Funny Feelings (6)

But then a freak storm came through Los Angeles. A storm that has been crouching and pissing all over us for three days straight. The disappointment on Hazel’s face when she woke up this morning gutted me. I launched into action mode, made calls to bowling alleys and the local indoor mini golf courses, came up completely empty. Seems it’s the one day of the year that they’re at capacity. I checked with our condo complex about reserving their activity center, but it’s also booked. I even offered a Disneyland day in a fit of desperation, but Hazel’s face crumpled.

“Too many lines on a Saturday, Dad,” she’d signed. “And you hate Disneyland.”

“I don’t hate it. And today’s your day, Hazel.” I signed back with as much forced levity as I could.

“I just wanted to swim and go on the water slides with my friends. We’ve been talking about it all week.”

“Don’t worry, birthday girl. We’re going to have the best day. Let’s go get your friends.”



Instead of giving her the best day, I am sinking in something that feels eerily similar to stage fright. I cannot think of what to do.

I’d called Lance, the owner of the comedy club that I first started gigging at—where my pre-writing comedy career was born—and asked if we could come here. I’ve got a pizza order and cupcakes on the way, but it’s not like I can play music and give them a dance party.

“Lance. I am panicking here,” I plead.

Lance looks taken aback. “Meyer, all I know is comedy, music, and drinks. Why don’t you give them a little stand-up show or something?”

“With what material, man?” Everything I’ve written since Hazel was born has been for TV shows and scripts. My old material from my stand-up days is not appropriate, nor is it the stuff that a seven-year-old would consider the pinnacle of humor, anyway. Not to mention, any material I do have would have to be combed through and tweaked so that I could make it less “Hearing Funny” and more “Deaf Funny.”

So much of stand-up is in the delivery and inflection, even when it’s subtle. The dips and tones added to voices are what make a C level joke funnier. Take that away, and the jokes had better be sharp if they’re going to be funny in ASL. Plus, the girls definitely wouldn’t get (or care about) my nuanced take on the adult single world, which is what my writing and collaboration have been focused on lately.

I turn on the stool when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Can we open our favor bags and have the snacks now, Dad? Or do we have to wait until after pizza?” Hazel asks.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Pizza will be here soon.”

She smiles and nods, a good sport as always, but I don’t miss the hint of sadness in her expression.

“Fuck,” I hiss, before I remember myself, and Olive whips her head my way. Shit. “Sorry, Olive.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell my mom,” She says out loud.



The door to the club flies open. Bright gray light streams in and silhouettes a figure in the doorway, the sound of the pouring rain hits the room in a rush.

“Damn it, I thought I locked that.” Lance growls. “Jones! The answer, for the millionth time, is NO!” he bellows.

The figure—Jones, presumably—lets the door slam closed behind her before she straightens and stomps over to us.

“Lance. You old fuckwad! Give me my job back or at LEAST let me do my set tonight!”

“Hey. I have kids here,” I say to the girl—woman—on instinct. Her hair is flattened to her head, dripping water everywhere, like she’s just stood in the rain and let it wash over her for hours.

“You have kids at a bar in the middle of the day?” she says to me, scrunching up her nose. “Sounds like a well-placed F bomb is likely to be the least of their troubles.” She whips back over to Lance. “Lance, I apologized. But customers were leaving because everyone else that night tanked. You should be pleased. Tickled, even! I made this place good money that night.”

“You abandoned the bar to do a set, Farley.”

“One: Because you kept denying me my spot or scheduling me on open mic night instead of letting me have it off like I continuously asked for. And two: Everyone else was dying up there. When I got up, the laughs were so loud that people started piling in from the streets. It was standing room only in this place! Even without the booze people were laughing, Lance. Give me my spot tonight.” She throws me a look that clearly states “the hell you looking at” before she turns back to Lance. Then, with a blink, she jerks her head back to me, some of her sopping wet hair splattering across her chin in the movement.

“Oh, shit. I know you.”

“You do?”

“You’re Meyer Harrigan.” Amber eyes grow bigger, and her dark brows shoot up.

“How do you know me?” I shake my head, confused. She’s too young to recognize me, surely.

“I saw you. A couple of times! Okay, fine, not really. But, I have watched every stand-up set you’ve done that’s available on YouTube probably a thousand times.”

I grunt an acknowledgment, unsure how else to reply.

“Help me convince him I deserve my spot tonight,” she demands, leaning in eagerly.

“Uh, no?” It’s like there’s a hummingbird in my face, wings beating so rapidly the movement is a blur; it’s beak needle-like and jabbing at me. The urge to figuratively swat it away is strong.