Funny Feelings (76)

So, we ride to the airport in hushed conversation, taking turns kissing our clasped hands. And when pull up to the curb to drop him off, I focus on imagining the next time he’ll be on an airport curb, in L.A., when I get to pick up him with Hazel, our trio reunited.

“In Vegas—” bursts from him just before my lips make their way to his. “In Vegas. I tried to tell you. I know I was drunk, but it only let loose what was already there. When you said you wanted to be stupid with love, I tried to tell you how I felt. That you were the only person I’ve ever been stupid with.”

I search his expression, not sure what I’m supposed to find. “And I immediately tried to get in your pants, Meyer,” I laugh. “I thought I scared you off.”

His face crumples in confusion. “When did you try to get in my pants?”

“Uh, when I immediately invited you back to my room?”

“You said…” He tilts his head to the side, trying to remember. “You said we had an early morning and should get back to the room.”

“That was just my attempt at being smooth about it.”

“I said I would walk you back.”

“Which, one would do if one was going to go join the other in their room for some coital revelry.”

“Fee. I thought I scared you off by saying that. I thought I was just walking you back to be polite and say goodnight,” he replies.

And now I’m laughing full-out. “I thought I scared you off when I had a mini meltdown. I thought I scared you off with my obvious panic! And then when you left I told myself I’d misinterpreted the whole thing.” We’re both laughing, eyes shining.

“I guess we’re both pretty stupid after all, huh?” I say.

“No. Becoming your friend was—is—the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” he says, laugh fading. “I got the tattoo because I wanted to remember that feeling that you gave me the first time I met you. When you burst inside and demanded to make a connection. I wanted to remember to not be afraid of that, anymore. Even if it doesn’t look the same for everyone. Even if some people speak with their hands, some use a mic, or art, whatever. You did it with your friendship with us.”

“So you don’t regret it, then? I couldn’t help but wonder, since you did put it in such a discreet area,” I laugh because if I don’t, I’ll cry.

“I mean, I was drunk, but even in my state I knew if I showed up with something permanently inked on my skin to show you how I felt, it might feel a little manipulative,” he quirks a brow down at me.

“Nah. I liked it better how it played out anyway. Like double the reward.”

He nods, brushing against my nose with his. “I know.” His palm slips to the base of my throat, shifting into the sign against my chest as he smiles into my lips. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

I kiss him like it’ll be a few years. Hold out my hand in the sign when he steps away from me.





33





NOW





“Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the furthest thing from it. Because cynics don't learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness: a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say 'no.' But saying 'yes' begins things. Saying 'yes' is how things grow.” - Stephen Colbert





FARLEY


Kara and Shauna distract me backstage by sharing some of their favorite pre-show routines. Shauna has symphony music blaring at full volume because she likes to imagine her favorite raunchy songs against their rhythms. We end up composing our own orchestra between the group using the lyrics from the classical My Neck, My Back over the musical stylings of La donna è mobile. Even Clay joins in, though I’m pretty sure he only lip syncs.

And even though I’m aware that it’s a distraction, it works. I don’t think I’ll ever not be reduced to tears when I imagine the largest of security guards breaking out into an operatic soprano of “then you roll your tongue from the back to the front,” for as long as I live.

By the time I make it out onto the stage, I’m as happy and as confident as I typically am, even without Meyer. It’s a little louder inside my head, my heart drums a bit more rapidly, but it’s nothing I can’t handle for the time being.

The material goes over without a hitch. It hits at every climax, the timing rolls through smoothly. I tell the joke where I call a kid a bad, bad name again because that’s all it is; a joke. It’s funny, this time.

When it’s over, some people stand and clap, others hold up their drinks in salute. I feel connected and wonderful, and am reminded again that this is what I am meant to do, and I am not ashamed of any part of it.

I refuse to be, ever again.

As long as I remain true to myself, I know that my silly streams of words have the power to make someone’s day brighter.

When I exit the stage, I’m surrounded by six security guards, and I can’t help but laugh when we make it onto the bus.

“Meyer’s doing, I take it? I think maybe that was a little overkill,” I say to Clay.

“Well, you make sure you tell Meyer that. I panicked at the last second and didn’t know if four would be enough. The last thing I need is him calling me twenty-two times before every show and asking for every detail. I’ve had heartburn for 48 hours.” He pops an antacid for emphasis.