I'll Be Here All Week (24 page)

On the TV, Leno is obviously uncomfortable with the nonsense coming out of David's mouth. He is asking questions but getting back mostly giggles and “yeah, mans.” The audience is laughing, but mostly because Leno is able to make a few cracks here and there.

“Ah, the youth of America,” Leno says. David grins and tries to high-five Leno. Leno smiles, shakes his head, and introduces a clip of David's TV show.

“This is gonna run short,” the kid with the headset has reappeared and is standing in the doorway, looking at the train wreck that is David Nguyen's interview unfold on the TV monitor. “We're gonna cut to a break and bring you on right after.”

“I'm not bumped?” Spence says, looking more eager than he probably should.

“Not after watching that.” The kid points at David being stared down by Jay Leno on the TV, trying his best to cover up the fact that his current guest is somewhere in Oz.

“Cool,” Spence says out loud without realizing it.

“Congratulations.” The kid practically winks at him and then holds the microphone on his headset close to his mouth. “Here we come.”

With one hand, the kid gives him a “follow me” signal and leads Spence down a part of the hallway he hasn't been through yet. There are more framed posters on the wall, more pictures of Jay Leno, a few of Johnny Carson, at least one Ed McMahon photo. He's surprised how many people run this show. There are people all over the place, many of them wearing headsets, almost all of them dressed in black.

“Right this way.” The kid motions him around another corner where yet more people are standing. The Kilborn show was so much smaller. There was no house band, no dozens of staff members everywhere. It seemed downright tiny compared to this operation. His walk seems to go on for miles before he steps through a doorway and to an area where he can hear the show. It takes him a minute before he realizes that he's standing behind the curtain. He's in the studio now. He's backstage at
The Tonight Show.

“Holy shit,” Spence says.

“Don't say that when you go out there, please.” The kid in the headset smiles at him.

“Oh, I . . .”

“It's cool,” the kid says. “You're gonna be great.”

“Yeah?”

A young woman, who is also wearing a headset, runs over with a tiny microphone in her hand with a thin wire that runs from it to a little black battery pack.

“Clip this to your lapel,” she says. “Run the cord down the inside of your shirt and then clip the battery pack to the back of your jeans.”

Spence does what she says and adjusts his sports jacket so that the microphone seems hidden. He's done this many times before on local TV shows and on the Kilborn show. In the clubs, he always likes the feeling of the microphone in his hand. But every comic knows it's good to get used to performing with a wireless microphone.

“Say something,” the kid says to him.

“What?” he stammers.

“Perfect,” the girl says, “don't touch the mic.”

“I—” he stutters as she walks away.

“Have fun, and remember where to stand,” the kid in the headset says and steps back a few feet to give him some room. There was a brief moment earlier where they showed Spence where to stand. Now it seems as if that was four months ago. “Go straight through the curtain and right onto the mark. You know the drill.”

“The drill, yeah,” Spence says. He thinks Glass Tiger was a Canadian band. He tries to remember what Canada is. He thinks it's a country.

“And don't touch the mic,” the kid says.

Everything is much cooler here. Spence wonders if the blood in his body is going cold and he's dying. Then he remembers that it's very cold on TV sets. He remembers that same feeling from when he did the Kilborn show. They have to keep all the equipment cool and make up for the fact that the lights are so hot. He's practically freezing. It will change when he steps out from behind the curtain. It will be warm. The lights will hit him, and he'll feel better.

Music is playing, and he knows that there's a commercial going on. The music starts to get louder. He hears commotion outside, behind the curtain. About ten feet away, people in headsets are watching TV monitors. He sees the title card for the
The Tonight Show
come on one of them. The audience begins applauding. The music comes to an end as the bands stops playing.

This is it.

“Welcome back,” Jay Leno says to the camera.

Jay freaking Leno,
he thinks.

“My next guest has appeared on numerous television programs,” Leno embellishes, “and can be seen touring regularly all over the United States and in Canada. A very funny, talented young comedian. Please welcome: Michael Spencer.”

He hears his name, and it sounds amazing. He just heard Jay Leno announce his name on
The Tonight Show.
In an instant, one of his biggest dreams just came true. With a huge smile on his face, he steps out from behind the curtain and onto the set. Applause surrounds him and cameras focus in as he steps up to his mark. The nervousness is gone. The anticipation is gone. The butterflies are dead.

He's ready.

Spence stands in his hotel room feeling triumphant. It has been hours and yet he still stands and looks out the window of the hotel as if he just walked off camera. It has taken several drinks to make his hands stop shaking, but he doesn't feel drunk. He feels great. He feels more alive than he has felt in years. He feels like he just conquered the world.

“Great stuff,” Jay Leno said to him as he shook his hand and the show went to a commercial break. That was all he said, but it was all that mattered. It felt amazing to hear it, and it was only two words. The audience applauded as the “Applause” sign blinked on and off again, but it was obvious they would have applauded either way. His set was just that good.

 

HOW DID IT GO?

 

The text message is from Beth. He forgot that he even told her he was going to be there. He types back that it went great and takes a few moments to simply smile and dance around his hotel room. He hopes that Evan doesn't think that comedians on
The Tonight Show
are such deadbeats after all. He doesn't know why he cares. Evan is out of the picture anyway. Evan is a douche.

The phone buzzes again, and he rolls his eyes. He knows he's going to have to call Beth and splash cold water all over whatever nonsense is in her head. He has no intention of going back to her. He never really did. He considers defaulting on his storage space and letting all of his belongings sell to auction. He looks down at his phone at the new message that came through:

 

I LOVE YOU. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU.

 

This time the text message is from Sam. He deletes the message from Beth and dances around the room a little bit longer. He wants to call Sam right away and tell her all about it. In a few hours, she'll watch the whole thing on TV, but he wants to give her the details, line by line.

He thinks of going out to some jewelry store in LA and buying her a huge diamond ring, bigger than anything he can actually afford. He thinks of flying home and asking her to be with him forever. He knows it's crazy, but he enjoys the thought and dances around the hotel anyway. He never thought this about Beth. He thinks the word
forever
all of a sudden, and it doesn't make him puke. That has to count for something.

He puts down the booze and takes a deep breath. He might pass out before he gets to see himself on TV and wake up with a terrible hangover, which is exactly the opposite of what he wants right now. He tells Johnnie Walker to take a break and then gives the bad news to Jack Daniel's, too. Tonight, he's going to just enjoy life a little bit, watch himself on TV, and experience life with twenty-twenty vision.

Just like he does with Sam.

His phone rings, and he picks it up right away. He knows it's Sam, and he wants to tell her how everything seems right in the world. He gets down on one knee, prepared to propose over the phone if he has to.

“Hey, baby,” Spence says and leans on his right leg as he kneels.

“Wassup, sweetums?” Rodney says on the other end. When he hears Rodney's voice, Spence bolts upright and stands looking at himself in the mirror on the wall. He wanted to talk to Sam.

“What do you want?” he says, instantly sober.

“Nice to hear from you, too,” Rodney says.

“What is it?”

“What do you think?” Rodney says. “I'm calling to congratulate you.”

“Congratulate me for what?” Spence asks, playing dumb.

“For what,” Rodney scoffs. “What the hell do you think for?”

Spence pauses and looks over his right shoulder. It's still very bright outside, but he feels as if it's midnight. “For the show?” he asks.

“Damn right, for the show,” Rodney says. “
The Tonight Show
. Way to go, buddy.”

“How'd you find out about that?”

“I've got my sources, you know. I've got people working for me out there, too.”

“Great.”

“Yeah,” Rodney says, “great. Listen, if you wanna talk about it, I think I can get you some really great work.”

“Work? This the same work you were offering me before I fired you?”

“Yeah.” Rodney tries to laugh. It comes off phony. “Better than that.”

“You don't say.”

“Listen, are you still pissed?” Rodney asks. “Because I can get you some really good gigs. All you've got to do is say so and they're yours. You stop being pissed, and we can do some real business here. Or you can take everything personal and miss out on some sweet work.”

“What kind of gigs?”

“Good gigs,” Rodney says. “Some good stuff. Funny Bones. Improvs. All the good places. Top clubs.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“You offering me this because I'm that good?” Spence says. “Or because I just did
The Tonight Show
and you can make some money off me?”

“Does it matter? You just did
The Tonight Show,
baby. Your ticket up that ladder.”

Spence thinks for a minute and wonders if Rodney has a very good point. That A-list work has always been the goal. Does it really matter how he finally got it, or even why? As long as it's keeping him from being the late-shift manager at Second Cup, isn't that the point? And if Rodney is the enemy, isn't it better to keep him close?

“What does that mean? What kind of touring are we talking about?”

“Well, a lot of the same stuff,” Rodney says. “I won't lie to you. But a lot of really good gigs. I can get you some casinos, too. Just like I said.”

“What about the money?”

“Good money.”

“Like what?”

“Like more than what you were making before,” Rodney says. “Not TV star cash. But a little more here and there.”

Spence looks in the minibar and thinks about a little bottle of Hennessey. Or, better yet, nothing. Room service would be great. He could get a nice steak and then call Sam and talk about when he's flying back to Toronto. Maybe she'll go on the road with him. If he made more money, she could quit her job and travel with him. But what Rodney is offering sounds like a
lot
of travel.

More money, less touring,
Spence thinks.

“I've gotta be honest with you,” he says. “That doesn't sound so great.”

“What are you talking about?” Rodney says. “That's the best deal going for you. That's the best thing out there. Top clubs. Top pay—”

“It's not top pay,” Spence interrupts.

“It's good pay.”

“Fine,” Spence says, “but it ain't great.”

“Better than what you've had.”

Spence takes a deep breath and sighs loudly into the phone. He likes the idea of making Rodney wait the way he always had to when Rodney was multitasking. “You know what I didn't hear?” he says. “I didn't hear the words ‘A-list' come out of your mouth.”

Rodney chuckles. “It ain't that easy, kid.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you did one spot on
The Tonight Show
. That's great. But that doesn't change things overnight.”

“It used to.”

“And there used to be three channels on the TV,” Rodney says. “But things are different now. You've definitely shown your chops, pal. But I've got guys that have done
Letterman
a few times who still aren't at the top of that ladder.”

“Then what's the point?” Spence asks.

“To keep climbing it,” Rodney says.

Spence feels the skip in his step turning into more of a dragging of his feet. He wanted the high of what he just did to last longer before the reality of his career came barreling up like a Toyota in the middle of Iowa.

“You wanted to prove me wrong, and you did,” Rodney says. “You want me to show you I believe in you? Look at the gigs I can get you. That's your proof, my friend.”

“Better gigs,” Spence says.

“It's work,” Rodney says. There's a long pause after this, and Spence sits there for a minute and takes it in. Rodney is right; it is work. After tonight, there's probably plenty of work in plenty of clubs. He'll probably get more gigs in places way better than the Electric Pony. He might even get a full calendar of nothing but weeklong gigs in nice clubs like the Improv in Hollywood or Carolines in New York City. But one appearance on
The Tonight Show
isn't going to make him a star overnight. Now, more than ever, Spence wishes it were 1987. He wishes he'd just had this TV spot during The Boom.

“How much work do you think?” he asks Rodney while he does a little math in his head.

“I dunno,” Rodney says. “Probably as much as fifty weeks. Whatever you want. However much you wanna work.”

“On the road. Doing club gigs.”

“Yeah,” Rodney says. It almost sounds like a question. “That's the job, remember?”

“Fifty weeks.”

“That's being a comedian.”

“I guess it is, yeah,” Spence says. He hears a beep on the phone and knows it's Sam sending him another text message. He wants to see what she's writing, but he has to hang up on Rodney to do so. On the other end of the phone, he can hear Rodney tapping a pen on the desk. He looks around the hotel room and at the familiar setup. He looks down at his suitcase on the floor.

Tour less, make more,
he thinks.

“So,” Rodney asks after a minute of silence, “what do you say?”

Spence sits for a few seconds that feels like a half hour. Then he says, “I have to call you back.”

“What?” Rodney asks.

“I have to call you back,” Spence repeats. “Just give me a minute.”

“Okay. You know where to find me.”

“I do,” Spence says and hangs up the phone. He doesn't sit down. He doesn't move an inch from here he's standing. He dials Sam, and she answers almost immediately.

“Hey, you.” Her voice sounds amazing. She sounds happy and sultry and quirky and sexy. Everything Spence thinks about her is how she sounds in just two words. It's just what he needed to hear.

“I love you,” he says. A stupid grin instantly appears on his face.

“I love you, too.” Sam giggles. “That all you had to say?”

“No.” Spence turns around and faces the other wall. He feels like walking somewhere or pacing the room or jumping up and down. Instead he just stands there and changes direction. “But I did need to say it. I haven't yet, and I needed to. I needed you to hear it. To know it.”

There's a pause before Sam speaks again. “Well, I do know it. But it is nice to hear.”

“And you'd hate living on the road.”

“I'd hate what?”

“Living on the road, like I do. Town to town. Going to shows all over the country.”

“Is this a trick question?” Sam asks.

“It's not a question at all,” Spence says. “If I went on tour and brought you with me, you'd probably hate it.”

“Well, I have always wanted to see Chicago.”

“How about the other fifty-one weeks in a year?”

“No, thanks.”

“That's what I figured.” Spence looks down at his feet. He could use that new pair of shoes now. He sits down on the edge of the hotel bed. “I don't think I'd want that, either.”

“What brought this on?” Sam asks. “Shouldn't you be getting ready to watch yourself on TV and bask in all its glory? Everyone at work can't wait to see it.”

“Me too.” Spence nods, even though Sam can't see him do it. “But it took doing that show today to make me realize a few things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I'm good at it,” he says. “Being a comedian.”

“Yes, you are.”

“But I don't know that I care anymore. I mean, it's great to make people laugh. But that might just be the only part that matters at all to me anymore. The only part I remotely like.”

Sam chuckles quietly into the phone. “And you realized this after performing stand-up comedy on
The Tonight Show
?”

“Is it ironic?” Spence asks, not sure why he's smiling.

“A little,” Sam says. “But not surprising to anyone who knows you.”

“That's just it,” Spence says, leaning forward. “No one knows me but you. I'm not sure anyone ever really did.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Well, bring me back a bottle of whatever you're having,” Sam says. “Because I like the effect it has on you better than whatever you normally drink.”

Spence laughs and lies back on the bed. The hotel is so nice, he thinks nothing of being on top of the comforter. He never wants to have to throw a dirty hotel comforter on the floor again. “It's true, you know,” he says. “All of it.”

“I know,” Sam says quietly. Spence can tell she's blushing a little bit just from the sound of her voice.

“And I think what happened today made me realize that I've been reaching for the wrong goal all along,” he says. “I was trying to get something that was never going to make me as happy as something I already have.”

“And that something is . . . ?”

“A district manager for the Gap.”

“I see,” Sam teases. “Think you got me, do you?”

“I can only hope.”

“You're crazy.”

“Does this mean you'll have me?” Spence asks.

“Silly. I'm already yours.” She laughs. “You had me at dick jokes.”

This makes Spence laugh out loud, and he runs his hand through his hair. He's almost forty-two years old. This is probably the worst time for a career change, immigration to another country, and relationship with a woman he spends more time with on the phone than in person. A woman he met in another city while doing the job he's now considering leaving right a time when everyone he knows would think he was crazy for doing it.