I'll Be Here All Week (6 page)

“I'm sure we had one at some point.”

“Screw you,” Spence says.

“Kiss my ass,” Rodney says.

The door closes behind him, and Spence waits for the elevator for a couple of minutes. As usual, he has left Rodney's office and feels as if he got absolutely nothing done. The only consolation he has is knowing that Rodney will forget all about the Canadian gig in about ten minutes, and that includes the commission he thinks he's owed. The sound of Spence's blood pumping through his brain slowly starts to get quieter and the pain lessens just before the teenage intern comes running out into the hallway.

Almost got away,
he thinks.
Should have taken the stairs.

“He says he needs you real quick,” the intern says. The poor kid looks exhausted. Maybe he sleeps there, too.

“What for?” Spence asks. He tries to think if there's commission he owes Rodney that he's somehow forgotten that Rodney has somehow remembered.

“I don't know.” The intern shrugs and shuffles back into Rodney's office.

Spence follows the intern back into the cluttered room and knocks a stack of papers over as he opens the door. Rodney doesn't seem to notice or care. It was probably just a stack of contracts for sitcoms that never made their way into his hands. Or obituaries for another dead comic still somehow making six figures per year. No big deal.

“What?” he asks Rodney as he tries not to fall down.

“Dude,” Rodney says. “It's a good thing you didn't leave. I have something for you.”

“Is it Key West?”

“Better. It's a TV commercial.”

“Commercial for what?”

“A body spray ad. They need a funny guy who fits your description. That's what I was on hold waiting to hear about,” Rodney says.

“When is it?” Spence asks.

“In a couple of hours,” Rodney says. “Can you do it?”

“I dunno. I guess so.”

“I'm telling you this is perfect for you. You're the first person I thought of when they told me about it. It's you, man. It's totally you.”

“You always say that.”

“And I mean it when I say it,” Rodney says. “I wouldn't send you out there if I didn't think it was perfect for you.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Spence says.

“What?” Rodney says.

“The Sprite commercial ring a bell?”

Spence reminds Rodney that the last audition he sent him on was some TV commercial for Sprite. Rodney went on and on about how perfect he was for it. It was going to change his career for the better. It was a great gig; a national spot that could lead to a spokesperson role. He got excited by the way Rodney praised him and, when he showed up, the room was full of black guys. They wanted black men in their forties, and Rodney sent a thirtysomething white dude. When he retells the story to Rodney, he looks out the corner of his eye and sees the intern laugh.

“If you'd have gotten that commercial, you would've made ten grand,” Rodney says.

“For the love of—”

“Look at this!” Rodney holds up a call sheet. “It says right here they want late twenties to mid-thirties. Comedic types preferred. That's you, asshole. Is it not?”

Spence looks at the call sheet. It is, indeed, him. The audition is actually calling for wacky, comedic men just like him. Even better, it pays five thousand dollars.

He sighs. “It's in two hours?”

“I'll make the call,” Rodney says.

“Alright, I'll head over there.”

“Sweet,” Rodney says. “This will be perfect. You were the first person that popped into my head, too. How perfect is it that you were already here? That's fate, man.”

“I haven't even gotten the part,” Spence says. “Calm down.”

“Well, you're gonna get the part,” Rodney says. “This is you, baby.”

 

Spence is on the subway before he even realizes that he meant to talk to Rodney about getting him better gigs at better venues. Of course, he knows that landing this audition will get Rodney to pay more attention to him. He also knows that landing a national TV commercial can up his pay on the road. A guy on a soap opera makes a fortune. A guy in a toothpaste commercial can make pretty good cash, too.

What any of that has to do with actual stand-up comedy is anyone's guess, but that's how it works. The more credits a comic has, the more money he can make, even if the credit has nothing to do with stand-up comedy. Some guy from Omaha that used to open for him went from being an MC to being a high-paid headliner simply because he was “The ‘Okie Dokie' Guy” in a series of commercials for Miller Lite. A few silly beer ads, and the kid was pulling in six figures at A-list comedy clubs. He didn't even have an hour's worth of material, and he was closing shows and raking in serious coin.

If only I'd been a black forty-year-old,
he thinks.
I could've been the Sprite guy.

After wandering around the same block for way too long, he arrives at the audition about five minutes early. Even if the audition is a bust, he's not so annoyed being there. He loves being in the middle of the city. Too many months on the road in the middle of nowhere makes him miss the big buildings and having everything a walk away. It feels nice to not be in the car for a change and to actually get out and walk somewhere.

The last time he was this close to Broadway was when Rodney sent him to some musical audition. Rodney told him it was for some new southern musical and that he was perfect for the show. When he got there, he found out it was to play Huck Finn in a Broadway tour. He was thirtysomething years old at the time, and they were auditioning teens. Needless to say, he didn't get the part. It was another brilliant move by Rodney.

He walks into the room and straight to the receptionist at the casting agency. Like most receptionists in most casting agencies, she's bored and barely looks at him when he says hello. She hands him a clipboard with the usual questionnaire attached to it asking all the usual questions. He fills out the audition waiver and hands it back to her, along with a copy of his résumé and a headshot. She tells him to wait around the corner with the other actors and then goes back to being bored.

He steps into the waiting room and finds himself surrounded by eight guys who look almost exactly like him. He laughs. The poor guys each look like a smaller or taller version of each other. A few of them have their hair highlighted. It looks like an awkward family reunion.

He sits down next to the guy who looks the least like him. The guy is reading
Entertainment Weekly
and picking mindlessly at the buckle on his boot. Watching the guy as he reads the magazine, Spence thinks to himself that they're really nice boots. This only reminds him that he needs new shoes.

“I suppose you're wondering why I called you all here today,” he says to the group. A few of them chuckle. The others don't really pay attention. He sits quietly for a moment, looking at the doppelganger next to him. He wishes he had brought something to read. Sitting and waiting for an audition is both brutal and boring. It's a combination of nervous anticipation and complete indifference.

“So how'd you get this audition?” Spence asks.

“My agent set it up,” the guy says.

“Yeah? Who are you with?”

“Rodney Carnes,” the guy says.

“No shit,” Spence says. “So am I.”

“Me too,” the guy on the opposite side of him says.

Spence looks around the room at the remaining six guys. Each of them has the same realization on their faces. It only takes him a second to put the pieces together. The pain in his neck suddenly returns.

“So,” he says to the room, “anyone else here represented by Rodney Carnes?”

Every guy in the room raises his hand.

Fuck you, Rodney.

Spence thinks that if you knocked him out, woke him up in Montreal, and told him he was in some part of Europe he might just believe it. It's an amazing city, and it doesn't look like anywhere else he's ever been in North America. The city is beautiful, everything is written in French, and he is surrounded by some of the most gorgeous women he's ever seen. Even the girl behind the counter at McDonald's looked like a lingerie model.

He's never been this cold at this time of year. Jersey is often cold in the early spring, but not like it is in Montreal today. He's wearing a turtleneck sweater, thick overcoat, and wool scarf, and he's still freezing. It's a good thing he stopped off at the storage unit after all. Coming up here in his lighter clothes would have been nuts.

He walks down Saint Catherine Street, only a few blocks from his hotel. He likes city life, and walking around the busy people as they crowd the sidewalks doesn't bother him like it does many people. It has a very cool feeling. His entire career is about standing out, so it feels good to blend in once in a while. He strolls slowly, watching the beautiful people coming in and out of random shops. He tries to figure out what the English translation is to the French billboards and storefronts. The menu at McDonald's was pretty easy.

For the first time, he is very aware of the fact that he knows almost nothing about Canada. How is it possible that he learned so little about it in all of his years at school? It's not just that he doesn't know anything about Canadian history; he doesn't even know anything about the culture. He had no idea things would be written in two languages everywhere. He had no idea that McDonald's has a maple leaf in the middle of the golden arches. He sees a billboard advertising a Canadian TV show and laughs to himself. He had no idea there was a TV show called
Canadian Idol.
In school the teachers always said Canada was pretty much like America. He has been here only a few hours, and already realizes that they were full of shit.

He hasn't even been to the Comedy Crib yet, but the people here are already treating him better than he's used to. The hotel is gorgeous and only a few blocks away from the club. Even though he can walk anywhere he needs to go, they have a cab company on call to take him anywhere he wants. And he has already been told that all of his drinks and meals at the club are free.

He thinks this is really how he should always be treated, but it feels special when it happens these days. For every club that treats him as well as the Comedy Crib, there are six just like the Electric Pony. Somewhere along the way, comedians became a dime a dozen. Most clubs treat him as if he should feel lucky just to get paid.

Supply and demand,
he thinks.

He blames “The Boom.” Comedians talk about it all the time. Back in the '80s, there was a boom in the comedy business, and clubs popped up everywhere. There were more clubs than there were comedians, and being a comedian was a hot job to have. The money was great, and people wanted stand-up comedy everywhere. Every network had a stand-up comedy show. Even mediocre comedians got their own TV deals. Getting on a talk show was a given. It wasn't a matter of if you would get a spot on
An Evening at the Improv
so much as when.

Then it all imploded. Too many comedians, too many comedy clubs. Places that had no business doing stand-up comedy hired people who had no business calling themselves comedians. Bowling alleys had “Comedy Night” and brought in headlining comedians who were only amateur comedians a few weeks before. Agents like Rodney popped up left and right and crowded the market. Too many comedians' sitcoms tanked. Stand-up comedy lost its charm, and clubs closed one after another. That left way too many comedians and not enough work.

That's about the time he finally started to get paid. Bad timing, really. Just when the business was starting to tank, he was trying to make a career out of it. A few years earlier and that appearance on Kilborn would have guaranteed him A-list work for many more years. With hundreds of comedians willing to work for less money and plenty of clubs looking to save every buck they possibly could, that TV credit didn't have the same effect it used to.

On top of that, the money stayed the same. The pay was never adjusted for inflation. What was good money in 1987 pretty much sucks these days. Yet there are new comics out there willing to work for half what Spence thinks is terrible pay. Some are willing to put themselves up in hotels on their own dime. Some even offer to work the first time at no pay, just for the chance to audition.

No wonder the Electric Pony thought I was such a spoiled jerk,
he thinks.
They probably talked other comics into cleaning the bathrooms.

But there are always exceptions. Dane Cook is around the same age as Spence and a millionaire. All the late night talk shows are still showcasing comedians. There are still random TV shows and movie deals. Everyone still has a shot to make it. Everyone can still get noticed. It's just a matter of timing. The right place at the right time. The right routine and the one killer bit can put a comedian over the top. That and a truckload of luck. Deep down, every working comic out there is waiting for another “Boom.”

He turns the corner on Saint Catherine and winds up standing in front of the Pepsi Forum. He stands on the street corner for a second and simply watches people walk by. In front of him is a nice little park, and he thinks about sitting there for a while. In one direction, taxis and cars crowd the streets and, in another, there's a quiet park bench with his name on it. It's so rare a sight that he just stops and enjoys where he is right at that moment.

A woman walks by and looks at him funny. She chuckles and then crosses the street. He looks over his shoulder and realizes that he's standing in front of a string of posters with his face on them. Just like when bands plaster their fliers all over anything they can in New York City, the comedy club there has posters of him randomly spread around Montreal. It's rare that he sees this sort of thing. Nowadays clubs post stuff all over the Internet. He wants to take a picture to remember this. He knows it will just be covered up by newer ads in a few days.

“Three Nights Only,” the poster reads, with his ridiculous mug staring bug-eyed at the camera. His hair is lighter in the picture, and he looks a little thinner and a lot younger. The photo is only four years old.

The Comedy Crib seems to still treat comedians the way he always heard it was like during The Boom. That's a nice feeling and exactly what he needs after several weeks of one-star hotels and saloon gigs. Those jobs manage to pay the bills, but sometimes a guy needs to be pampered a bit. He just hopes the rest of the week in Montreal is as nice as the first few hours. He heard that Canadians were very nice. Thus far, it seems a fair assessment.

He laughs to himself and, deep in the pockets of his overcoat, crosses his fingers.

 

Marcus is one of the friendliest club managers Spence has ever met. He has to wonder if this is as unusual for Canadian clubs as it is for the clubs in the States. It's more than just being generous or treating him well; Marcus seems to really
love
stand-up comedy. And comedians.

It's so easy to hate comedians. Just like any other job, running a comedy club can be a pain in the ass. When your employees are often bitter narcissists that come in and out every week, a person can get downright pissed. Comedians are known for being social misfits. The average bar has a dozen employees. Add fifty or so comedians who change every week to that roster and the fact that Marcus seems so jolly is understandably rare.

“This guy is hilarious,” Marcus points at a framed headshot on the wall of the Comedy Crib. Then he points to another one. “So is this guy. Oh, and this guy is one of my all-time favorites.”

Marcus can't be older than forty or so, but his thick glasses make him look a little older. They look like welding goggles and are clearly too big for his small head. His hair is salt-and-pepper and almost shoulder length. The guy would probably be a very handsome man if not for the thick glasses, the hippie haircut, and the fact that he is hardly over five feet tall.

Many of the comedians that Marcus is pointing out are pretty familiar. Spence recognizes several of them. Some are friends. There are several that he has never heard of before, and Marcus points out that they're all Canadian comics. Some are very popular in Quebec but not elsewhere because their shows are completely in French.

“We do one French week per month,” Marcus says.

“All French comics?” Spence asks.

“And customers,” Marcus says.

“I thought everyone here was bilingual.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Will they get all of my American references here?” Spence asks, suddenly wondering if he should have learned how to say “fuck” in French before rolling into town.

“Of course,” Marcus says, “except anything having to do with American TV, movies, sports, or current events.”

Spence feels his heart shoot into his throat. “Really?” he asks.

“I'm just messing with you,” Marcus says.

“Jesus. I was about to sneak out of here before being run out of town.”

“You'll be fine,” Marcus says. “But, seriously, don't say you're American. They'll boo you and throw things.”

“Really?”

Marcus winks at him and walks away.

Nervousness is nothing new to Spence but, this time, it feels different. His first time onstage in a new venue can sometimes be a little nerve-racking, but this is his first time onstage in a completely different
country.
Sure, people can assume Canada is just like the United States all they want, but he suddenly doesn't feel like he's simply performing a little north from home. Mostly, he doesn't want to screw up onstage in a place that already has treated him pretty well.

The lights go down, and he stands in the back of the room, watching the local comedians perform. There are four of them, each of varying ages, and each of them completely different. There's the low-key monologist who drones on about Canadian politics. After him, a young hipster takes the stage and essentially reminds the audience that he's cooler than they are. At one point, an impressionist does what must be excellent impressions of Canadian celebrities and, of course, Arnold Schwarzenegger.

There's an energy in this place that he immediately loves. The audience seems to hang on every word. Even when they don't laugh, they smile. They nod when they don't outright applaud. It's often quiet and yet friendly. The comics onstage seem to be pals with the audience instead of just paid performers. Even when the language onstage gets vulgar, it all seems very easygoing. Of course, with all he knows, this is because the audience barely speaks English and they're just smiling while they try to figure it out. Maybe he got booked on one of those French nights and no one bothered to point it out?

The MC calls his name, and Spence steps onstage as if he owns the place. He's not a stranger in a strange land here. He's not a foreigner and certainly not just the ugly American. On this five-foot-by-four-foot block of wood, he is in charge. This is his home. This is where he lives. He is throwing the party; everyone else is invited to come along.

The sound of that first wave of laughter after the first joke in a set is amazing. It's the greatest feeling, and it always follows the same nervous anxiety. He hopes they will laugh. They always have before. There's no reason to think they won't. But sometimes they simply don't go where he wants to take them. Sometimes something is off. Sometimes it's him. Usually it's them. He just doesn't know until he delivers that opening line. When he sells it just right, he can tell in the first two minutes how the rest of the night will go.

“That's why I only date Asian women,” he says. The laughter hits him, and he knows that everything will be just fine. They will like him, and he will like them. They will go where he leads them. He will have fun taking them there.

Part of it is easy. They give him the benefit of the doubt before he takes the stage. After all, he's paid to be there. He must be funny, right? He must know what he's doing, or he wouldn't be on a poster in the lobby. They wouldn't give him a microphone if he didn't know how to use it. The audience is his before he takes the stage. It's up to him to lose them. They want to laugh. They want to be friends. After that first laugh fades and he leads them into the second one, he knows that they will be.

 

“Fucking brilliant.” Marcus nearly spills his beer because he's leaning in so close. Music is playing in the background, and Marcus is yelling in his ear as if it's much louder than it really is. Ten or so blocks from the Comedy Crib, sitting in an Irish pub with several French Canadians, all is right in the world. Marcus puts an arm around him and pats him on the back at the same time.

Spence smiles and takes a long sip of his beer. He had a pretty good show, but Marcus is treating him as if it was the best thing he's ever seen. A couple of hours and several drinks later, it's all they've talked about. It's the same set that got him into trouble at the Electric Pony, yet here almost got him elected mayor. He doesn't think it was that great a set, really. It was fine, but not nearly the best he's ever done. Still, Marcus loved it, and he's the guy who signs the check at the end of the week.

Spence laughs to himself.
Last week I'm a spoiled baby, and this week I'm a star.

He enjoyed the show, despite the fact that he felt the crowd was a bit more politically correct than he normally likes. It wasn't the language they were hesitant with as much as the more controversial topics. He wonders if that's part of the Canadian politeness he has always heard about. Maybe it extends into comedy as well.

“When you did the bit about shitting your pants in the bar, I almost shit mine right there in the club,” Marcus says. It's an odd and yet appropriate compliment.