Funny Feelings by Tarah DeWitt (Excerpt)

ONE

You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.

ROBIN WILLIAMS

FARLEY

The diarrhea joke splatters.

The bit was a gamble; I knew this, as most comedians do. Sometimes you are absolutely certain a bit is going to kill, and instead it dies a slow, lackluster death: the equivalent of a whoopee cushion blowing around the room. And then there are some bits that you think are just fillers, setups for some epic callback to come later, and those are the ones that deliver. I have learned this from experience, but I still falter at the crowd’s response, just slightly, before pressing on.

I suppose drawing an insightful comparison between the fruits of a misguided dairy binge and the works of Jackson Pollock was quite possibly Too Much. The only laughs I get are generally uncomfortable ones. This is why I’ve prepared another self-deprecating piece to segue into, this one a little more “Oh, that poor funny girl, that’s just sad. But look! She’s joking about it, so it’s okay for me to laugh. Yes, I’m laughing because I can laugh at her. This is what I paid for.” It is also one of those bits that’s based very closely on my personal truth, so … yeah, those bits tend to murder.

The shitty (haha) joke is quickly forgotten, and I’m back to being a conductor in my masterpiece. It’s a symphony of laughter that I stir and tickle and prod. I work one side of the room with my sad, weird awkwardness. I spin a tale about some delightfully aloof (nonexistent) men I’ve dated and the ill-begotten adventures of my sex life before my yarn gives way to an impression that has me lemur-walking to the other side of the stage, coaxing the room into a legato of laughter.

It’s beautiful, glorious, overwhelming; it’s warm and it fills me, fuels me. I feel like a spark that’s been begging for tinder, and this room is one of those old-timey blowers that puffs and fans me until I’m ablaze.

With each crescendo I think, I might really make it, I am f-u-n-n-y.

The applause is magnanimous. And then it’s over.

It crashes.

I fizzle out.

Each step I take toward the side stage has me sliding down from an adrenaline mountain, and it’s jarring and dreadful.

The only thing that helps—my emergency pickax into the side of that mountain—is Meyer’s face. Everything around him is in disarray. The sound techs are wiping tears from their eyes. The MC is bent over with her legs crossed tightly around each other, presumably so she doesn’t piddle. Meyer, however, is as solid and stoic as ever. His arms are crossed, hands tucked into his armpits with his thumbs out. He manages to lift those thumbs toward me in salute—roaring adulation coming from him. His mouth is an underscore across his face, his brow as furrowed as always.

Meyer’s steadfast grumpiness is my tether. It lassos me, pulls me back into my own body and into the present rather than in my head where I’m always formulating a comeback or measuring and feeding a crowd. He’s not my rock, he’s my hammock. He holds and cocoons me in the shade on a summer day. Not that he’s actually aware of this.

He’s also my manager. My manager, who, incidentally, has also become my closest friend since he came into my life three years ago. Though he’s been a figure in my life for a bit longer. Not sure if he’s entirely aware of that, either, or how much he even truly likes me back, but that’s neither here nor there.

He likes to pretend that I annoy him endlessly, but I’ve caught the corners of those lips turning up on occasion. I get him every single time I do the bit about that guy back in college. The one that slung my knees up to my temples like I was some sort of human sleeping bag he was trying to roll up—insert enthusiastic charades display of this act—and, after approximately sixty seconds of uninspired thrusting, yell-whispered in my ear, “I WANT YOU TO ORGASM,” to which I responded, terrified, “OKAY?!” with a thumbs up. I then proceeded to do whatever the opposite is of orgasm, as well as prayed to the heavens that I would not let a fart out onto this man and risk this being turned into his funny story.

There are only a handful of occasions on which I’ve been able to get Meyer to crack his best, fullest smile, typically accompanied by a single-syllabled laugh. It’s a smile and sound that Rocks. My. World. It has teeth and dimples and crinkled, jovial eyes. The first time I saw it, I audibly gasped before he zapped it away, practically vacuuming it off his face. The date was marked on my calendar and will live on in renown.

There’s just something that feels elevated about making another comedian laugh—especially one who was as good and as sharp as Meyer was. As I suspect he still could be. He was big for a while there. He’d been featured on a TV special that showcased a great group of up-and-coming comedians and had even opened for some huge names. His comedy was the kind that cut deceptively deep. His delivery was just a degree away from monotone—almost bored, irreverent, but always surprising. The sort of comedy that hit right away, but the more you went over it in your head, the funnier it became. He didn’t require animated facial expressions or anything in the way of physical comedy, and rarely uttered a curse, which only made them more effective when he did. Each bit always flowed seamlessly into the next, like he was telling you one long story.

It was quite the opposite of my brand, come to think of it.

“I told you that joke was shitty,” he says with mirth in his icy blue eyes as I turn off my mic and earpiece.

“Did you just make a joke about a joke, Meyer?” His only response is an eye roll as he turns to keep walking with me.

“Where’s Hazel?” I ask, searching around for his daughter.

“Marissa took her tonight. She was supposed to write an essay but didn’t.”

“An essay at ten years old? Jesus, what kind of school do you have her in? I’m on her side.”

He sighs tiredly, rolling his eyes some more. “The kind with the best programs and teachers available for Deaf students. The very expensive kind. The kind that I’d like to be able to continue to afford, so let’s perhaps avoid the fecal matters in the future.”

“Nice. Also, you’re saying I should include more of that ‘Awful Offal’ in my set, so she can go back to hanging with us all the time?” I ask, including the headline from the last, most negative review I received. “And, as I’ve told you repeatedly, Meyer, hot girls have tummy troubles.”

He ignores that last part. “I think I’ve reached my limit on the judgment I can take for having a child at a comedy show featuring you giving a QVC-worthy presentation on your sex toy collection, Jonesy.”

“That bit is a long-winded public service announcement. I’m using my platform wisely.”

“I’ve been threatened with CPS twice.”

“Only before you explained that she couldn’t actually hear anything I was saying.” I hold my hands up in placation.

“Which, as you’ll recall, only had them judging harder.” And I can’t help the genuine laugh that tumbles out of me when he says this, because Hazel loves it. She loves to be in a room of laughter despite the lack of sound. And I think that’s why I fell in love with her, because she can feel it, can feel that energy around her and is just as addicted to it as I am.

She’s also entirely oblivious to any of the complications it causes her father, and he intends to keep it that way, which is maybe why I’m a bit in love with him, too.

“You think me being judged is funny?” He smirks and quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Well, no, but when you get the hang of it.…” I shrug, and his expression deepens. We both know the judgment that comes with this line of work, the risks you take with certain material. And while I always strive to push the envelope on social commentary, I refuse to do it at the expense of someone else’s humanity. I’d rather tell shitty fart jokes and make fun of myself than be an asshole in the name of being edgy.

But, while I feel like my career is gaining traction, I’m not quite big-time enough to avoid being sucked into the vortex of reading the comments online. This week’s Imposter Syndrome is sponsored by one that said, “I don’t care if she is mildly hot when she actually speaks like a human being. I can’t stand this obnoxious woman. She complains about the audacity of men, yet (if the shit she blithers on about is any indication) I’d bet money that she has a body count higher than her IQ. This bitch is a train wreck, and if she didn’t dance around or scream like a banshee, nothing she said would even be remotely funny.”

Before you ask, yes, the commenter’s name was Chad and yes, his profile was a photo menagerie of him in dudebro trucker hats—hiding what is undoubtedly a receding hairline—holding all the flavors of Monster energy drinks and wearing white Oakleys backward on his head. Obviously.

But did I look up what a body count was on Urban Dictionary thanks to Chad? Yes, yes, I did. I’d always assumed that the term was some weird new way of referencing weight. Not so, my dudes.

Then I spiraled into wondering if anyone had ever asked me what my body count was and how I’d answered. Meyer assured me I had not, at least not that he was aware of. And he’s basically aware of everything when it comes to me.

I take in the hard lines of his profile now. How the man has time for the gym, I’ll never know, but it’s clear that he does. Along with whatever super soldier serum he’s microdosing, he’s also grown so much grayer since I first met him. The stubble around his jawline is peppered with it, and where it was lightly scattered in the hairline surrounding his ears before, it’s now flowing throughout. He’s thirty-five, so ten years my senior, but he’s only just beginning to look it.

It occurs to me that maybe this is because of me. Because of this life I’ve dragged him back into. Being a single dad, with a Deaf daughter and one (adorable-slash-exhausting) comedic client to manage, combined with the hours and the travel that go along with it … Well, it must take a toll.

“Do you regret taking me on?” I ask before I can think twice about it.

He stops, head turning to me quickly with a confused pout— as opposed to his normal, simply-just-existing perma-frown. My brain backpedals immediately, and to my own horror, my hand reaches up and pokes him between the eyebrows, into the crease there with a boop.

“Because that’s too bad if you do. You have all the TV subscriptions and know all of my passwords and I’m too attached at this point … Hey, Bob!” I beeline when I see Bob, my favorite security guard. “Looking good, man. Jesus, I swear you have less and less neck each time I see you.” I give his bulging biceps a quick squeeze. “Pretty soon you’ll only have your personality to blame when women reject you.”

“You know your set’s over, right?” Bob chuckles at me. “Besides, I’m only trying to keep up with Meyer here.”

But before I can come up with a snarky response and engage in our standard back-and-forth, Meyer’s hand grips my elbow, and I jolt. We spend a large percentage of our lives together, but I take care to avoid too much casual touching when it comes to him. Twice in one night might be a record.

“Farley.” I look up at him and then follow his eyes … Holy. Shit.

Kara Wu is here.

At my show.

The show that just killed.

She’s smiling in my direction.

My favorite comedienne, one of the most famous in the country—who has written for wildly successful shows and has hosted Saturday Night Live—is here and she is smiling in my direction.

So, naturally, I do the thing. The thing that no cool girl ever does.

I look around to see who she is smiling at.

I close my eyes and sigh through my nose when I realize what I’ve done, steel myself, and turn back to her with a shaky smile.

When she is in my immediate proximity, I glance back up to Meyer to check that I’m not hallucinating. He just tilts a close-lipped grin down at me, a mildly entertained look in his eyes.

I tear my eyes away and turn back to Kara Wu, still smiling expectantly. I also vaguely register Bob in my peripheral, silently laughing and pulling up his phone to snap a photo.

“Farley?” Kara Wu says.

Funny Feelings by Tarah DeWitt (Excerpt)