I'll Be Here All Week (17 page)

“You're being paranoid,” Rodney says. “I just found out myself. Why would I not want to make you as much money as possible when I'm making a cut of it?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Rodney says. “So take the cash and be happy. They love you there, and you should be glad to have it.”

“I am,” Spence says. “When do I get paid?”

“As soon as I get the check, I'll cut one for you,” Rodney says.

“Fine,” Spence says. “Any news on Cleveland?”

“What about Cleveland?” Rodney asks.

 

Spence is back at the school before seven forty-five and finds Emma waiting with a huge smile on her face. There are two hundred college students waiting to see the show, which is always a good sign. Comedy clubs are hit or miss, but the colleges always have a great turnout for their shows. They are almost always free for the students and early enough in the evening where there's plenty of time left to drink or study or masturbate or do any of the things college kids do on a Thursday night.

“Ready to knock 'em dead?” Emma asks him as he stands behind the curtain in the makeshift showroom. It's actually a section of the cafeteria that has been converted into a comedy club for one night only. This is exactly how a lot of colleges do their shows—risers in the middle of a room with black curtains all around them. The bigger schools have the comedians perform in a theater, while the smaller ones have people telling jokes next to a soda fountain.

“I'm ready,” he says and takes the wireless microphone that she hands him. He wants to ask her what the hell happened to the pay raise he was expecting, but he smiles instead. He likes her and doesn't want the money situation to sour it. He would have taken the gig regardless of the pay increase, and it's Rodney who screwed up the deal. He's sure of it.

“Go to it,” Emma says and gestures toward what is supposed to be a stage for the next hour. At some schools, there is someone to introduce him or music to play. At Doane, the lights go down and he walks into a single spotlight. It's simple, but it's enough. The freshmen are silent the instant he steps out.

“And that's why I only date Asian women.” The opening bit hits right away, and he knows it's going to be a good show. He smiles and takes them where he wants them to go.

 

The new material works just as well in front of the eighteen-year-olds as it did in front of the roomful of drunks in Toledo. He's two for two, which tells him that the new bits will become a permanent part of the act. Once is never enough to know whether or not a new routine is going to always work. It could just be a fluke—one great crowd that is willing to laugh at anything. If the bits work twice and in front of everything from teens to senior citizens, it's probably safe.

He wonders if maybe he's been going about this all wrong. Maybe the cleaner material is what he should've been writing all along. It's not that people don't like the dirty jokes; he's been killing with that same material for years. But he thinks maybe people like
him
more when he's keeping the humor light. For years he wrote what he thought was funny. Then he wrote what he thought audiences would like. This is the first time in a while he thinks he found a combination of the two.

He likes the feeling that he now has material that he can do for both club audiences and college crowds alike. He's always had to have two different acts. One for the middle-aged drinkers and one for the horny teenagers. Having one set he can do everywhere seems like a great idea.

He never minded clean comedy, but he never cared for clean comedians themselves. Clean comics are always smug. They think they write on a higher playing field. Someone a long time ago decided that adults speaking like adults to other adults is somehow childish. When he was a kid, the word
fuck
was reserved for adults. Now he's an adult and people are telling him it's a word for children. Grown adults who use the word
poop
are telling him that it's somehow classier than saying
shit
. He thinks they're full of both.

“Thank you, good night,” he says and leaves the stage to a nice, healthy applause. College audiences tend to applaud nicely but don't have the rowdiness of a roomful of drinkers. It's good enough. He's rocked another crowd at Doane and ensured himself another gig for next year. In the end, that's all that matters.

He steps off the makeshift stage and hands the microphone back to Emma. She smiles like a pumpkin and yells into the microphone as if she's at a pep rally.

“Keep it going for him!” she screams. The applause response stays about the same. At least they are consistent.

Spence waves one last time to the crowd and steps around the corner to what is supposed to be considered “backstage.” There, Emma greets him and hugs him so tightly he feels as if she cracked his ribs.

“That was wonderful,” she says, beaming. “Just wonderful!”

“Thanks.” Spence almost blushes. He's never seen her this receptive.

“I love the new jokes you did,” Emma tells him and claps her hands together.

“Yeah, I've been trying different stuff.”

“Well, it's great.”

“I'm glad you liked it,” he says. “Can we do it again next year?”

“Of course,” she says. “We always love having you. You know that.”

She holds up her index finger and disappears for a minute. A few students walk up to him and shake his hand. A few more tell him that he was “amazing.” One of them has him sign a handmade poster that she has pulled off one of the walls. Signing autographs is still one of the best parts of the job. It always makes him feel like he's a celebrity even when he knows he isn't one.

“Here you go.” Emma reappears with an envelope in her hand. She hands it to him and points to a few students nearby to start disassembling the stage. They waste no time. In twenty minutes, there will be no evidence he was even there.

“What's this?” Spence asks, holding up the envelope. He hopes it's a bonus. Miracles are known to happen.

“That's your check,” she says.

“Oh? You're not mailing it to Rodney?”

“No, I thought you knew that,” she tells him. “That's what I was going to tell you earlier. The school made out the check to you by mistake. So instead of having them reprint another one, I figured you'd be okay with just cashing it yourself and sending your agent his share.”

“No problem,” Spence says. This sort of thing happens from time to time. In fact, he prefers it. He knows it's quicker for him to send Rodney his two hundred bucks than it is to wait for Rodney to get around to sending him eight hundred.

“You sure?” Emma asks. She's way too nice to be in charge of booking entertainers.

“Absolutely,” Spence says. “This works just fine.”

He opens the envelope and looks at the check. Immediately, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Fifteen hundred dollars.

Printed in black ink, made out to him from Doane College in Nebraska, is a check for fifteen hundred dollars. Spence feels his blood starting to boil the second he reads the numbers. Just a few hours earlier, Rodney told him that the pay would be eight hundred bucks after two hundred for commission. Now he's holding a check for almost twice that amount.

“Is this amount correct?” he asks Emma, wondering if he really got that bonus after all.

“I hope so,” Emma says and looks at the check. “Yep, looks right. Fifteen hundred. That's what your agent told us you wanted.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yep, he said your price came up and we agreed to it. We always love having you here. I told him you were worth it.”

“Oh, I was just making sure,” Spence says. “I never handle the money stuff. I let him do that.”

“That's a good idea,” Emma says. “Let some other guy deal with the money. You deal with the funny!”

She laughs and puts a soft hand on his shoulder as if she's exhausted. Maybe the constant laughing is finally taking a toll on her heart. Spence reaches up and pats the hand she put on his shoulder.

“Well, I love being here.” He smiles. “Thanks for having me.”

“Anytime,” Emma says and goes back to overseeing the dismantling of the stage. A student walks over and hands him a bottle of water. He thanks the kid and continues shaking hands and thanking people for coming to the show. After thirty more minutes, he says good-bye to Emma and walks out to the parking lot.

Don't think about this,
he tells himself.
You'll never get to sleep tonight if you do. This will keep you up all night.

But he can't help it. He has a million numbers adding up in his head. He's asking all sorts of questions and answering them at the same time. He thinks about picking up the phone and calling his agent right then and there. Rodney probably sleeps in that office. He's probably there right now, sitting next to the phone. This is probably the best time to reach him.

Almost as if he willed it to happen, Spence feels his cell phone vibrate in his pocket and he answers it without even looking to see who it is.

“Yeah?” he says, putting the check in his pocket and fumbling for his car keys.

“Hey,” a familiar voice comes over the phone and it takes Spence a second to realize it's Beth.

“Oh,” he says slowly, “hey.”

“Don't sound so thrilled to hear from me or anything,” she says. It must be after ten where she is, which makes the phone call even weirder. Beth is almost always asleep before eleven and never calls this late.

“Just surprised,” Spence says. “What's up? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Beth says, although she doesn't sound convincing. Evan is likely standing a few feet away, which would make most people uneasy. “Everything is fine.”

“Great. So . . . what's up?”

“You're still getting mail here.”

“Aw, hell,” he says. “Sorry about that. I honestly forgot to change my address.”

“S'okay,” Beth says. “I just wanted to make sure you knew. Needed to see what the deal was.”

“I'll change it tomorrow, I promise.”

“No, it's okay. Don't worry about it.”

“Then I'll do it soon. Really.”

“It's okay,” Beth says. “I can wait. It's not a big deal, really.”

“What about Evan?” Spence asks. “He going to lose his mind?”

“It's fine. I said don't worry about it.”

“Alright,” Spence says. “Thanks for that.” A few seconds pass, and it feels like an eternity. When the silence is enough, Spence clears his throat. “So I've got stuff I'm doing, so . . .”

“Yeah, that's cool,” Beth says. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

“Are you coming through here again anytime soon?” she asks just as he was about to hang up the phone.

“I dunno,” he says, “maybe. Depends upon how angry I get at Rodney.”

“What happened this time?”

“Nothing,” he lies. “Just saying.”

“Okay, well let me know,” Beth says.

“You got it,” Spence assures her and, seconds later, hangs up the phone. He knows something is wrong with Beth, but he doesn't know that he cares enough to stay on the phone and ask what it is. He imagines Evan on the other end, fuming and throwing his mail into the fireplace. He doesn't remotely look forward to going back there again, especially not for more worthless mail. He also knows it's only a matter of time before Beth and Evan give him the “great news” that they're having kids or buying a mansion.

When he hangs up the phone and looks down at it, a text message from Sam is waiting:

 

Hope you had a great night. Miss you.

 

A nice breeze blows past him, and he stands for a minute, leaning against his car. Before he picks up the phone to call Sam, he pulls the envelope out of his pocket and looks at the paycheck one more time. Fifteen hundred dollars.

Fuck you, Rodney.

The weather is perfect in Syracuse, and Spence is feeling perfectly fine as he pulls into the parking lot at the Funny Farm Comedy Club. He's only a stone's throw away from the airport and wonders if he should have just flown here and left his car in Nebraska. But the two days of driving aren't so bad when he recalls just how nice the weather was. The surprisingly cool summer feels just right. It's one thing he loves about being this far north.

He's still angry about Rodney screwing him over, but Spence finds himself surprisingly stress-free today. Since his plan is to keep it all to himself, the money from the Doane College gig was nice enough for him to relax a bit. The Funny Farm is actually paying him pretty well, too. The fact that they've put him up in a nice hotel is just gravy. It takes him a few steps away from firing Rodney, which has been his plan B for the past two days. When he sees his name in lights on the marquee outside the club, he grants Rodney yet another stay of execution.

Must be that time of year,
he thinks to himself.

It seems that it's always right around now that he considers firing Rodney. A last-minute cancellation here, a questionable commission there. One disagreement leads to a fight, which leads to a day or two of both of them not answering each other's calls. Eventually, a new gig comes along that convinces Spence to stick it out. And, as much as Rodney pretends he is just another in a long line of comics he represents, Spence knows he brings in more money than most of the guys on the roster. He's the only one living in his car. He says yes to every gig.

It feels almost like a marriage that is trying hard not to fall apart. For all the clubs he hates or gigs that turn out to be awful, Spence knows there will be weeks of great shows. There are times when the pay is good. And, unlike a lot of comedians he knows, Spence has his calendar booked solid for months. Firing Rodney would mean those dates would instantly disappear. The bad gigs would go away, and the good ones would be gone with them. Just like with his ex-wife, Spence would be replaced by some other guy.

“Look who it is,” a familiar voice calls to Spence as he steps into the lobby of the club. He turns to see Ashley standing behind the box office, just underneath a sign that reads N
OW
S
HOWING.
Ashley has been managing the Funny Farm for at least four years. Easily in her forties, she's still trying hard to be the sex kitten. She talks like a sailor and smokes like one, too. Her voice sounds like gravel in a washing machine. She and Spence have been close to having sex several times, but fate and clear thinking have always intervened.

“You still here?” Spence says as he accepts Ashley's hug that lasts too long and cheek kiss that feels too soft. “I thought you married some comedian and hit the road.”

“Are you kidding?” Ashley blurts, her voice sounding like she's choking. “I wouldn't bang a comedian, let alone marry one.”

“You expect me to believe you've never slept with a comic?”

“Ah, shit. I can't promise anything I didn't do when I was drunk.”

“I rest my case.”

“But I wouldn't marry a goddamned comic,” she says. “Give me credit that I'd at least marry for money. And no comic I know has any.”

“Ah,” Spence says, “now I know why it never worked between us.”

“Not for lack of you trying,” Ashley says and winks. Spence can't help but notice one too many buttons are unbuttoned on her blouse.

“I think your memory is fuzzy,” he says.

“I think I'm already drunk,” Ashley says and lets out a long laugh. She's wearing a tight skirt that is probably too tight for a woman with a butt her size. Somehow, she makes it work. There is something slutty and sexy about her at the same time.

“How we looking for tonight?” Spence asks, peeking his head into the showroom around the corner. The room seats about two hundred and is usually packed in nice and tight.

“Almost full,” Ashley says, still standing a bit closer than people normally do when they talk to others. “Not fucking bad for a Thursday, right?”

“Not bad at all,” Spence says, thinking about his nearly empty Friday night show in Peoria. Occasionally he winds up in towns where the comedy clubs are almost full every single week. He never knows why some clubs are always packed while some are always empty. He can't imagine opening up his own comedy club, even though every comic secretly dreams about it. He's too afraid of being one of the many that fail and not one of the few that succeeds.

“I'm glad you're here,” Ashley says. “I finally broke down and did it.”

“Did what?” Spence asks.

“I got your name tattooed on my ass.”

“Get the hell outta here.”

“It's true, goddamnit.” She practically hacks up a pack of smokes when she speaks. “I did it.”

“I don't believe you.”

Without missing the opportunity, Ashley turns around, raises her skirt, and shows Spence her bare behind. At first, he doesn't notice the tattoo, but only how nice her butt is for one its size. He also can't help but notice the very tiny, red thong underwear that matches her blouse. When his eyes move slightly left, he sees the tattoo in question. Printed in black letters, right across the cheek, are two words:
Y
OUR
N
AME
.

“Clever.” Spence chuckles and rolls his eyes at the same time.

“Thought you might like it,” Ashley says, slowly tugging the skirt back down over her large hips.

“Getting a lot of mileage out of that joke, are you?”

“You have no idea.”

“I have a feeling that you got the ink just as an excuse to show people your ass.”

“You complaining, asshole?” She mock-slaps him on the face. It's a polite touching and might as well be followed with her tongue down his throat. She has always laid it on thick, but Spence is beginning to wonder if they both could use a cold shower.

“Not at all.” He smiles and steps toward the showroom. “I'm gonna hang backstage until showtime. You guys still serve food here?”

“Yeah, and you still get a meal on the house every night,” Ashley says. Spence lets out an inner sigh of relief. He hasn't eaten all day. Ashley reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a menu, which she hands him. “There's some slut here to see you, too.”

“What?” Spence asks. For a split-second he figures out the mileage in his head and wonders how far away he is from Toronto. Would Sam be crazy enough to surprise him? The thought leaves his head almost as quickly as it entered. He knows it's just wishful thinking.

“What do you mean ‘what'?” Ashley scoffs. “One of your whores actually came back to see you again. All by herself. Said she knows you.”

Spence feels a weird tingling on the back of his neck. When women show up by themselves at his show, it can either be golden or terrifying. Sometimes it's just a fan who has seen his show before and wants to see it again. But sometimes it's women he slept with years ago and never called, waiting for their chance to enact revenge. He's had his share of women throwing themselves at him, and he's had his share of drinks thrown at him, too. The odds aren't in his favor, and it makes him uneasy.

“Can I sneak into the back without seeing her?” he asks. “I don't like talking to people before the show.”

“You wanna sneak out the back door when you're done, too?” Ashley says. “Or should I go see if she's holding a paternity suit?”

“Hilarious.”

“That's what you get for using your dick like a divining rod, you hound.”

“Some would call me a hopeless romantic,” Spence says.

“I call you a whore,” Ashley says and points him through the kitchen. He walks all the way around the back of the club, behind the waitresses' area, and quickly backstage into the green room. Throwing himself down on the old, dirty sofa, he thumbs through the menu and tries not to think about how many times Ashley has had sex right where he's sitting.

 

When he's onstage, all he can see is the stage lights shining in his eyes. There is no audience—just a void into which he speaks and from which laughter comes back at him. He feels as if he is floating in space, surrounded by nothing but darkness on all sides and the sun beating down onto his face. There is no one here but him, and so he speaks into the void and waits for the laughter to return. There is no audience to imagine naked. There is no interaction that he needs. He simply puts out the act as he always has and, just as he hopes they will, the voices from within the void laugh back.

“That's why I only date Asian women,” he says and awaits the thunderous laughter he knows will return. When it does, he hears it as a “screw you” to the Electric Pony in Oklahoma. The next wave of laughter is a “screw you” directly at Frank in Peoria, and the one after that is a sledgehammer taken to the roof of Frank's new Corvette. Everyone in Peoria was wrong, and everyone in Syracuse is right. He's a star. And this is right where he belongs.

 

Offstage an hour later, the ego has subsided a bit, even if the swagger still remains. He stands in the lobby, shaking hands with customers as they walk out the door. They beam as they walk past him, smiling and telling him how hilarious he was. They loved the show, and they gush all over him as he stands there and soaks it in.

“My sides hurt from laughter,” an old man says and pats him on the shoulder.

“Oh, my God, that was so funny,” a girl young enough to be his daughter says.

“Why aren't you famous yet?” more than one person wants to know, leading him to wonder the exact same thing.

Spence spies Ashley giving him the once-over from around the corner, and he knows that he can do anything he wants with her if he only pursues it. Part of him wants to, being so caught up in the rush of having just killed it onstage. The other part of him just wants to get back to the hotel and call Sam.

He has shaken almost one hundred hands of the two hundred people who were at the show, it seems, when a drink magically appears in front of him. Held by a very small, very feminine hand, the tall glass of Scotch is exactly what he was craving.

“Thanks, Ashley,” he says, still nodding at the last handful of audience members making their way out the door.

“Who?” a voice says that stops him in his tracks and makes him almost drop the drink now in his hand. Standing in front of him is a very young, very attractive redhead. No older than twenty-five or so, she's holding a drink above the cleavage popping out of a very revealing dress. Spence wonders if she and Ashley are somehow related.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I thought you were someone else.”

“You don't remember me, do you?” The redhead smiles, and Spence realizes this is the woman Ashley was talking about when he first got to the club.

“Of course I do,” he lies. “I wouldn't forget. Trust me.”

“I would hope not.” She raises her eyebrows and laughs. Spence starts to wonder if he slept with her, but he has no memory of it, which is odd. He forgets names and faces all the time, but remembers women he sleeps with. Regardless, he leans over and gives her a big hug, as if they've been friends for years.

“Marcy,” she says, and Spence nods as if that sounds familiar. It does not.

“Yeah, I remember,” he lies again. “Good to see you again. You come out just to see my show?”

“Of course,” she says, “wouldn't have missed it.”

“That makes one of us,” he says, at which Marcy laughs and smiles. At least she didn't hit him with the paternity suit Ashley mentioned. It's flattering when you're thirty-seven and a woman more than ten years younger than you are finds you attractive. Spence immediately feels his guard drop and every ounce of charm he has in him begs for attention.

“You gonna let me buy you a drink?” Marcy says and bounces back and forth from one foot to the other. The flirting is not remotely subtle, which Spence likes even more. He's suddenly reminded of Toledo and his night with Jamie. Never in one year has he had so many women attempting to put booze into him and maybe get him into bed. Not since he was married, anyway.

“Didn't you just do that?” he says, pointing to the glass of Scotch she already handed him.

“Not here,” she says, “somewhere else. You know, we'll have some tequila shots and some laughs.”

“I don't know about that. I'm allergic to tequila.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I break out in handcuffs.”

Marcy laughs big, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she does. Spence smiles, completely oblivious to how cheesy it looks. In the background, he sees Ashley make an exaggerated face and pretend to choke herself in disgust. Spence gives her his best “kiss my ass” look over Marcy's shoulder. Ashley mimics a blow job with her hand and rolls her eyes.

“Come on,” Marcy says, “you didn't let me take advantage of you last time. Let me at least try it now.”

So I didn't have sex with you?
Spence thinks.
How did I mess that up?

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm getting kinda old to be hanging around with young girls.”

“Maybe I like my men old,” Marcy says, which almost makes Spence blush until he realizes that the compliment involves her calling him old. “You're not married anymore, right?”

“No, not anymore.” Spence starts to realize why he never slept with her in the first place. He thinks of Sam and starts to say he has a girlfriend. Just as he opens his mouth, he stops himself and takes a sip of his Scotch instead.

“Then it sounds like you owe me for breaking my heart last time,” Marcy says. “You led me on only to leave me hot and bothered. I'm not going to let that happen again.”

“Sounds like you should bang her,” Ashley calls from twenty feet away. Instantly, Spence feels his face turn pink. Marcy's eyes go wide, and she stifles a laugh without bothering to look back at Ashley.