Beautiful Disaster (7 page)

From: Max

I go on in five. I feel like I’m stepping out there in my underwear. I’m nervous as shit!!

Wish you were here, Jap.

9:33 pm 4/22/06

S
tand-up comedy is the closest thing to real justice you’re going to find.” Lucien Nutt was talking.

Max Biaggi Jr. was listening.

“You fuck around with the audience, you’re going down. If you don’t believe in your own stuff one hundred percent, you can’t sell it.”

Max nodded to the beat of the old pro’s wisdom. “Well, Gramps, I wish we’d had this little talk a week ago, because I’ve got, like, one or two good bits, and the rest is shit.”

Lucien chuckled. “Well, kid, get big enough laughs on those bits, and you just might make it off the stage alive.” Impulsively, he pulled Max in for a bear hug.

The crusty old bastard reeked of cigar smoke and Jack Daniel’s, but Max considered this spontaneous affection to be warm and comforting. It was everything he never got from his own parents.

Max had returned from New York with an exciting agenda and a more serious approach to his future. If there had been one lesson learned during spring break, it was that life could
not
be taken for granted.

Sho’s overdose had taught him that. So had Vanity’s ordeal with Jayson “J.J.” James. And Christina’s brush with death on the rooftop was something to reflect on, as well.

All the deep thinking led him to ask one question of paramount importance: What the hell was he doing with his life? Besides living for the next party and the next sex act, Max had no immediate answer.

Until one week ago. Max had been bored as hell on a Saturday night and decided to take in Bill Bellamy’s late-night set at the Improv. Going alone allowed him the indulgence of soaking up the experience.

And he loved it—the belligerent crowd, the watered-down drinks, the bad food, the anxious please-God-don’t-let-me-bomb comedians, the tense atmosphere, the stench of wood and cigarettes. It was awesome.

Not to mention serendipitous. The beer-sloshed flyer on Max’s table had instantly arrested his attention.
START YOUR COMEDY CAREER TODAY
:
PRIVATE STAND-UP CLASSES
.

The idea conjured up secret yearnings from yesteryear. Max had long held a desire to be a comedian. And it was more than just his friends laughing at him all the time that triggered it. Down deep, the passion was there. But he knew the world of stand-up could be brutal. And for the rich son of a famous movie star, it would be even more brutal. No matter, the events of spring break were propelling him to move beyond his comfort zone.

Signing up for the classes had been the easy part. After all, Lucien Nutt was the teacher, and the man was a comic legend, having appeared not only as a regular guest with Jay Leno, David Letterman, and Conan O’Brien, but as a featured player in scores of television sitcoms and big-screen gross-out comedies, usually typecast in the role of the horny grandfather.

Lucien had worked one-on-one with Max, mentoring him on the finer points of tapping into his voice, finding his true persona, and developing a stylized, confident stage presence. The five-day stint was a crash course, to be sure. Still, Max could never remember feeling quite this excited about anything.

Maybe the reason was finding a creative outlet that he owned lock, stock, and punch line. Or maybe it was the simple adrenaline. Just walking out on that stage was telling every member of the audience, “Yeah, motherfucker, I’m funny. Get ready to laugh.” That took a huge set of balls.

And he needed them right now. By the end of Max’s first week of private instruction, Lucien had been so impressed with his progress that he convinced the Improv’s manager to give him a five-minute newbie spotlight.

So here he was, in the same spot where Jerry Seinfeld, Ellen DeGeneres, Jim Carrey, and Dave Chappelle had once stood, waiting for his cue to take the mic on a Saturday night at the Improv. Crazy shit!

There were a few other wannabes hanging around. Out of their mouths came words of well wishes, but the message blazing from their eyes said something along the lines of, “I hope you crash and burn, asshole.” Jealousy among comedians was insane.

One guy went by the name Spasm. His routine consisted mainly of Tourette’s-like outbursts and weird body convulsions. It rarely garnered anything but a few modest giggles at the beginning. But Spasm refused to rethink his act. He was dark, moody, and impossible to interact with, yet still a club fixture at all hours.

Another regular was Vicky Crow, a morbidly obese woman pushing thirty who would do or say anything at her own expense for a laugh. Her bit about having time to eat a whole pie while a man struggled through layers of fat to find her vagina was an audience favorite. But Max thought she was a psycho and kept his distance. Especially after she went bug fuck on him for reaching out to take one of her cheese fries.

His favorite upstart was Tyrese Jones, a cool black guy with the razor-sharp mind of a Chris Rock and the cover boy looks of a young Denzel Washington. Women went ape shit for Tyrese. He was a notorious pussy hound, too. The revolving door of one-night stands and attendant girl dramas made for not only a great spectator sport, but also rich material for the dude’s stage act.

Lucien’s avuncular regard for Max had stirred up plenty of seething resentment. Everybody sought the old guy’s approval, not only because of his influence at the club, but for the fact that getting a nod from a comic at his experience level was a major vote of confidence. His private classes were expensive, though. Spasm, Vicky, and Tyrese could barely afford to pay their rent, so the sour opinion floated that Max was buying his way onto the stage.

He checked himself before he started to whine about the perils of being rich. So what if a few dirt-poor twats were giving him shit? He would still rather be flush with megabucks. Rushing into one of those payday advance joints to keep a cellphone in service was no way to live. And that’s exactly what Spasm had had to do just a few days ago.

“We’re ready for you, Lucien.”

Max tensed up and shot a look to the announcer, but the man was already gone.

Lucien squeezed Max’s shoulder. “This is it, kid. If you need to puke, do it now. Comics who lose their last meal on the stage never get asked back.”

Max managed a weak grin. “I’m good. But thanks.”

“Remember what we talked about,” Lucien advised. “Open, sustain, and pace yourself. Five minutes can be a goddamn eternity up there.”

Max shook his head up and down, swallowing hard. Reluctantly, he stepped over to the curtain and surreptitiously peered out at the audience.

Christ
. No headliner on the bill and the room was still packed. Word had traveled that Dane Cook might drop in over the weekend to test new material. For now, though, the suckers would have to settle for Max Biaggi Jr.

He swept the area for familiar faces. Suddenly, he smiled. Sitting dead center near the front of the stage were Shoshanna, Dante, Vanity, and Pippa. No matter how bad he sucked tonight, Max could at least count on big laughs from that table.

Just two weeks after her overdose, Shoshanna was back to the same precocious vamp style, causing a stir in her ass-cheek-baring Judy shorts by Seven Jeans and a weathered cotton tee that screamed
BAD GIRLS SUCK
,
REAL GIRLS SWALLOW
. But as far as Max was concerned, Sho would be on a short leash until her thirtieth birthday. So the upscale slut look was just that—a look.

Vanity and Dante held court as the hottest couple in the club. By comparison, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were just two ordinary people. Dante kept a possessive hand on Vanity’s Paige denim-clad thigh, occasionally whispering in her ear and stealing a kiss. He was gone. So was she. It was a total love wreck. Of course, Simon St. John hated their union. How did a father get over the fact that a boy he considered trash was nailing his daughter on a regular basis? Max wondered this with a wicked sense of glee. Why? Because if anyone deserved that special kind of torment, then it was Vanity’s worthless dad.

Max noticed that Pippa had positioned her chair slightly away from the group. She just sat there with a vacant expression on her face, not interacting with the others unless spoken to. Of course, it was a miracle that she had even shown up at all. Max counted his blessings for that, though her behavior continued to mystify him.

Before spring break, she had been generally unavailable, but still the same saucy girl he had fallen three-quarters in love with. Now she was nothing more than an emotionally empty vessel growing increasingly distant from her friends.

But the real puzzle was the disappearance of Christina. Without explanation, she had just vanished. Cellphone calls, texts, and emails went unanswered. When Max called her mother, the political barracuda had been vague on the girl’s whereabouts, only offering that she was visiting family out of state and would be unreachable for the next few weeks.

Shit! Had a time machine taken her back to the frontier era? Who could be “unreachable” in the year 2006? None of it made any sense. Her absence was a true disappointment, too. He really wanted Jap here to support him tonight.

“Do your thing, man. Just go out there and do your thing,” Tyrese said.

Max gave him a cool nod. He sucked in a deep breath, then glanced around to see Spasm staring daggers at him and Vicky destroying a platter of chicken tenders, fish fingers, and mozzarella sticks.

Lucien was already on the stage, halfway into Max’s introduction. “So I’ve been working with this young comic, and he’s not the worst punk I’ve ever dealt with. I spent a few days giving him pointers and never once felt like carving him up with a meat cleaver.”

A low rumble of laughter erupted from the crowd.

“And from an old-timer to a young buck, that’s the closest thing to love you’ll find in this business,” Lucien went on. “Keep in mind—tonight is this guy’s first time out. He’s a stand-up virgin. So don’t scare off the little prick. Put your hands together for
Max B
!”

There was a moment—coinciding with the welcoming applause from the crowd—when Max thought about racing out of the building, jumping into his car, and never coming back. But instead he stepped into the spotlight, determined to see this through, not only to make Lucien proud, but to prove something to himself, too.

If nothing else, he knew that he looked good in his AG jeans and Morphine Generation hoodie. The look was hot without trying too hard. The idea to drop the radioactive last name for the simple initial B had been his. Winning over a crowd was hard enough without frontloading a performance with the surname Biaggi and all the preconceived notions that came along with it.

He approached the mic, greeted the audience, and launched into his first routine about drunken late-night food binges. It was bombing. But Max kept his cool. Stage survival rule number one: When a joke doesn’t work, never take it out on the crowd.

“Okay, that sucked. I’m a big freaking
loser
!”

He got some mild laughs this time. Self-abuse always pulled them to your side.

“You know, I haven’t gotten laid in a few months. I used to get sex all the time. My parents never trusted me to be at home alone with a girl, but once my grandmother moved in with us, everything was cool, because she would chaperone. There was one hard-and-fast rule—no private time in my bedroom with a girl. We had to stay in the living room with Grandma. This worked out real good on account of the fact that this woman was so out of it. I mean, she never knew what the hell was going on! I got my first blow job and lost my virginity with Grandma in the same room. And all she ever told my parents was, ‘Max is a good boy.’ ” He delivered the last line in the voice of an old woman. “Damn right I was good! Kim Foster came home from school with me every day for a month!”

Serious chuckles erupted.

Max felt the energy. They liked him. They liked Max B. They liked this bit. He pressed on, feeling the uptick of excitement. “Well, Grandma died…”

The audience responded with an exaggerated, mournful moan.

Max couldn’t help but smile. They were into it. Man, this felt good. Now he nodded somberly. “Yeah, it was a sad day…especially when I realized later on that I couldn’t get it up without an old lady in the room. Take it from me, when you’re coming on to a girl, that can be a tough sell.”

The room exploded with laughter. Loud, raucous bursts. Hands slapping the tables. The whole shebang. Max B, a terrified first-timer, had killed them on a Saturday night at the Improv.

“Thank you, everybody.” He raised a hand.

The crowd gave him a quick round of hearty applause.

As he exited the stage, he made eye contact with a pretty blonde, who gave him the kind of look that promoted hope for the night ahead. He grinned. The funny guy never went home alone.

Lucien was right there, ready with a hug and a slap on the back. “It started out rocky, but you recovered. I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve got some chops. You still need a lot of work. But you’ve got some natural chops.”

Max beamed, feeling ten feet tall.

Tyrese stepped over and pulled Max in for a fast embrace. “You’re a slayer, man.”

Max let out a huge breath as if to expel all of his anxiety. “Shit, I don’t know. For a minute there at the beginning…”

Vicky spoke up. “Wasn’t that a new bit?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“Yeah,” Max said, wondering where she was going with this.

“Everybody knows it’s a mistake to open with new material,” Vicky sneered. “That’s
basic
.”

“General nutrition is basic, too,” Max countered. “So why the hell do you think deep-fried batter is a major food group?”

Tyrese doubled over in laughter.

Twin patches of red splotched Vicky’s fat cheeks.

Max knew it was a cheap shot, but it was important to establish a reputation for being brutal in even casual battle. Otherwise, comics would eat you alive and mess with your head whenever they got the chance.

Across the room, Spasm glared at Max with an unsettling, quietly intense fury. Crazy bastard. Max ignored him and made a move into the main room, anxious to see his real friends.