I'll Be Here All Week (15 page)

“What?”

“The tape,” Jamie says. “I told you, I record every show. I've got my camcorder hooked up in the back of the club. I taped the whole show.”

“You're lucky that you're working with me”—Spence raises his eyebrows—“any other comedian would be pissed off that you taped the show without asking. Comics get paranoid about guys stealing their material.”

“Whatever, man,” Jamie says. “You want it or not?”

Spence thinks for a minute. He does want it. “Maybe. What kind of tape is it?”

“MiniDV.”

“One of those little ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn”—Spence winces—“I don't have anything I can do with it. I don't even have a camera right now.”

He doesn't. He sold his camera last year to buy Christmas gifts for his parents. Now it's Gift of the Magi time, and he's screwed. Why did he sell his camera and not something he didn't need, like plasma or a kidney?

“Don't worry,” Jamie says. “I'll burn it onto a DVD and give you a copy. I can edit it down to where it's just the clean stuff, if you want. Then maybe you can use it for TV or whatever.”

“Yeah?” Spence asks. “You don't mind doing that?”

“Nah, man,” Jamie says and smiles at him. “Consider it gas money.”

Spence smiles, gives Jamie a pat on the shoulder, and turns to greet people as they file out of the showroom. People walk by and shake hands with both of them, telling Spence, “You were great,” and telling Jamie, “You were funny, too.” It's a great feeling and makes them both feel like celebrities for a few minutes more.

“You were sooo funny.” A young brunette with an amazing body appears next to him, and Spence is suddenly at a loss for words. Women flirt with him from time to time; it especially happens after he's had killer shows. But this girl is sexy as hell. He gives her a once-over, looking at amazing legs that start at the ground and go straight up into a perfect butt. Behind her, three other girls are standing, talking with Jamie and taking photos with their cell phones. One of them wears a sash that reads B
IRTHDAY
G
IRL
across it. Spence figures out instantly that his lovely brunette is part of the party.

“Hey, thanks,” Spence says and shakes her hand. Her grip is aggressive, and she pulls him closer when she speaks.

“I mean,” she purrs, “you. Were. Amazing.”

Spence pretends to be cool as he glances over his shoulder to see if Jamie is catching this. “All in a day's work.” He chuckles.

“The entire time you were onstage, I was laughing so hard. You had me in tears. I kept telling my friends you're, like, the funniest comic I've ever seen.”

“What about Dane Cook,” Spence says, “or Daniel Tosh?”

“They suck,” she says, which makes his day. “You are way funnier than those assholes.”

“Nah. Just doing my job.”

“Yeah?” The brunette bites her bottom lip, still gripping his hand in hers. “Anything else you do that well?”

“I've been told I can sing pretty well,” Spence says.

“Perfect! Then you're coming with us!”

“I am?”

“Both of you.” She giggles like she's twelve and points to Jamie and the gaggle of women. “We're going to a karaoke bar!”

“And
you
are?” Spence asks, trying not to stare at what is an amazing pair of breasts.

“Kristy,” she practically orgasms. She still hasn't let go of his hand. “And you. Were. Amazing.”

“Heh, yeah, you said that.”

“So you're coming with, right?” Kristy asks.

“I don't know—”

“Yes, we are.” Jamie grins like a buffoon and holds up a single thumb toward Spence. “Definitely.”

Kristy sticks out her bottom lip. “
Pweeze
come with us? I wanna get to know you better.” She pulls Spence in closer and almost whispers, “I'll totally make it worth your while.”

She lets go of Spence's hand and, making sure to show off every single curve in her body, slowly struts the ten feet over to her group of friends, who are all still laughing and taking photos of Jamie. Spence stands there for a second before he realizes his mouth is open.

“You cool, man?” Jamie says as he walks over and leans in to speak with Spence. “Going with the chicks to sing?”

“I dunno,” Spence says, looking at Misty or Kristy—he's forgotten her name already—looking over at him.

“What do you mean you don't know?” Jamie slaps him lightly on the side of the head. “The girl might as well be throwing her vagina at you, man.”

“Nah,” Spence lies, “she just wants me to come out so I can make her laugh for three more hours.”

“The friends say she's easy,” Jamie says. “So I'd say your chances of getting laid are better than average. Besides, I need you.”

“You what?”

“I need you. Without you there talking to Hot Pants, I've got no chance of getting laid with one of the other ones. You're the star of the show, and they want you there. Time to be my wingman, boss.”

Spence shrugs and pretends not to be still staring at Kristy's breasts. “I've kinda got this girl I'm seeing.”

“Oh, shit,” Jamie says. “You got a girlfriend?”

“Not exactly. But we've been seeing each other.”

“Is she here?”

“No,” Spence says, “she lives in Canada.”

“Aw, shit, man,” Jamie says. “You're ‘kinda' seeing a girl in Canada. So you can
absolutely
do this girl in Toledo.”

“I don't know—”

“Damn. This girl is so hot, your chick in Canada would
want
you to do her.”

Spence laughs and shakes his head. Two months ago, this wouldn't have even been a question. He'd already be at the karaoke bar with the girls, with or without Jamie. He'd be halfway into Misty or Krystal or whatever's pants within the hour. But something in him at this moment feels odd considering it. It's not like Sam is his girlfriend. They've never talked commitment. But still . . .

“Gimme a second,” he says to Jamie.

“Take your time, boss,” Jamie says. “I'll stay here and be charming.”

Spence holds up his index finger to his hot admirer and mouths the words “be right back.” She winks at him and bites her bottom lip again as he walks out into the parking lot. There is a cool breeze in the air. Toledo never felt so nice. He's normally there in the winter and can hardly stand outside for more than a few minutes at a time. Now he wants to just enjoy the night.

He even thinks about leaving his car there and walking the two miles back to the hotel, but he hates the idea of screwing Jamie out of a night with girls after a show. Every comic should experience the thrill of adoring women at least once in his career. Even if he didn't have sex with What's-Her-Name, Spence knows he could at least hang out and be a good friend to Jamie. Let the kid live large for one night.

Inside, the audience is still filing out of the showroom and talking about how great the show was. Spence still can't believe it himself. He puts his phone to his ear.

“Hey there,” Sam's voice comes over the speaker. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Something good, I hope,” he says.

“Never,” she says. He loves the sound of her voice.

“No?”

“No, you gave me the clap,” she says. He regrets ever telling her about Rodney.

“Cute,” he says.

“I thought so,” she says. “How was tonight?”

“Absolutely amazing.”

“Really? Better than when I saw you here?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean it was really something. I even tried new material.”

“Very cool,” she says. There's a pause. It's enough time for him to smile and wish he was with her. He loves talking to her, but it's not enough. This is one of those nights he wishes she had been with him. So many nights he winds up telling her bad news or complaining about an awful club. Just once, he'd love for her to see him like this, when he's a star.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Looking at apartments online,” she says. He can hear the clicking of her fingers on a computer keyboard.

“You looking to move?”

“I have to,” she says.

“Your lease almost finished?” he asks.

“Nope,” she says. “You're not the only one who had an eventful day.”

“Do tell,” he says.

“A Canadian woman you know got a promotion today,” she says.

“Really?” he says. “Tell Claudia I say congrats.”

“Har, har,” she says.

“That's great news,” he says. “What's the gig?”

“Well, sir,” she says, “the ‘gig,' as you call it, is district manager, and it's in Toronto.”

“Really? The capital?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asks.

“What?”

“Toronto's not the capital, you dumb American,” she teases.

“It's not?” he asks.

“We've been over this before.”

“It's Vancouver, right?”

She sighs. “I have so much to teach you.”

He looks around at the people filing out of the club, at the cars in the parking lot. It was a great night. It all seems kind of simple now. It's been only a few minutes, but it might as well have been hours. He has forgotten the show and the new material. Now he's thinking about a bunch of girls on a birthday party outing, singing karaoke, and Jamie wanting to get laid. And Sam. He loves her voice.

“I can't wait,” he says. “Teach me all about Toronto while you're at it. I've never been there, either.”

He can hear her clicking the computer, and he tries to think about where Toronto is on a map. He knows it's not too far from Montreal. Is it? How far is she moving? Is Toronto the one way over above Washington State? That would suck. No, that's Vancouver. He thinks Toronto is closer.

“How about in three weeks?” she says.

“Three weeks what?” he asks.

“Come visit.”

“In Toronto?”

“That will have given me a whole five days to settle in, and I know you're off then, right?”

“Nice memory,” he says.

“Thanks,” she says. There's a pause, and the sound of her clicking a mouse. “So what do you say?”

Inside the club, the sexy brunette is staring at him again. Spence realizes that there's nothing stopping him from going to the karaoke bar with Jamie and the group of women. And just going to the bar with them doesn't mean he'll sleep with anyone.

“A visit?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, “I went to university in Toronto. I know it like the back of my hand. You'll have a blast.”

He made up his mind when she asked the first time, but he takes a second to pretend to think about it. “I can do that,” he says.

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“Sweet!” she says. “You visiting me and us spending time together. Almost like normal people do it.”

He laughs. He's ten hours away from her at best. She's in another country, and he just got done talking to strangers about his penis. There's nothing normal about it. A couple of months ago, he figured she was a fun distraction for a weekend. Then she became texts and phone calls. Now he's getting ready to go spend a week with her all over again in another city in that country he barely knows anything about.

He looks over his shoulder and, not twenty feet away, Kristy the sex-bot is waving at him through the glass double doors to the club. Sam will never have a clue if he goes with her or not. Or if he sings karaoke or not. Or if he takes her to bed or not. They've never said that what they have is a committed relationship. It's just a thing they're doing.

But does this feel like it's just a thing?
he thinks.

Spence turns away from the club and walks out into the parking lot. It's that nice, early spring where it's warm enough for him not to be shivering but cool enough to dry the sweat from the stage lights. He smiles as the night breeze hits his face, and he sits down on the curb. He imagines that Toronto is very nice right about now.

When he walks down the streets of Toronto, he feels as if he's in a nicer, cleaner version of New York City. All the things he used to love about that city he finds right here in this one. The buildings stand just as tall, although not as crammed up against each other. Traffic is everywhere and so are people, but they shove him around a lot less than New Yorkers do. For a guy who loves city life but often not city people, it's the perfect fit for him.

After having spent several days here with Sam, he now realizes that the rest of Canada is not nearly as European-looking as Montreal. That almost disappoints him. He enjoyed trying to figure out what the French writing on certain signs and billboards meant. There's a lot of French writing in Ontario, too, but English is obviously the dominant language. Everyone in Toronto knows as little French as he does.

Walking around the city relaxes him. After weeks of being in either a car or a hotel, it's comforting just to be able to go where his feet take him. Most days, while Sam is at work, he walks until he feels he has gone far enough, then turns around and walks back to her apartment. Midtown is just crowded enough to catch his eye and satisfy his people-watching needs without making him feel claustrophobic. He didn't realize until now how much he took for granted this freedom to just get up and walk until he was tired of it.

When he's not out walking, he's with Sam. The plan was to see the city, explore the sights, and visit all the major landmarks. He wanted to see the museums and local haunts. He planned to visit the CN Tower, which is always looming off in the distance whenever he goes for his daily stroll. So far, the most sights he has seen with Sam are the places where they eat and her small one-bedroom apartment. It somehow manages to be enough, and they're both plenty happy with the arrangement.

“Who needs museums when we have the sofa and popcorn?” Sam tells him. He thinks she makes a good point.

Lying in bed reading a magazine while she reads some chick lit—he can't remember the last time he did this. It's odd not to have housekeeping banging on the door at some point or Rodney on the phone or the TV on making noise to clear his head from something else. He doesn't feel the need to check his e-mail or even deal with work. When he's on the road, he feels as if he's constantly having to network, promote, or just keep up with his schedule. Right now, he's happy to do absolutely nothing.

“How's the book?” he asks, putting down his copy of
Entertainment Weekly
. He needs to buy something different. Maybe
Details
or
Esquire
. Entertainment magazines threaten to make him think about work. He wants nothing to do with that.

“Sucks,” she says but keeps reading. “How's Johnny Depp?”

“Sucks,” he says.

“You don't like Johnny Depp?” She gasps and covers her mouth with her right hand. “It's over between us.”

“He's fine. The magazine sucks.”

“Wanna trade?” she asks and holds up her book about a woman living in a city who can't find a decent man despite her glowing smile and fabulous shoes.

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Blah,” she says and puts her book down. She's lying about thinking that it sucks. He can tell by the way she carefully puts a bookmark in before she tosses it aside.

They lie above the covers and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. He can't remember the last time he lounged around like this and sex wasn't the main ingredient. Yes, they've had sex. Yes, he enjoys it. But this is different. He's had plenty of sex. He hasn't had a lot of . . . nothing. Nothing feels pretty good; sex is just the bonus.

“TV?” she suggests and hands him the remote. He nods and flicks on the small flat-screen that sits at the end of the bed on a tiny stand. Her bedroom is a quarter the size of most hotel rooms he stays in, but neither of them seems to mind. He flips through the channels and comes across a rerun of
Royal Canadian Air Farce,
a sketch show he's been randomly watching all week.

“Ugh,” Sam says and rolls over to put her head on his chest.

“What?” he asks.

“You like this?”

“It's entertaining.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” he says, “the parts that I get. A lot of it goes over my head.”

“It's just that it's so”—she pauses—“Canadian.”

“Right,” he says. “This is Canada.”

“Right,” she says. “And you're the only person I know who watches Canadian TV shows.”

“Really?”

She shrugs. “Pretty much.”

“That makes no sense to me.”

“Canadians don't really watch Canadian TV that much.”

“Apparently not,” he says. “What's that all about?”

“Because it tries so hard to be”—she pauses again—“Canadian.”

A full thirty seconds goes by with her looking right at him and him looking right into her eyes. Her eyes are beautiful. Even though he loves it when she wears her glasses, he really loves to be able to look right into her very green eyes without the lenses getting in the way.

“That makes absolutely no sense,” he finally says.

“But that's how it is,” she says.

“Canadians don't like Canadian TV because it tries too hard to be Canadian?”

“You got it.”

“I think it's funny.”

“Just you,” she says. “And maybe twelve other people.”

“Wow,” he says, “remind me not to become a TV star in Canada. No love.”

“Good luck with that,” she says and runs her hand across his chest while trying to make him into a more suitable pillow. He watches the TV show and tries to figure out exactly how Parliament works based on the sketch that's on. The prime minister is some guy he has never heard of before. The studio audience is laughing, so whatever they are talking about must be funny. It has something to do with the GST, whatever that is.

“So what are you going to do?” she asks after a few minutes.

“I'll change it if you want,” he says. “We can watch something else.”

“No.” She sits up and leans on her elbow. “I mean, what are you going to do next? After this week?”

“Oh,” he says. He was enjoying not thinking about work. “I've got to go to Minneapolis.”

“And then what?”

“Then Indianapolis.”

“That's it, huh?”

“I think San Antonio at some point.”

“No, I mean that's your routine,” she says. “Different city, different week.”

“That's the job.”

“When are you off again?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Two months. Maybe ten weeks. I'm not sure.”

She puts her head back down on his chest.

“You want me to come back and visit again?”

“Of course,” she says. “I'd like it to be sooner than ten weeks, though. But I'll take what I can get.”

“You and me both.”

She sits back on her elbow and looks at him. He knows a talk is coming so he turns the TV off. It's okay. He doesn't mind. When Beth used to have these talks with him, it was never good; it was always bad news or he did something wrong. With Sam, it feels okay. She doesn't make him feel like she wants him to tell her what she's already thought up in her head. She can take the truth when she hears it.

“Is this what you want to keep doing?” she asks.

He leans in and kisses her. It's not to distract from the conversation, but just because he wants to. “I like doing this, yeah,” he says.

“Not us, weirdo,” she says. “I mean your touring. The traveling.”

He sighs. “Well, I do like making people laugh.”

“Yes, you do.”

“And I seem to be good at it.”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees.

He sits there for a minute. Ten years ago this question was an easy one. He wanted to travel constantly and see the country. He wanted to entertain tens of thousands of people every year. He wanted to live in hotels and party like a low-paid rock star. Ten years ago, he thought and felt exactly like Jamie Hernandez. Fast-forward to now and all that glitters is not gold. It's not even gold-plated.

“Honestly,” he says, “up until now, I've never made any real plans. I mean, sure I have my schedule and I fill my calendar with gigs. But I haven't thought about anything else but that in a long time. Once I fill up the first half of the year, I work on filling the second half of the year. By the time the second half is done, I have to start working on the first part of the next year. Between that and just doing the gigs, I haven't had time to think about much else.”

“Do you want to keep doing it? Keep traveling like you are every week?”

“I don't know. I've been just kind of living one day at a time.”

“Like an alcoholic.”

He laughs. “Sure.”

“One day at a time,” she says.

He smiles at her and kisses her again. She actually nailed it. He never thought of it that way, but that's exactly what he's been doing. It's what most comedians do. One day at a time, one gig at a time, week after week, year after year.

“I guess I am, you know, addicted to it,” he says, “and I'm not really sure how to quit. It goes back to that ‘what-if' scenario I told you about before.”

“What if you're always close to something bigger?” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, but have you ever wondered if you could love something else, too?”

“I could love you,” he says before he even realizes it. What the hell was that all about? He's been trying not to think too much about falling in love with Sam, let alone telling her.

Idiot.

“Right back atcha,” she says. “But I mean work-wise. Do you ever think that maybe there's something else you'd love as much as performing?”

How many times has he thought about this? Every week at least, maybe several times a week. How many careers has he considered? How many did he try before he finally wrestled up the balls to try this one?

“There were a lot of bad jobs before this one,” he groans.

“Yeah?”

“You have no idea. So many jobs I took just because the money was good. Because I always needed something to fall back on.”

“Like what?”

“Like the year in pharmaceutical sales. Jesus.”

Her eyes go wide, and she laughs through her closed mouth, a silly choking sound accompanied by a ridiculous grin. “You?” she asks. “Sales?”

“You have no idea.” He rolls his eyes. “I didn't even get to sell the good stuff, like boner pills or anything like that. I sold antianxiety meds. And not the ones you've heard of.”

“That bad?”

He shrugs. “Not terrible. The money wasn't that bad. But it was boring as all hell. And I wasn't very good at it.”

“I find that surprising,” she says. “I figured you could sell ice to an Eskimo.”

“Hardly,” he says. “I didn't even show up most of the time. I lied to my boss and told him I was meeting with accounts when I was really out of town, doing gigs and auditions.”

“How'd that work out for you?”

“Got promoted.”

“Really?”

“No.” He lowers his head in mock shame. “Got fired.”

She playfully punches him in the arm, and he laughs. He shrugs it off these days, but he remembers when it used to sting a bit. There were many jobs he lost over the years. Even as a kid, he got fired more than anyone else he knew. The mouth that gets him in trouble all the time now was the same one he spoke with back then.

“There have always been ‘what-ifs,' ” he says as he rubs the back of his neck. “I was a substitute teacher for a while. That almost led to a full-time teaching job.”

“Wow.” Sam smiles. “What happened there?”

“Nothing. Someone else got the job, and the contract ended. So I moved on to another thing for a while. And then another something after that. Until I started piecing together enough gigs to go full-time on the road.”

“And that was it?”

“Then I met Rodney,” he says. “I haven't had a day job since.”

“Is that why you keep him around?” she asks while fidgeting with her hands. Spence thinks she wants to bite her nails but won't do it around him.

“Having an agent is kind of like having a job,” he says, dead serious. “The only thing worse than having one is looking for one.”

“And you're done looking for jobs,” she says. It's not a question.

“I know one thing,” he says and rolls over on his side, leaning on his elbow the same way she is leaning on hers. “I can't work in a cubicle. I can't go to an office and sit at the same desk day after day, doing the same job that never changes.”

She chuckles and kisses him.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“What is it?” he asks again and pinches her thigh. She squeals and pinches back.

“You're already working in a cubicle, you just move it around. It is the same job, day after day. It's just in a different city every week.”

He sighs. He never really looked at it that way.

“And your commute is longer,” she says and kisses him again.

“Good point.”

She gets up and stretches, then looks around the tiny room. There's barely enough room for her to stand up, let alone really move around. “I'm not telling you not to do it,” she says. “I would never even think of doing something like that. You obviously love performing, and you're obviously good at it.”

“But . . .” he starts.

“But I think you're exhausted.”

“Probably,” he says. “Maybe all I need is a good vacation. I do know that I don't want to be one of these road-worn dinosaurs I used to work with. I used to open for them all the time. Sixty years old and still doing the same awful gigs, the same awful act. They're all on autopilot.”