A surge of exhilaration grips me. Maybe this will—
“Freeze!” David tags out McHuge. Béa manages not to grimace. Mostly.
“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” David swaggers toward Béa. He’s excellent at playing himself. But he’s broken one of improv’s biggest rules: don’t ask questions.
“Um… it seems my pet snake is missing.”
“That’s what she said!” David booms, exultant.
The crowd doesn’t laugh. David went for the joke, instead of giving Béa a “yes, and.” It’s killing the scene and the trust, like McHuge warned us it would.
I’m betting everyone on the wall is thinking what I’m thinking: tag David out, and he’ll tag himself right back in and push the scene off the same cliff. Tag Béa out, and end up locked in a scene with Dick Head.
“We should call Animal Control,” Béa tries, smile faltering.
David bursts out laughing, violating the rule that to be funny, improv has to be played straight. “Like I told you, ma’am—that’s whatshesaid!”
The audience fidgets audibly. David’s shoulders lose theirbroad confidence. He’s failing, and the audience understands he’s not doing it joyfully. He’s not okay, so they’re not okay.
I don’tnotfeel good, watching David realize the bro code he relies on at the office doesn’t apply here.
This would be the perfect time to let him take himself down.
But if David falls, the Fridays go down with him. I’ll doom myself to staying where I am, when what I want most is to get off this fucking wall I’ve been on my whole life.
As long as I’m on the wall, no one can reject me. But no one can see me for who I am, either.
Improv isn’t the solution to all my problems. It wouldn’t be right for every autistic person, or every neurotypical person, either. But it’s pushing me out of my comfort zone in the best way.
Can I let myself have this? I think… yes. Because the person I need to say yes to, before everyone else, is me. If I fail, I’ll go down joyfully, with everything I have.
“Freeze!” I’m stepping forward before I can think. Béa scampers to the wall when I tag her, practically kissing it in gratitude.
I shoulder through an invisible crowd to David, putting a beer into his outstretched hand. “So. He left you. Drinks are on me.”
David seems relieved I turned the scene. He quaffs the beer in one go, wiping his lip and signaling for another. Sharon peels off the wall as a world-weary barkeep who pulls David another pint and examines the high counter pointedly for her missing tip.
A ripple stirs the audience. It’s small, but a shot of warmth blooms in my heart.
The Fridays are doing it.
“I can’t wait to forget about my marriage.” David downs his second pint.
“Really?” I say, surprised. “I wish I could remember mine.”
The audience guffaws, laughing even harder when I stare at them in slack-jawed surprise.
“Freeze!” Jason taps me out.
I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was only sharing Marijke’s truth, now my truth. So many of my memories happened with Tobin. I don’t want to forget those years. I don’t want to lose our love, even if I made mistakes. Even if we both did.
The truth is a funny thing.
At the end of our ten minutes, the Fridays gratefully accept lukewarm applause. The Saturdays don’t clap as we tumble into the wings. Sharon’s expression promises them we’re more talented at violence than we are at improv.
There’s a minute of ecstatic full-body hugging and muted squeals between Jason, Béa, Sharon, and me, while David tries to chuck everyone on the shoulder.
I was afraid to be seen, and I showed myself anyway. I’m exhausted to the point of dizziness, almost high on the amazement of not having died onstage. Wild.
