by Amy Gentry
At this I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of bitterness. I raised my glass. “Must be nice.”
“It was okay,” she admitted. “Until I met my ex. He killed any chance I had at getting anywhere with acting. He was insanely jealous. Freaked out if I stayed late at a party or, God forbid, talked to a man. Which—everyone you need to know is a man, right? But that’s a whole other story.” She sighed and rattled the ice in her glass. “Once we moved in together, he started hiding my phone to keep me from going to auditions. Spying on me. Threatening me.” She watched me closely, almost challenging me to react. Her wide-set eyes were, I could see now, greenish gray, and what I had mistaken for frailty in them was something else, some hunger I couldn’t name.
Then she said, “He didn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Unsure how to respond, I fell back on irony. “Sounds like a prince.”
“He did other things. Locked me in a soundproof room.” She shuddered. “He would have hurt me bad someday. If I’d stayed.”
“I’m glad you didn’t stay,” I said.
A burst of applause from the other room signaled that Toby had finished his set, more successfully than I had mine, it sounded like. The Other Girl was being introduced, and I couldn’t help wondering whether the nice-tits guy would turn up again. I pictured him lurking just outside, waiting for a woman’s voice to come over the PA system.
I held up my empty glass and said, “Why don’t I buy the next round?”
The next round blurred into the next one after that, and too late I realized I was getting hammered. What clued me in was when I started talking about the Funniest Person in Austin contest.
“It’s stupid,” I said. “Not to mention a total long shot.”
“I’m sure it’s not,” she said, elbows slipping drunkenly on the table.
It really was, though. I would never have brought it up this way—sloppy, hopeful—with my comedy friends, because we all wanted it and all felt stupid for wanting it. But comedy was a foreign country to Amanda, and I was her only guide. There was relief in spilling my pathetic dreams to someone who wouldn’t realize how far-fetched they were.
“It’s this big competition at Bat City Comedy Club every year. Every standup in town does it. There’s prize money.” The winner got five thousand dollars, enough to move back to L.A., maybe even with a little left over to shoot a comedy special on the cheap. Or a pilot, if I could just come up with the right idea. If I won, a small but insistent voice said in my head, maybe Jason would take me back as a writing partner, and we could write the pilot together. “I was too late to sign up last year,” I went on. “But this year—” Amanda’s face lit up, and I rushed to say, “It’s impossible. All the comics in town, everyone I know, is competing.” I gestured toward the other room, where James was strumming his ukulele and wailing. “The judges are a bunch of industry people from L.A. and New York and Toronto, though, so even if you only make it to the finals . . .” I trailed off. People I knew had landed managers and agents, festival invitations, even spots on sitcoms after placing in the competition. It seemed unwise to name the possibilities.
She must have seen the raw look on my face. “Why did you come back here in the first place?”
There had been lots of reasons for leaving L.A.—our rent was climbing, and my job at the diner was wearing me out—but the final straw had been my disastrous solo meeting with Aaron Neely. Neely was a one-time comic’s comic with a self-destructive streak who had, after the usual stint in rehab, made the unusual move of putting aside his own career at its height to produce up-and-comers. In four years, Jason and I had come close to breaking through a handful of times, but when Jason snagged the pitch meeting with Neely through some minor miracle of networking, we thought this was really it, the big one. We had each vowed never to take a meeting without the other person—we were not those L.A. people—but when Jason was a no-show at the smoothie bar where Neely was waiting, I couldn’t bring myself to pass up the opportunity. After checking my phone one last time for a text from Jason, I went in, fearless in my fake Prada heels and fake Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and fake Marc Jacobs bag, to pitch our pilot alone.
What followed was almost comically surreal. The smoothie Aaron had waiting for me at his private table, a maroon swirl of kale and beet pulp with a chalky aftertaste that I forced myself to exclaim over enthusiastically as I choked it down. The way the tall stool had seemed to tip under me halfway through the meeting, the walls around me sliding downward. The loud whispering noise that seemed to come from the ferns shielding us from the rest of the smoothie bar, gradually drowning out every sound but his voice saying, “You look terrible, please, let me take you home.”
And then, of course, there was Neely himself, a comedy hero of mine with a ruddy, pitted nose and the hands of a giant. Larger than life. Later, in the black-upholstered back seat of his SUV under black-tinted windows, merely larger than me.
When he finally dropped me off at home, unsteady on my feet but relieved to be walking at all, I found Jason sick too, hunched over the toilet in misery. The look he gave me was so awful, so full of betrayed confidence and disgust, that I knew we would never talk about what happened. And some part of me didn’t want to, feared being pulled down into the quicksand of memory in the back of Neely’s car. It was enough to know that we never got a follow-up call on the show. I had evidently flubbed the pitch.
Amanda was still waiting for a response.
“Sometimes dreams just don’t work out,” I said after a moment’s pause. “But you can’t dwell on it. You have to go back to square one. Try again.”
Amanda fixed me again with her long stare, which seemed to flip from naiveté to knowingness and back effortlessly, as if they were two sides of the same thing. “Admirable,” she said, finally.
I’d never been good at being friends with women. I couldn’t get the hang of the transactional nature of female friendship—you give me this secret, in return I share my deepest insecurity. Rinse and repeat. Even as a child, I was never interested. In fifth grade, it became clear that some girls were going to get tall and pretty, and others were going to make straight As, and others were going to act boy-crazy, and still others were going to do all these things in Spanish, which I don’t speak, even though I look like I should, and understand only when it’s my mom talking. Being funny didn’t get you into any of the cliques. When Jason appeared a few years later with his fart jokes and SNL recaps, I was grateful to be rescued from the elaborate pas de deux of girl talk forever.
But feeling Amanda withdraw slightly now, I knew enough to offer up an ersatz confession. I took a stab. “Actually, I’m kind of blocked for material right now,” I said, looking for something that wasn’t true and realizing, even as I said it, that it was. “Everything in my set feels kind of dead. Sometimes I feel like I’m dead.” Damn those whiskey sodas.
Amanda leaned forward, suddenly fierce, and wrapped her skinny fingers around my wrist. “Listen, Dana,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be driven out of town, lose your livelihood, your self-respect, everything. I let my ex lock me up and tell me I was worthless. He wasn’t even good-looking.” She chuckled, but it was a grim, unpleasant sound. “I would never have given him the time of day if I hadn’t felt dead inside. But I’m not dead. I’m still here. And so are you.” Her eyes burned drunkenly, and her knuckles pressed into my wrist bone. “Whatever happened to you in L.A., you’re not dead. The person who did it to you is the one who should feel that way, not you.”
“Nothing happened to me in L.A.,” I said, and gently pried her fingers loose.
She released me and drew back a little, seeming to come to herself. Then she looked at my wrist, which I was rubbing with my other hand, and laughed, that short bark I’d heard during my set, like a fox. She settled back into her chair.
“Right,” she said, grinning. “I’d just like to know who Nothing is, so I could find him and break his knees for you.”
/> Score one for the literal-minded. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The tension suddenly drained out of me, and I felt tired of pretending. “I’ve got a better idea. How about if while you’re off breaking Nothing’s knees, I go find your ex-boyfriend and kick his ass?”
“That’d be a start,” she said. “But I warn you, if you’re looking for asses that need kicking, I’ve got a long list.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Deal.”
I raised my glass. We clinked and swallowed in tandem. In the other room, I could hear Fash wrapping up his set, and the comics who had stuck around to watch were gearing up to head somewhere together—probably Bat City for the late-night open-mic. Any minute, one of them would be poking his head around the corner and asking me to come along. If I wanted to avoid introducing Amanda, now was the time to go.
“Hey, it was really nice meeting you,” I said. “That set was rough. And now I feel . . .” I put my hand over my heart. “Much more wasted.” She laughed. “But really, thanks.” Remembering something I was always supposed to be doing to help my comedy career, I said, “If you want to know when I’m performing around town, follow me on Facebook.”
“I stay off social media,” Amanda said. “Call me paranoid, but after working at Runnr, I know what they use that information for. Could I get your number instead?” She pushed a napkin over and handed me a pen.
I hesitated only an instant, then said, “Sure.” I jotted down my number and stood to go. As I handed the pen back, I thought of another pilot idea: Failed comic creates Instagram for fake lifestyle guru. Account goes viral. Comic must pretend to be sincere for rest of life. I started walking toward the door.
“Good luck in that contest next week,” she called after me.
“You mean break a leg,” I said reflexively.
“Only if it’s someone else’s.”
I recognized her second attempt at a lame joke and chuckled in return. It seemed possible at that moment that she might become, if not a fan, something I needed even more: a friend.
2
Waking up late with a hangover the next morning, I hustled to Laurel’s Paper and Gifts for my opening shift and nearly smacked myself on the forehead when I saw all the cars in the parking lot. I’d forgotten about the early staff meeting. I used my key to get in and hurried past the display shelves full of stationery and gilt-edged notebooks.
When I first came back from L.A., I’d dropped into Laurel’s as a customer, hoping one of those fancy notebooks might inspire me to start writing again, though in the end I wound up buying the same old pocket-size Moleskine I’ve used since they first appeared by the cash register in Amarillo’s sole Barnes and Noble. But Laurel herself, a squat, hippie-ish woman in her late fifties, happened to be managing the store that day, and I made her laugh as she was ringing me up, and then we got into a long chat that ended with her asking if I’d like to work there. It was the easiest time I’ve ever had getting hired for anything. Back then, it reinforced my idea that Austin was not only an easy place to be, but the perfect place to recover from L.A.
People say retail is boring, but I didn’t mind. After having waited tables for so long, I never wanted to see another apron again, and the days seemed to pass at an unimaginably luxurious pace in this store full of inessential luxuries. The trifling nature of the merchandise appealed to me, as did the way customers drifted around, looking for a vague something, a housewarming gift, maybe, or a stack of thank-you notes. No one ever rushed through the door needing anything more urgent than a birthday card.
Unfortunately, Laurel’s stray-dog approach to hiring had recently plagued us with Becca, a trod-upon twig of a woman with eyebrows tweezed into a perpetual look of surprise, and her boyfriend, Henry, a self-described “retail identity therapist” with sleeve tattoos and careful stubble. Henry knew how to throw serious charm at a woman in her late fifties and had rapidly edged his way into a consulting position to upscale the store. The new items he had ordered and placed among the older journals and cards were objects that, in his words, “told a story about their own creation.” The right kind of story called to mind ease, but not luxury; difference without hostility; poverty, but never disaster. Items that qualified included colorful place mats hand-woven by Indonesian women (actually nuns, but Henry said religion was a downer) and heavy stone cubes that, according to the display card, represented the thing-in-itself. Minimalist bowls in dull, hammered silver were filled with scarves of braided and distressed twine. It went without saying that it was all prohibitively expensive. The jokes practically wrote themselves. (Pilot idea: Enchanted gift shop where all the gifts can talk, but they’re even bigger assholes than the humans. Wonderfalls meets BoJack Horseman.) It was the way the whole city was headed, and I could only assume the rising rents that had driven out the store’s old-Austin neighbors were making Laurel, who’d owned the little shop for as long as I’d been alive, antsy. Or perhaps all this talk of authenticity appealed to her hippie soul. Either way, Henry was a loathsome addition to a job that was otherwise perfect for getting writing done on a little notepad I kept under the counter.
When I opened the door of the break room, Henry was already holding forth, looming over a table that was barely big enough for the rest of the staff, all women, to squeeze around it. A powerful smell of bacon and eggs reminded me of my hangover in ways both positive and negative, though from the crumpled paper bag and empty salsa cups scattered around the table, I gathered that I’d missed the breakfast tacos.
“Oh, hello, Dana,” Laurel said as I maneuvered myself around the door to close it. “Henry was just saying how we’re going to be more than just a store. We’ll be an—um—” She looked at him uncertainly.
“Aspirational lifestyle brand,” Henry filled in airily. “Which starts with everyone on the team committing to punctuality.”
I restrained an eye roll as he continued talking. Henry’s objects, with their obsessive authenticity, grossed me out. I found the idea of Indonesian nuns and Japanese ceramicists and San Salvadoran peasants sitting in their faraway countries making them unutterably depressing. As the staff members dispersed, I found myself hoping the stories behind all of these items were fabricated and they were actually mass-produced in China. Now, that would be funny.
“Flimflam artist,” Ruby muttered to me as I was taking the note later. She stood at my elbow behind the counter, her eyes on Henry and Becca fighting in the parking lot as she vindictively yanked the white paper price tags off of fountain pens to make way for the new, Henry-mandated linen tags. “I can smell it a mile away.”
Ruby fascinated me. Some ten years older than me, she came to work every day in a stylized version of a fifties secretary costume: sheath dresses with string bows at the waist, pencil skirts and Peter Pan–collared blouses, emerald-green cat’s-eye glasses on a chain around her neck. Her shellacked curls were short and red, and it took me a long time to figure out that she wore a wig. One day she took a pencil from behind her ear and I saw all the curls shift at once, just a few millimeters, in unison. “I just got sick of bad haircuts,” she explained when she noticed me noticing, and I waited until she went to the back and scribbled it down verbatim.
“Frankly, I don’t know what Becca sees in that creep,” Ruby was saying. She leaned over and whispered, “Do you think he hits her?”
The idea jolted me out of my reverie. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know, I just get a vibe,” she said. “Have you ever noticed how she always has bruises on her arms?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, that’s because she wears long sleeves. Even in the summer.” She raised her penciled eyebrows meaningfully.
“It’s still spring,” I pointed out, and Ruby shrugged. She was a hopeless gossip and paranoid to boot, but the conversation brought Amanda to mind again. Where a moment before I’d been thinking
disdainfully about Henry’s objects, I now found myself imagining the tall, rangy woman from the night before standing at the displays in her leather jacket, picking things up and putting them down, swinging the little Japanese ceramic pendants in front of her face and weighing the votives in her palm. Something about her made me think she’d be able to listen to their stories. I blushed.
“Last night I met this kind of strange chick at Nomad,” I said. “She came up after my set.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a new number-one fan,” Ruby said. “Watch out.”
“I’ll be sure to hide my sledgehammer,” I said. “No, she was nice, actually. We had a lot in common, it turned out.”
“People must come up to talk to you after shows all the time.”
“Only a dozen or so per set,” I said with a straight face. “I can usually handle it.” I went back to doodling in my notebook.
Ruby jerked at another tag and looked at me. “What was strange about her?”
“Huh?”
“You said she was strange.”
“Did I?” Ruby looked at me pointedly, and I backtracked. “It was what you said about Becca that reminded me.” What was it exactly? “This woman was telling me about her ex-boyfriend, and she said, ‘He didn’t hit me.’ Just out of the blue.”
“He definitely hit her,” Ruby said sagely.
“It just seemed like a weird thing to volunteer to a total stranger.”
“Sounds like she has boundary issues. I used to have major boundary issues because of being molested as a child.” I’d grown accustomed to upsetting revelations like this from Ruby, but I never knew where to look. I kept my eyes trained on my notebook. “My therapist says I cope by controlling what I can. Like this.” She pointed at her fake hairdo, and I nodded as if it made perfect sense to me. “You have to be careful, though. They can really change your personality. This one wig I used to wear, kind of a Louise Brooks–type bob, made me really mean . . . She was bad news . . .”