Funny Feelings (12)
“You guys don’t want to stay for the rest?” she asks when we hit the cool night air. If I didn’t know the signs and the feelings myself, I’d probably miss the way the corners of her smile and the muscles of her cheeks tremble with the force of keeping up right now.
“Nope, just came to see you. We’re heading next door for ice cream.” I hand her a water bottle, knowing she needs it. “Let’s eat and uh…let you settle first and then we can talk about it a bit if you want?” I don’t know why I am so possessed with offering this girl advice when she hasn’t solicited it. I feel a compulsion to share, though, to make sure she knows that I think she’s great, but that I also saw her earlier today… as she breathed life into some kids’ day.
I want to know why she knows ASL. What her eventual hopes are for her career. If she takes care of herself…
Fuck. Calm down.
She tosses back a few gulps and sighs, letting the smile relax even as she eyes me suspiciously.
When everyone is settled into our booth, eating leisurely, I say, “I always found that I needed something else to do with my mouth after a set.”
She quirks an eyebrow at me with her spoon paused midair. “Was that a line?”
I cough on my ice cream, choking. “What? No! Oh, fuck. No, no. I swear.” I hold up my fingers in a “Scout’s Honor” salute. “I meant that I remember how my face would hurt and the only thing that would help it relax would be eating and drinking something.”
“Relax,” she laughs, “I was fucking with you.”
Ah. I scoop up another bite to cover up a smile. Little shit.
“So, constructive criticism first is my speed. Would you mind?” she asks.
“First, you’re a liar. No comic wants anything less than resounding accolades.” I respond.
“Not me, Meyer Harrigan. I want the criticism first so that I can actually believe you when you shower me with the accolades after,” she smiles, her chin tilting between us.
I nod, but before I can start, she points to herself with the spoon. “Overly critical Father. Can’t accept love without a catch.”
I sigh at the familiar song and dance. “Listen. You don’t have to do that here. You don’t owe anyone the quid pro quo on your trauma, or your background. I know it’s the standard with comedians—especially with each other because we tend to take those digs when we see them, but I won’t do it to you if you don’t to me.”
She sits back against the booth and cocks her head at me with a pout. “You’re surprisingly grumpy in real life.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I didn’t say you disappoint me,” she says, with enough force to make me pause a beat.
“Alright.” I set aside my empty cup as Hazel leans against me, growing visibly tired. “My only suggestion would be to have smoother transitions in a short set like that. You’re cramming a lot into a small time window, so you don’t have the luxury of pausing and letting the laughs die out from one joke to another. You have to find a way to connect them.”
She nods, then smiles sweetly at Hazel before she signs, “Are you tired? I have more room on my side if you want to come over here and lie down?” Hazel looks to me for approval before she moves over there and settles.
“I have a hard time coming up with some of the connections because that’s just not how my brain works. Each bit comes to me when it happens, I write it down, and I work it into a set. The connecting piece is just… me.”
“Well, that’s where you gotta tweak the truth. Come up with something or use someone else arbitrarily. Like, I don’t know…” I search my brain for an example. “One time I used my mom. I talked about how she and I were in a fight because of something I’d used in my set. And then I went on to tell them about how she proceeded to say extraordinarily weird shit during that visit, things that I couldn’t not share with them. Then, when it was time to transition to something else that was a little disjointed, I made up some more dialogue with my mom and used that to connect it.”
“I remember that,” she says, eyes rounding. And I’m immediately disturbed by how proud I feel to have something to offer. She looks up at the ceiling in contemplation. “God, why didn’t I think of that? I could’ve started by saying my dad dragged me to church, which is true. And then talked about him being worried about my love life… Then I could have even tied it back to him somehow with me not having my phone.”
“Yeah. Keep it simple, though,” I reply. “Say he didn’t have a charger or say it broke on Christmas Day or something. I also thought about how you could say you were at a family event and you could pick out a specific kid that was at this made-up event to talk about those bits where the kids trolled you.”
“Mm-hm. Yeah, I don’t have any siblings or anything, though. So, no nephews or nieces to speak of. I try to avoid completely fabricating things, you know?”
“Totally agree. There has to be some kernel of truth or at least something that could be true.”
She nods and grabs a napkin and a pen to scribble triumphantly. I can just make out the top of Hazel’s side as she breathes steadily, fast asleep.
“How are you so good with kids if you’re not around them much?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.