I raise my hand. “I thought, uh, we had a different instructor?”
“Bettina had a misunderstanding with a Canada goose, so I’m teaching her classes until her cast comes off.”
A flinching “ooohhh” ripples across the class. Canada geese are twenty pounds of pure hatred in a deceptively attractive package, and springtime is their angriest season. Understandable—they just spent five months in Arizona at peak tourist season and they’re about to have sextuplets.
I raise my hand again. “But wasn’t Naheed supposed to be here?”
“Naheed guides the Tuesday and Saturday groups.”
Damn, I must’ve missed that on the antiquated registration website. Saturdays I babysit Eleanor while Amber’s at her single moms’ support group, but maybe I can transfer to Tuesday. Craig specifically wanted me to register for Naheed’s class.
“Moving on. Who thinks improv means making up jokes?” McHuge’s diesel-engine voice unlocks something in people. Four hands go up.
The holdout is David Headley, who’s flaunting his loweredarms. I think his parents must’ve known he’d turn out this way, and that’s why they gave him a name that tracks so easily to Dick Head.
“Common misconception. Punch lines aren’t where the best laughs live. Improv is about uncovering what’s universal andreal. The truth. Is. Funny.” McHuge locks eyes with everyone in turn.
Worry tugs at my gut. People hate it when I tell the truth. If I say meetings are inefficient or our processes can be improved, my coworkers ignore me for a week. Truth is how you lose a sister—you try to comfort her with something you think is reassuring, but actually, when you sayMaybe you two are better off apart,it sets off the rant that breaks your relationship and grinds the pieces to dust.
I’m not here for truth. I’m here for the part where I learn to be a smooth talker. Not a liar, exactly. But I don’t plan to reveal the parts of myself people don’t like.
“Who knows the golden rule of improv?” McHuge rumbles.
“Yes, and!” Jason shouts.
“Yes! And!” McHuge makes big arm movements. He doesn’t seem to notice what a sad ensemble we are, squished and sweating, with no idea what we’re playing at.
“Take what your co-players give you, add to it, and give it back. Let’s start by telling each other the truth and giving good ‘yes, and.’ Choose one true thing to share about yourself. Not something you’re proud of. We grow closer by sharing our weaknesses, not our strengths. Who’s opening their heart first?”
My tall seatmate whips out a pen, jots down a few words, then puts up her hand. She looks uncomfortable but game.
“Yes!” McHuge waves in her direction.
She reads with a trace of a French Canadian accent. “Hello, my name is Béa. I’m afraid of giving my wedding speech. I don’t know if I can even talk to my guests without using notes. Or swearing when I get it wrong,” she adds. Everyone laughs.
McHuge nods with his whole body. “Right on, Béa! Imagine a sketch with a bride flipping through her notes, trying to find the right thing to say. Tense, right? In improv, the audience wants to feel that tension with you. The truth is funny.”
Béa crumples her note triumphantly. She’s already getting what she came for. It looked easy.
When McHuge’s finger points to me, I seize the moment.
“Hi. I’m Liz, and—”
I almost confess to being a millennial who’s screwed up the moving-back-home stereotype by doing it when my parents aren’t even here. But at the last second, I catch Dick Head’s smirk. I hate that I’m fulfilling his low expectations by mumbling, “… and there’s nothing funny about me.”
Silence. Everybody absorbs my failure, the atmosphere growing wet and heavy.
In my hands, the truth isn’t funny or interesting. Or magic.
“Okay!” McHuge claps his giant hands like thunder. “Liz gave us a fantastic learning point. Improv can get uncomfortable. When you feel uncomfortable, it’s a great time tonotchange the subject. Stay in the moment, trust your partner. No one succeeds all the time, so when you fail, do it joyfully. If you’re okay, the audience will be okay.”
My ego shrivels and expires. I’m not okay, and everyone knows it.
Stupid crevasses, never there when I need to throw myself into one.
At the end of three hours, I’ve made zero jokes and zero friends. David Headley has now seen me pretend to be a calf getting born, which is even less flattering than it sounds. I died a little every time McHuge shouted encouragement about how tight the birth canal was and how amazing it felt to get out of there.
Everyone had a fantastic time but me.
