting even.
“I assure you it’s not, although everyone always asks that,” she says.
He laughs. “Go figure.”
“So does that mean you’re interested?” she asks. He wants to be the one who says “duh” this time. The Tonight Show. Here’s Johnny. Hello, Ed. Ladies and gentlemen, Jay Leno. The freaking Tonight Show.
“Of course,” Spence says and wants to do a backflip. “I’m just curious. How did you find me?”
“Your publicist sent us a tape,” she says.
“My publicist?”
She pauses and sounds as if she’s reading something. “Jamie Hernandez,” she says. “He sent us a press kit a few weeks ago. I assumed you knew about it.”
Damn, Spence thinks, I didn’t think the kid had it in him.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I forgot. Been on the road a lot.”
“Well, Greg—Mr. Saunders—liked what he saw. So he wants to know if you can do it on the show,” she says and then tosses in, “The material on the tape, of course.”
The clean stuff. The new stuff. Everyone likes the new stuff. The freaking Tonight Show loves the new stuff. He’s going to do his new stuff on The Tonight Show.
Fuck you, Rodney, he thinks.
“Absolutely,” he says.
Spence looks back at Sam through the restaurant window. She shrugs her shoulders and mouths the word what. He gives her a big thumbs-up and realizes that he’s bouncing up and down like an idiot in the street. “Sure. I can do anything you want,” he says into the phone.
“Have you done TV before?” Ms. Perez asks.
“Yeah, I did The Late Late Show once,” he says.
“Oh,” she says, “with Craig Ferguson.”
“No, with Craig Kilborn.”
“Oh,” she says, then does the math in her head. “Oh. Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, great,” she says. “Can you be in LA two weeks from Thursday?”
19
He has only been to LA once before. That was almost ten years ago, when he did the Kilborn show. Nothing has changed, really. The same gorgeous people everywhere. The same sunny weather. Seeing the underwear models everywhere he goes reminds him that he has spent the past decade entertaining the flyover states. He thought he looked old and tired when he was in Toronto. A day later and he looks like a zombie compared to everyone he sees in southern California.
He hasn’t seen much of the city, except from different types of windows. The airplane window, the windows in the taxi, the windows of the hotel. Just like being on the road, he shows up to get work done and leave. There is no time for sightseeing, but he wouldn’t enjoy it even if he had the time to do it. He’s too busy thinking about what he’s going to say on TV and trying to keep the churning in his stomach from making him sick.
The Tonight Show, he keeps saying to himself. He says it over and over again in his head just to make it seem more real. More than two weeks after he got the phone call from Diane Perez and he still wonders if the whole thing is a big joke. He’s waiting for someone to yell “gotcha.” This comes after several straight months of some truly awful gigs and some truly awful blowouts, being inches away from taking a job at McDonald’s. All of that seems way more real than anything happening right now.
In the hotel, there’s a gift basket from the show. Random fruits, muffins, a nice welcome card. He looks out the window and lets the sun hit him as he goes over his set in his head. He’s got four and a half minutes he’s got to pull off. Just less than five minutes to entertain millions of people. Two hundred and seventy seconds to turn his career around. It usually takes him twice as long just to get warmed up onstage. Now that’s all the time he’s got to change everything.
His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls his phone out and looks at it. A text message from Jamie has come through.
Kick ass, man. Make us both rich.
He smiles. Out of all the people he has met in the past several years, Jamie is the last person he expected to suddenly be his angel. The kid somehow did in a matter of weeks what both he and Rodney weren’t able to do in years. Maybe all this time all that was needed was a fresh set of eyeballs. Spence texts back to Jamie:
I can’t believe you pulled this off.
A moment later, a text comes back from Jamie:
I shouldn’t have, the way you screwed me out of getting laid in Toledo! You’re a terrible wingman. ;)
Spence tosses the cell phone on the bed and smiles. He tries to remember the name of the girl in Toledo with the amazing body, but he can’t. He doesn’t even want to. He wants to think of his four and a half minutes and hope to God he doesn’t fall flat on his face. He wants to walk into that studio a nobody and walk out a star. Others have do
ne it. Why not him?
The phone on the nightstand rings, and he answers it.
“The car is here, sir,” the hotel clerk says on the other end. He can’t remember the last time a car was sent to get him and bring him anywhere. Most clubs he works tell him to find a way there and make sure he’s on time. Sometimes they reimburse him for cab fare. Waiting for him outside is a town car. He can’t remember the last time he was in one of those.
Crunch time, he thinks to himself as the car leaves the hotel parking lot and heads toward the TV studio. He can already feel the butterflies in his stomach. He reaches in his jacket pocket and takes out the small flask. A little Johnnie Walker. Just a snort. Just enough to take the edge off. A friend who did Letterman years ago gave him this advice. Have at least one drink. Don’t overdo it, but toss back at least one to keep you from going crazy. Taking a long pull off the flask, Spence believes his friend was right.
The past couple of days, he has been over his material a million times. He knows these four and a half minutes better than he knows his own name. He had to clear it with Diane Perez, who had to clear it with someone else, who had to clear it with Greg Saunders, who had to clear it with someone else. He then had to do all of that again. There was a list of things he was not allowed to say. No product names. No political comments. Nothing that could be deemed too vulgar for TV. They went over his material several times. Then they went over his material again.
The fucking Tonight Show, he thinks as he sees the building off in the distance.
The studio in Burbank is bigger than he expected. The entire place is huge. He checks in at one desk and then at another. He is cleared by one person and then another. There are signatures and forms and visitor badges. He is then led into a green room that is larger than any of the other ones he has ever been in. He has appeared on several local TV shows. He’s been on Good Morning, Cleveland more than once. There wasn’t even a green room for that show. He just sat in the lobby until they were ready to use him.
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