“And I said to him—get this—I said, ‘What is this, Looney Tunes or a cry for help?’”Moira cackled.
Nessa nearly choked.“Bitch!Stop!You’re gonna get us kicked off this train!”
A woman across the aisle shot them a dirty look.Moira winked at her like she was doing charity work.
I pulled my beanie lower over my ears and kept my head down, staring at the scuffed floor between my sneakers.My heart was doing double Dutch in my chest, and I kept running my set list through my head like I could cram jokes in at the last minute and magically become…well…good.
This was one of my first real bookings.Not just an open mic.Not just five minutes before a room full of other sad comics and two drunk tourists looking for the bathroom.A real show.With a real audience.And actual money at the end of it.
It wasn’t much money, but still.
If I pulled this off…
If I kept pulling it off…
Maybe I wouldn’t have to fake-orgasm on camera anymore for a living.
That thought alone kept me breathing.
The train jerked, announcing our stop with a metallic whine and the unmistakable voice of a disinterested MTA conductor who sounded like he hated everyone.
“All right, bitches, let’s roll!”Nessa announced, like she was leading troops into battle.
She tried to stand up in her skyscraper heels—black patent leather with rhinestone straps that wrapped around her calves like a bedazzled boa constrictor—and immediately wobbled like a newborn giraffe.
“Oh, shit—whoa—fuck, hold up—”
Moira caught her by the elbow.I grabbed her other arm instinctively.
“Jesus, Ness, what the hell possessed you to wear these?”Moira asked, steadying her.
Nessa swatted at her hair like she was being filmed for reality TV.“I didn’t buy ‘em!Chesty Adams left them at the studio like six months ago.Never came back for ‘em.I swiped ‘em from wardrobe.”
Moira burst out laughing.“Oh, my god.You’re wearing abandoned stripper shoes?”
“Wardrobe clearance, baby,” Nessa said, striking a pose that almost sent her face-first into a pole.
I bit back a grin.If nothing else, at least I’d have my personal laugh track at the show.
We half-walked, half-dragged Nessa up the stairs and onto the street.The Brooklyn night was sultry, humid, and sticky with the smell of car exhaust, halal carts, and old beer.
The club wasn’t far—just a block and a half.Brooklyn Comedy Collective, tucked into a brick building that looked like it used to sell hardware or secondhand TVs.The entrance was a skinny black door covered in faded stickers and flyers for punk shows and improv classes nobody wanted to take.
Inside, it was dim and cramped, with mismatched chairs and a low ceiling that made the whole place feel like somebody’s unfinished basement.The air smelled like cheap tequila and poor decisions.
Perfect.
I ditched the girls at a corner table near the front.Moira was already ordering drinks.Nessa was asking the server if they served Red Bull and vodka in buckets.
Backstage, if you could call it that, was a six-by-six storage closet with a cracked mirror, two broken stools, and a Sharpie graffiti wall full of comic signatures and bad drawings of genitalia.
I paced, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, willing myself to chill out.My hands shook just enough to annoy me, but not enough to stop me.
A little tequila would’ve helped.Just one shot.Just enough to take the edge off.But no.No time.
From the overhead speaker, the announcer’s voice buzzed:
“Give it up for your next comic… Carol Barnes!”
