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My classmates and I watched anxiously as the club filled up. Earlier, D. had warned me against overly high expectations. "Don't expect to kill," he said, using comedyspeak for doing boffo. "I'll be happy if you go up there, don't trip, don't forget the material and get even one laugh." Frankly, I'd set loftier goals for myself than not tripping.Andrew was up first and immediately forgot half his act. But he turned that into his act and the audience ate it up. Mike followed, and the audience reacted warmly. Then it was my turn.
Hearing my name, I waded through the room, where I passed an old friend. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I climbed onto the stage. The crowd seemed friendly enough, at least those who were paying attention (What was it Eddie told me to say?). "You know," I sputtered, "you really have to be a people person to be a bathroom attendant." For some reason they found that funny.
What they didn't find funny was the riff about drinking wine at my expensive restaurant: "The wine was just pressed. It was so fresh you could still taste the feet." And by the time I'd tossed in a line about illegal aliens, the audience had transformed into a roomful of Edvard Munch models, their silent screams begging for someone to give me the hook.
As I left the stage to polite applause, my friend handed me a drink. "Drown your sorrows," he said.
Here's the checklist: I didn't blow my lines, not most of them, anyway. I didn't sound like Alan King. I didn't fidget, flop-sweat or sob for my mother. I got through it. But I didn't kill. I know D. said not to worry about it, but let's face it, "killing" is why we took this class.
The fact is, there are some people who belong onstage. Andrew's a natural, Mike's charming, Christopher's funny and Glen's love for the stage is infectious. For the rest of us, there's a seat in the audience. And that ain't a bad place to be. After all, there are some funny people out there.
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