Comedy Girl (3 page)

 

“I have to make a quick stop; it'll only be a minute,” Eddie said one night at the end of an exhausting evening of deliveries. “You can even carry the box.”

Eddie had never asked me to carry the box before, which may not sound like a big deal, but for Eddie it was like asking a girl to wear his class ring. But more important than the honor was the chance to finally get out of the truck.

Eddie pulled into Chaplin's, the neighborhood comedy club.

I had always wanted to enter Chaplin's, but audience members had to be at least eighteen. But here I was, with a ticket in the shape of a pizza.

My eyes lit up when I saw the bright black-and-white fluorescent sign in the shape of a bowler hat and cane. I had always wondered what Chaplin's looked like inside.

Eddie took out a large pizza from the back. He then
threw a brown leather jacket over his Pizza Town shirt. “I hate going in here dressed like a pizza jerk,” he explained. “The comics heckle me to death.”

“What about me? Can I heckle you?” I asked coyly.

“It would be a dream come true, baby!”

The front door opened into a world I had only dreamed of. What stood before me was an entranceway filled with fame—black-and-white glossy framed head shots of famous comedians, adorned with signatures and funny comments. I was walking down the same black-tiled road that they had once taken. At the end of the corridor, beyond the ticket window and a small bar, stood a mysterious closed door from which spilled out the one sound I loved above all others—laughter.

“Eddie, I could smell you coming,” the turtlenecked bartender said.

“Pepperoni smells better than vodka, Jack.”

“Yeah, but vodka gets better tips.”

“But with pizza you remember who you're waking up with.”

“By the looks of it, you're doing okay, kid,” Jack said, scrutinizing me. Normally I would have been upset at the lewd comment, but my eyes and ears were absorbing this new world. My gaze was glued to the closed theater door that held that new world inside, with laughter escaping. What lay beyond it?

“Jack, this is Trixie.”

“Hey, Trixie,” Jack said.

“Uh…hey, John, nice to meet you,” I blurted out, still in my trance.

“Ben inside?” Eddie asked.

“Sure. Ask him to save me a slice.”

“I'll try. C'mon,” Eddie said to me. “And don't tilt the pizza.”

But I was overwhelmed and handed over the box. “I have to go to the bathroom!” I wanted to compose myself. I felt as if I was about to perform.

I checked myself in the dingy bathroom mirror. “Makeup's okay; Piña Colada Passion lipstick needs a refresher…and the hair! Needs a major brush!”

My tiny purse was full of everything I could possibly need—quarters, a tampon, a purple marker, a grape Charms Blow Pop, three Starlite mints, a set of house keys, notes from Jazzy, a miniversion of my comedy notebook. But most importantly, one purple purse-sized Goody brush. I combed out my hair and fluffed it up with the hand dryer, wondering how many famous people had used this sink. Rosie? Roseanne? RuPaul?

I squeezed the hairbrush and saw the crowd smiling back in the mirror. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” I said out loud. “It's great to be back here at Chaplin's. News flash—I have a boyfriend now. He deliv
ers pizza. But sometimes he gets confused when he drops me off after a date. He charges me a dollar-fifty for delivery!”

Suddenly an older woman was standing behind me, staring at me like she just stepped into a nuthouse. She quickly ran into a stall. Embarrassed, I threw the brush into my purse and flew out of the bathroom.

Eddie was not in the hallway.

I grabbed the long golden knobs of the theater doors and slowly pulled them open.

Suddenly my black-and-white world turned into Technicolor. I felt like a child at Disney World, a quarterback at the Super Bowl, an astronaut who landed on the moon.

All right, it was a dump. A tiny room with unvarnished floors, rickety wooden tables without tablecloths, and a cramped stage without curtains. In my eyes it was Oz.

A wiry man wearing a red bow tie and blue jeans stood onstage not forty feet away, holding a beer bottle in his hand, leaning against the microphone stand. I didn't even hear his jokes, I was so overwhelmed to be so close to a real comedian.

“Hey, baby! Over here,” a voice whispered out of the darkness.

Eddie was sitting at a back table with a guy in jeans and a flashy rayon shirt.

“Trixie, this is my brother, Ben.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, sitting in the chair next to Eddie. I didn't take my eyes off the comedian.

“I hope he's not driving you around the city all night instead of taking you to a movie,” Ben said.

“Hey, anyone can see a movie. Want a slice of pizza, baby?”

“No thanks, it has cheese,” I said, looking at the stage.

“This guy's good. I've seen him before. He's from Kentucky.”

I was glued to the comedian, who appeared more comfortable onstage than I was when I woke up in the morning in my own bed. The audience laughed at a joke about a cow that he'd invited to the prom.

“I guess this beats sitting in the front seat of the truck!” Eddie whispered.

“You never told me your brother worked here,” I whispered.

“He's the assistant manager. I give him free pizzas and he gives me free laughs.”

Eddie's pager beeped. “Gotta get back to work,” he said, squinting at the number. But then he saw the disappointment in my face—as if I was a toddler and playtime was over.

“That's the life when you date a pizza driver. Always on call,” Ben philosophized.

Eddie got up. “You can stay here.”

“I can?”

“This is funnier than someone's driveway.”

I was surprised at his nonchalant attitude.

“Ben can give you a lift home.”

“Actually, I can walk home,” I offered.

“I think I can handle the door-to-door thing,” Ben joked.

“Cool,” Eddie said without a hint of jealousy. “See you later, Trixster.” He stepped over and gave me a saucy kiss.

I loved Eddie at that moment. Not as a boyfriend, but as a friend. Loved him for exactly who he was, because any other guy would have insisted that I stick to his side and prevented me from hanging out alone in a dark club, would not have trusted his single brother to drive me home.

“I've got one last joke before I head outa here,” the comedian said as he stubbed out his cigarette in his empty glass.

Sadly my dream was ending too soon. In a few minutes the club would be empty, couples giggling and retelling the jokes as they walked to their cars. I would have to go home as well and face an interrogation and possible court-martial for breaking curfew. But that was a small price to pay for a few moments in Oz.

 

On the way home that night Ben told me he could get me into Chaplin's for free whenever he was working the door. When he pulled into my driveway, I turned to him and said, as if I was making a vow, “I'm going to work there someday.”

He offered to get me a job waiting tables. “No,” I declared. “I mean onstage.”

 

That summer I took Ben up on his offer and went to Chaplin's every chance I got. Sarge agreed to let me walk the two blocks to the club myself. But my dad always picked me up, waiting in the lobby, eating peanuts from the bar and reading
Sports Illustrated
. I felt like a preschooler as he chauffeured me home in our white Camry.

I didn't see much of Eddie anymore except when he came to the club with pizza. We remained good friends, and sometimes he remembered to bring me a small veggie without cheese.

“T
rix, you've gotta decide on Talent Night now!” Jazzy urged as she passed me the sign-up sheet in Drama class.

Despite my dream of performing at Chaplin's, the thought of actually being alone onstage at Talent Night was my worst nightmare. It was one thing to stand in front of a mirror in my comfortable bedroom, or to sit at a darkened table at Chaplin's, but it was quite another thing to perform alone on an enormous stage in front of hundreds of staring faces.

“I finally came up with a fab idea,” Jazzy said. “I'm going to whistle the theme song from the
Andy Griffith Show
!”

“I don't think anyone's ever done that at Mason High,” I said flatly. I looked down at my copy of
King Lear
.

“You mean it's been done at other schools? Do you know how long it took me to think of that?” And seeing the
King Lear
, she wrote down, “Shakespearean monologue.”

“I'm not looking for anyone to sing all of
Les Mis
,” Mr. Janson declared, leaning on his desk, “but you have to do more than state your name. No less than three minutes and no more than five. We may discover the next Streisand or Brando. All I ask is that you remember me when you accept your Oscar.”

What if I sang “Happy Birthday” off-key? What if my Shakespearean soliloquy sounded as dead as the old bard himself, and I humiliated myself in front of all the teachers, parents, jocks, snobs, coolheads? And Gavin! The terror sent my heart leaping up out of my chest, out through my throat, and pounding down the hallway.

“I should have picked Sociology instead of Drama,” I mumbled, staring at the sign-up sheet. “Maybe Janson will accept a written essay!” I pressed the pen against my lips. “On the other hand…,” and I scribbled on the line beside my name.

“I knew you'd come around. Let me see!”

“I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner!”

Jazlyn's mouth hung open. “‘A reading from the diary of Jazlyn Peters.' You traitor! You're still trying to get me back for the time I called you Shrimp!” She paused, confused. “But you've never seen my diary!”

“I have too!”

“You sneak! I'll rehide it.”

“I'll refind it!”

“I'll destroy it!”

“I'll speak from memory,” I threatened.

Jazlyn quickly snatched back the sign-up sheet, crossed out my entry, and passed it across to Carl, a computer nerd.

“I knew you'd see it my way,” I said.

“What's all that commotion?” Mr. Janson asked. “If you're truly having a difficult time thinking of something to perform, Ms. Shapiro, I have a million ideas begging to be shown to adoring eyes.”

I hid behind
King Lear
propped open in front of me and doodled a picture of Mr. Janson in a Dorothy costume, complete with red ruby slippers. “Remember, people, this is a performance class, and if you don't have the passion to perform, you can take an F and be an usher.”

An usher? I imagined tearing Gavin and Stinkface's tickets, leading them to their seats, dusting off their chairs like a servant.

“Ms. Peters, I see you've written ‘Shakespearean monologue,'” Mr. Janson said, glancing at the sign-up sheet. “I must say, Jazzy, I'm quite impressed. Which one of the Bard's old standards will you be bringing to life?”

Jazzy proudly sat up. “
Romeo and Juliet
. I'll be doing Juliet's balcony speech to a cardboard cutout of Leonardo DiCaprio!”

The class snickered and rolled their eyes. Mr. Janson
looked off dreamily into the distance and, with a wicked smile, exclaimed, “Brilliant!” He looked back at the list. “Let's see, we have Mr. Reidel singing ‘Tonight' from
West Side Story
and Mr. Davis reading Edgar Allan Poe's ‘The Raven.'”

I knew I must make a decision now—take home a talent show program with my name on it, or an usher's badge with my name on it. “As for you, Ms. Shapiro, I'm very impressed!”

I was puzzled. Impressed with what? I hadn't written anything but the Jazlyn diary joke. And Jazzy had crossed it out—or had she written something over it?

“Class—Trixie Shapiro will be performing stand-up comedy!”

I died. Stand-up comedy! Terror shot through my veins. Of course comedy was my dream, but performing for Snoopy and Curious George is a lot different from performing for real classmates. Stuffed animals sit obediently with frozen smiles; classmates throw spitballs.

I turned to my former best friend, who was hiding behind
King Lear
. The whole class viewed me with shock and disbelief. They couldn't believe the quiet girl in the last row would have the guts to do stand-up. It would be a feat more daring than belly button piercing, bungee jumping, or bringing a number three pencil on the day of an exam.

 

“I can't believe you signed me up for stand-up!” I shouted as we walked to Jazzy's car after school. “I'm totally freaking out! My ulcer is acting up, and I don't even have an ulcer.”

“You'll be fabulous,” Jazzy said nonchalantly. “You can put your hair in pigtails and put on those funny purple house shoes with the fuzzy pom-poms. You won't have to say a word.”

“Stand-up isn't like Shakespeare. What if they don't laugh? I'll be the first person to perform stand-up tragedy.”

“Look, Trix, you've always told me you want to be a comedian.”

“Duh! But I'm still in high school, Jazz. This isn't as simple as taking drama class and performing scenes from
A Streetcar Named Desire
. First of all, I'll be writing my own jokes. And I won't have actors to react to. Performing comedy is really hard when no one is laughing.”

“You may hate my guts now, but when you're on the
Douglas Douglas Show
, you'll thank me! Then you'll forget me. But I'm willing to sacrifice our friendship for your dream.”

I winced. “I don't think you see the magnitude of this. This isn't like lip-synching ‘Fernando' at a slumber party. This is like standing naked in front of the whole entire
school. Including Gavin!”

“Yes, and you'll make him realize there's more to life than plastic boobs and plastic personalities. And besides, did you notice how the class reacted? They envy you! Those losers could never even dream of being so courageous. You'll finally show them what ‘bush girls' are all about.”

“That we're more than losers?”

“We aren't losers! It's just that everyone else is so three years ago—they haven't caught up to us to know how hip and truly rockin' we are!”

“I'm glad one of us has high self-esteem.”

“Tell that to my therapist!”

Just then Ricky caught up with us and gave Jazzy a slow kiss.

“I guess that also helps,” I said, looking away.

“I heard that our cute little Trixie is going to do stand-up,” Ricky said, pulling away from Jazzy and turning to me. “That's fab…that takes guts! Not like professing your love to a cardboard movie star,” he added.

Jazzy gave him a dirty look in return.