Funny Feelings (35)

“Yes, nervous.”

“Did you just say… he’s fucking nervous?”

“Meyer, yes, I know, okay. He’s been great before, though. Totally calm on the surface. The stuff I sent to you was him at smaller venues, I guess, but he seemed ready.”

“He can’t get through the nerves?”

“No, when he got here there was vomit on his sweater already.”

“Ooh, I know this one!” I chime in gleefully. “Mom’s spaghetti?!”

Meyer closes his eyes next to me and breaths out through his nose; a three-count that he follows with an inhale of the same. “My, maybe you could go out first?” I say, and his eyes blast open and laser down at me.

I’ve honestly always thought that making out with super tall men is annoying. I can’t seem to get out of my head enough to not be hyper aware of how uncomfortable the sensation is on both of our necks the whole time, and find myself rushing to get to the next step. But when Meyer’s imposing six-foot-two frame withers before my eyes, I’m tempted to reach up and kiss his chin, bolster him back up. His belligerent frown tilts at the edges, looking more afraid than angry.

“Or, not. I’m sorry. Just let me go out there. It’ll be fine,” I say.

“What, are you nervous or something?” Ralph asks him slimily.

Another tussle breaks out by the bar, but is just as quickly squashed.

I don’t see it when he makes the decision or when his expression changes, but Meyer glares at Ralph, then at me before he shoulders past us, without uttering another word.

The moment he steps under the spotlights, the comments begin to trickle through the crowd.

“Is that—?”

“Wait, I know him.”

“Wasn’t he on that improv show?”

“Isn’t he on that Netflix special?”

“Yeah, I think he actually writes for that show now—the one about the Dads that gigolo, I think…”

“Oh my god, someone get this on video!!!”

The hush sweeps over like a wave, followed by ear-splitting cheers and applause.

And Meyer looks like he wants to drop dead.

The color drains from his lips even as he smiles out at the crowd over the mic.

"H-hey how you all doing tonight?" he greets them, but it judders out of him; slurred, trembling.

Holy. Shit.

He has stage fright.

He shoves his hands into his back pockets to hide their shaking, looks down at the microphone and swallows, not just audibly— amplified.

What have I done? I need to go to him and get him out of there.

Am I the only one who sees this? My heart gives a sick, hiccuping thud in my chest.

"There's been a little mix up tonight, so, the guys back there asked if I might come out and hang out with you for a few before the next act, but I gotta be real, I haven't done this shit in years."

Okay, he's sounding more like himself again at least. Though he's still just looking down.

"It's weird when your life fundamentally changes, isn't it? I used to come up on these stages and your laughter and your reactions are what made me, me. They were everything. All I had. Then I had a kid and it was just her and I... and I only had myself and whatever was in me to wake up with every day.

“Any parent can tell you that your kids sure as hell won't give you any kind of validation. They constantly humble you. You have these brief, fleeting moments of feeling like you’ve figured something out only to realize how fucking clueless you are shortly after.” He's met with some nervous laughter...

"Now, instead of coming up here and making fun of my friends or myself or the futility of life, I get to go to therapy." Oh thank God, they all smile and let out small trills of laughter.

"No, really," he looks up, a little more confident. "I think that we all need to go to, and talk about therapy more. Going to therapy should be like getting coffee. It makes us feel good even though it also makes you feel a little jittery and bad, it helps you get your shit out, and it makes us better to people around us." Warm, easy laughter reverberates through the room.

He blows out a breath into the mic. "With that being said, I'd like you to give a warm welcome to your therapist for this particular evening, Farley Jones."

He turns and claps, smiling stiffly at me as I make my way on stage. He flees as soon as I’m within range.





I exit the stage and let my smile slingshot off of my face, even as the applause continues. Ralph notices it. “What? That was great! You did great!” he says.

“Where’s Meyer?” I demand before he can comment.

“Uh, I think he left?”

Shit. I start marching towards the exit as I pick up my phone, ignoring the remarks and congratulations trailing me.

He picks up right away. “Hey. I’m—I’m headed back. I’m sorry I left.”

“No,” I say. “No, don’t come back. I’m headed to you. Are you back at the hotel?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding relieved.

“Meyer, I’m sorry.”

“Jones. Don’t,” he groans. His voice still sounds shaken, and my stomach manages to sink further. I’m disgusted with myself, a relatively foreign feeling that I can usually suffocate, but fail to in this moment.