Open Mike Warriors

I

            A friend asked if I wanted to do some comedy with him, and make the transition from wiseass to comedian, and I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Sure.”  Is that how it usually begins?  I wrote my first material during one of the summer’s few sober moments.  Comics like Pryor or Carlin have always been my favorites.  They leave you with a little bit of themselves and their worldview.  I kept this in mind, and stuck to evergreen topics: sex and relationships.  For some reason, jokes about my absentee father and clinically depressed father always bomb.  Go figure.  I had five minutes, packed tightly and intricately woven, but not so overwritten that it would sound like a fifth grade presentation.  I was primed and ready and unshakeable. 

            The Comix Café in Rochester NY is nothing special.  It’s a bar with a small platform for a stage, on which sits a broken microphone.  A disco ball twirls in the ceiling for no reason, and TV sets over the bar with the closed captioning left on in case there’s nothing worth watching onstage.  That was not a comforting notion as Josh and I signed up with the over-tattooed bartender.  I’ve always hoped the mark of true maturity was acceptance when someone is better than you are.  I’m that way with Josh.  I walked into the Comix Café with him, fully knowing that whatever I did, he would surpass me.

            I was told not to expect much from the other comics, which left me pleasantly surprised when a couple of them were good.  Sadly enough, it’s the others your memory keeps.  Perhaps the sight of a bug-eyed alopecia victim making cunnilingus faces isn’t something you forget.  Another comic was a long-time open mike veteran who had probably been at it since before the microphone was invented.  His material was as fresh as a sandwich in a bus station vending machine. 

            Josh had signed up first, so when he went, I knew I was next.  He killed with his set and his enthusiastic delivery.  Good for him.  I concentrated on remembering my set, more specifically, the one part I entrusted to my memory.  In a segue, I was going to say of my father: We all have problems.  My father has a few.  What did the psychiatrist call it?  Advanced delusionary psychosis complicated by borderline bipolar disorder coupled with paranoid schizophrenia.

            I was introduced, and I got onstage.  I was bathed in the cool light of the cheapest Kliegl light possible.  The intro came out, got a laugh.  Good.  I talked about my fear of pregnancy (not my own pregnancy, of course) – no problem.  It was time for the father segue.  The line came out flawlessly.  Remember how intricately woven my set was?  With reincorporation, adherence to the rule of threes?  It tore apart.  My only consolation was that I kept talking, and I remembered little snippets of what I had wanted to say.

            Josh and my buddies clapped me on the back.

II

            I hadn’t been happy with my performance that week, so I redoubled my efforts when I wrote my material for the next time.  Most importantly, I thought of a way to remember my bits, so even if I forgot a joke here or there, the bits would remain intact.

            As I walked into the Comix Café for the second time, I played a hunch that made my routine much better: I had a beer.  Before I went on, all the anxiety was gone, but my mind was still present enough to play with the audience.

            That’s what happened.  I didn’t remember every nuance of my act, but I was solid and did new material, which was more than most of the other comics could say.  The beer buzz ebbed as I finished on a laugh.  No matter the performance, I like to get away from the stage after I’m done, so I hung in the back of the club.  The guy with material from the Johnson Administration came over to me, fifth beer in his hand.  At this point, he was still fairly lucid.  “Hey, that was a decent set out there.  Good job.”

            “Oh, thank you.”  I’ve never known how to deal with a compliment. 

            “So, how long have you been doing this?”

            I tried not to sound like the amateur I am.  “Well, this is my second time.”

            He looked surprised after his delayed reaction.  “Wow, so you’ve never done comedy?”

            “Some improv.  It’s a very professional troupe.”

            He tried to shrug, but it looked like a twitch in his state.  “Hey, this open mike is sucking tonight.  Maybe we could do some improv during my slot instead.”

            “Sure.  I’m always ready.”

  One hour and eight comics later, it was 12:45, and everyone had been there since 9:00.  The comic whose material was too cliché for Vaudeville walked onstage after leaving his tenth empty on the bar.  He introduced himself and challenged Josh and me to get onstage.  We did, and after ten minutes, he stopped mumbling to the audience in trying to get suggestions.  Finally, Josh and I were—

            “No, no, you’re doing it wrong.”

            --Trying to make the most of a tough—

            “I thought you guys know how to improv!”

            --situation.  Lucily, the audience was on the side of the angels.  The comics and masochists among the audience shouted to him how drunk he was.

            In the parking lot, Josh and the rest of the guys just affirmed how little we wanted to be Open Mike Warriors forever.  We looked around for the drunk comic as we eulogized him, but he was gone.  We hoped he hadn’t driven home.

III

            I was getting into a routine.  The material for my third time was better and more personal, which brought me to the first crisis of conscience in my brief standup career.  Most of my material didn’t flatter myself, which wouldn’t ordinarily bother me, but this time there would be a girl in the audience to see me.

            Now, this doesn’t happen often.  I’ve always heard that women care most about a guy’s sense of humor, but I haven’t met any of those girls.  Until Kacie, at least.  The grapevine told me she was interested in me.  She’s beautiful and fun and sane.  Would she remain interested after I did my bit about my virginity growing back?  My resolve remained strong.  Being true to one’s comedy is more important than women.  Unless, of course, she’s a female comic, then all bets are off.

            Josh and I arrived early at the Comix Café, and were the first to sign up.  He would go on first, and I second.  I didn’t mind.  There are worse things to have happen than to follow Josh.

            I was more nervous than the previous two times, and I didn’t know why.  I was into my second calm-down beer when Kacie arrived.  I said hello to her, and hoped the beer would drown the butterflies in my stomach.

            At last, the volume on the TVs was muted and the show began.  Josh went up, and yet again, he killed.  Though I was nervous, my mind was straight, and I was raring to go.  The host took Josh’s place and I stood in front of my chair waiting to hear my name.

            “Give it up for Josh!”  The host said.  “Coming up next we have a special comic.  You’ve seen him on Conan and around the East Coast—“

            Wait a minute.  I’ve never done Conan.  Maybe he’s making a joke.

            “--He’s trying out some material.  So give it up for…”

            But he didn’t say my name.  I laughed through half an hour of polished professional material as I waited for my chance.  My original opening was out the window as I took the mike.  “Well, that was nice.  Josh and then the professional.  When are they bringing Seinfeld out?”  That got a laugh, and I did my third five minutes.

            I didn’t forget much, and I felt as comfortable as I had on every other kind of stage.  Through the lights I snuck a peek at Kacie and was relieved to see she was still digging me.  There was applause as I left, and I already missed being under the lights.

            I was right with something I said the first time that I did standup comedy.  Standup is better than having sex, because at least the audience is awake.