Comedy Girl (10 page)

“Then I won't tell you,” I said, and started to leave for my bedroom.

“Trixie!”

“It's only one more week, Ma!”

“Trixie, we had an agreement,” she said, stepping down from the chair. “You had a limited engagement. ‘Trixie Shapiro—One Week Only.'”

“But that was before,” I begged.

“Before what?”

“Before Vic hired me…again.”

“Who's Vic?”

“He's the manager of the club.”

“Well, I'm the manager of you, and I say you're fired! You can collect unemployment by cleaning your room,” she concluded, and stormed back into the kitchen.

I followed angrily. “How come it's okay to sling fries at McDonald's or take tickets with Ben, but it's not okay to perform?”

“It's one thing to perform in the school band or a musical, which doesn't keep you out till two in the morning and won't interfere with your studies, college, and your cousin's wedding.”

“But I'm not in college. And the only wedding I need to show up for is my own.”

“And when that happens, Lanie will be there for you, like you'll be there for her.”

“But what if Lanie had to perform an emergency appendectomy on my wedding weekend?”

“Lanie is a lawyer, not a doctor,” she corrected.

“Then an emergency divorce!”

Sarge glared at me.

“What would Lanie do if she had a professional commitment?”

“I guess she'd have to miss your wedding.”

“See! Her situation is no different from mine.”

“But, Trixie,” my mother began sternly, “that's her profession!”

I froze. Steam was building up from the soles of my gym shoes to the purple barrettes in my hair.

“And this is mine!” I declared, clutching my comedy notebook.

Sarge was startled at my sudden outburst.

“This is mine!” I shouted dramatically at the top of my lungs. I ran upstairs to the safety of my room.

“You're too young to have a profession!”

Tears streaming down my face, I slammed the door. My mirror shook. Pictures of comedians on my wall billowed from the gust of wind.

I'd run away only one time in my life. I had been seven and had packed a backpack with a tuna sandwich and my Hello Kitty doll. I'd known I wanted to run away but hadn't known where to go. I'd sulked next to our crooked swing in my backyard. I'd waited for Sarge to scream, “Where's my baby?” I had waited for the police cars. The only sign of life I had seen was the ruffling of
my parents' bedroom curtains.

Starving, I had eaten my sandwich. Then I'd gone back inside and thrown my backpack on my bed. I had run away for one whole hour.

This time I was brought back to reality as I was shoving underwear into my suitcase, wiping tears of sadness and anger off my cheeks, when there was a knock at the door.

“I'm not here!” I shouted.

The door squeaked open.

“You'll write?” Dad asked, eyeing the suitcase.

“I can't live with that woman in a house where I can't explore my passion,” I cried. “She's standing in the way of all that I've ever dreamed of! I am an artist. I need to be free to paint my canvases!”

“She just wants what's best for you,” he said, sitting at my desk chair. “I want what's best for you too. Only your mother and I don't agree what that is.”

“You don't?” I asked, surprised.

My dad was the silent type, but when he spoke—his words carried the weight of thunder, the power of Gandhi, the authority of the president.

“I think you have something, and your mother and I would be foolish to stand in your way.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I've always thought you were funny. But you're my little girl, so I may be biased. Still, when you win a contest
and professional bookers are paying you to entertain in their club—then you need to explore what's being offered. It's not your mother's—or my—dream you need to live. It's your dream.”

Wow. His words melted my anger away. My bleak future seemed to have a rainbow. “So I can still live here?”

“I never said you couldn't.”

“But I can still perform?”

“You have to keep your grades up. And you're still too young to walk home alone at night. In fact, you're never walking home at night—even when you're fifty.”

“What about the wedding?” I asked, with reservation.

“Your mother can attend alone. It's her side of the family anyway,” he said with a wink.

“Of course! Thanks, Dad!” I exclaimed, dropping my suitcase with a thud and squeezing him with all my might. “Who's going to tell Sarge?” I asked him as he headed for the door.

“Who do you think?” he asked smugly.

“If you need the suitcase, it's already packed!”

 

The next morning Sarge was the silent one. The clanging of dishes was the only noise I heard while I quickly downed a blueberry Pop-Tart. Unfortunately the silence wore off when Jazzy picked me up for school.

“Your room needs to be straightened before you go out tonight,” Sarge nagged.

“I think I prefer her when she's mad,” I whispered to Jazzy as I shut the door behind me.

 

It was Wednesday, opening night of my week-long run at Chaplin's, and Dad drove me to the event.

“Knock 'em dead!” he said in the car.

“I'll try.”

“Here,” he said, handing me a Mickey Mantle gold coin. “For good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said, hugging him hard. I stuck the coin in my shoe and waved as I ran inside.

I was terrified. Now every student with a fake ID at Mason could pay to watch me bomb.

I approached Ben, who was counting reservations at the ticket booth.

“Memorize this,” I said, plopping down last year's Mason yearbook.

“You're joking!”

“Gavin, Jazzy, and the whole school are coming. But since they're underage, you won't be able to let them enter. Comprende?”

Ben started flipping through the yearbook. He seemed particularly occupied with the cheerleading pictures.

“Just remember you could get fired and Vic could lose
his liquor license if you serve to minors.”

“Are you really concerned I'll lose my job, or am I sensing stage fright?”

“I don't want you to end up homeless,” I said coyly.

“No one without wrinkles gets in,” he finally promised, taking another peek at the cheerleaders.

But he kept his word and, as I later found out, tried to turn away a thirty-year-old woman with braces.

 

By Friday night's midnight show, I hadn't been late to school once. I had also managed to spend a little time with Jazzy and Gavin and had completed all my homework.

Cam, Tucker, and I had just finished the eight thirty show when it seemed like we were starting another one again.

I was exhausted. My legs were so tense, they felt like tree trunks on quicksand, the microphone like a skyscraper in my hand. My brain was so fried, I'd written the intros on a paper and laid it, along with a pencil and Mountain Dew, next to the stool. I was afraid if I didn't have caffeine I'd pass out.

I delivered my first punch line to lazy chuckles. The patrons mumbled to one another and ordered their drinks loudly from the waitresses.

All at once I became lost in my set. Hadn't I already said
class mime”? I'd said that joke once on Thursday's show, and twice before this week. But did I say it twice just now? Where was I? The beginning of my routine or the end?

I peeked at my watch, realizing I'd only been onstage for two minutes. I was at the beginning! I had to perform for thirteen more minutes! The audience was ignoring me and I was weary and couldn't remember my next line. Even if I embellished Cam's and Tucker's credits, I would still need to fill ten minutes.

I felt trapped in the cigarette smoke, which permeated the room like fog in a black-and-white horror flick. The audience resembled zombies, staring with blank expressions. I stared back in horror.

My routine became like a drunken friend, trying to walk home, stumbling, bumbling, slurring words, blurting out the wrong words. And I still had seven minutes to go. Minutes are like light-years when you are bombing. My hair was turning gray by the second.

Suddenly I burst out, “My mom's such a control freak…she goes to a furniture store and rearranges the furniture!”

What did I just say? I'd planned to say that as my last joke. Where the hell was I? What could I say next?

My pain was so obvious that the audience became self-conscious, afraid to break the silence with any noise, much less laughter.

I could feel them feeling sorry for me.

Then I spotted Cam in the back of the house, drinking his beer through a straw, watching me with a calm expression, even a smile. Suddenly I recalled him once saying, “You have the mike, not them.”

It was as if I now had the confidence Cam always had.

“Well, people,” I began matter-of-factly. “I've got five more minutes up here and if you guys want to talk amongst yourselves, go ahead. But I came here to have fun. So I'm going to sing a song.”

Suddenly the audience came alive.

“Whoo!” a table shouted. Others started applauding. “Sing, baby, sing!”

“Take it off too!” I heard a voice call.

“You go, girl!” another voice chimed in.

Growing up, I'd practiced my own songs in my room for the
Trixie Shapiro Show
. I wasn't ready to perform them onstage, but at this point it was either sing or die.

I placed the mike in the stand, removed my drink and intro paper from the stool, and slipped the weathered pencil into my pocket. I walked back to the mike with complete confidence. I could sense Cam and Ben from the back of the house wondering what I was doing.

“I'd like to sing a simple love song to a very special friend of mine,” I began. “And this little number,” I sang, holding up the pencil, “is for my Number…Two!”

The audience came to life. I began singing.

The audience roared as I took a deep breath and sang on.

Then I revved up and belted out:

Then I pleaded to the audience,

“Lead!” the audience finished.

“My Number Two,” we all sang in unison.

The audience burst into applause. The front row even gave me a standing ovation.

I was euphoric, triumphant. Bursting with electricity. I ran offstage and over to Cam.

“That was hilarious—I didn't know you could sing. Why haven't you done that before? It killed!” he exclaimed.

“Are you kidding? It killed me!” I said, and plopped into my seat exhausted, realizing how close I had come to a complete fiasco. “I'm never performing again.”

 

I spent Saturday afternoon with Gavin at Take One Cinema.

I tried to pay attention to
The Incinerator
, while the teenagers in the movie were screaming as they tried to escape the clutches of the psycho “Incinerator” who wanted to use them instead of charcoal, but not even that could keep me awake. I rested my head on Gavin's shoulder and fell asleep.

“Time to go,” I heard him say.

Disoriented, I wiped my eyes. The credits were rolling. “Great film,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, the credits get four stars!”

For years I'd fantasized about seeing a movie with Gavin and now that it had actually happened, I was a struggling narcoleptic.

He was annoyed and walked ahead. I caught up to him as he threw the popcorn in the lobby trash.

“I only have three more shows. Then I'm free to be your love slave forever!”

Even though I still wanted to be a stand-up comic, I knew there wasn't another Gavin Baldwin in the whole wide world and I didn't want to lose him.

The next night Ben slacked off in the ID department.

“How'd you get in?” I scolded Jazzy, who was comfortably sitting at a stage-side table with Ricky.

“Eddie's brother likes blondes,” she said with a smirk.
“You'll be fabulous,” Jazzy said, patting my arm.

“But I completely bombed last night.”

“Get out! Ben told me you rocked the house like Tina Turner!”

“Only at the end, and only by accident. Did Gavin sneak in too?” I asked, eyeballing the crowd.

“He doesn't have to. He's eighteen.”

“I know, but he's still illegal here. They have his mug shot out front.”

“Speaking of mug shots, I saw your photo in the lobby with the other comedians. You look so glam!”

“Jazzy, please sit in the back, way in the back—like maybe in the alley.”