Funny Feelings (3)

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.”

“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.” He refrains from addressing the last bit.

“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 Oakley’s backwards 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 alongside 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.”