Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler

role that Jeremy planned to make his comic debut.
    The auditions were held in the Hovel, the on-campus student pub, on a Thursday night. The Hovel was dark and crowded. On most nights it was a pit where students sought drinks and laughs. Tonight, though, it was meant to be a charmed, bewitching cave, full of human art.
    “Don’t suck,” said Patrick Rigg. Patrick was Jeremy’s roommate, along for moral support.
    “I won’t,” said Jeremy.
    Patrick and Jeremy sat in the corner. Jeremy wore his black suit, the one that matched the color of his hair. This suit, Jeremy believed, made his green eyes look jovial and menacing, as if he were a funny but dangerous man, like Lenny Bruce. It was this sinister edge, this tiny malevolence within himself, that Jeremy planned to exploit as a trademark of his performing style. Still, as a nod to his grandfather, the more traditional storyteller, Jeremy ordered Scotch at the bar.
    “No Scotch,” said the bartender.
    “Perhaps Crown Royal?” said Jeremy.
    The bartender snorted. “Perhaps beer,” he said. “Perhaps Jägermeister.”
    Jeremy ordered the Jägermeister, which was served in a plastic cup. He returned to his corner to watch the competition.
    A quick-eyed juggler performed onstage. A dancer danced. Three frat boys in Marx Brothers garb jabbered and received applause. An awful singer named Freida forgot her lyrics and wept and ran away.
    “Jeremy Jax,” said the judges. “Auditioning for MC.”
    Jeremy took the stage. He set himself down in a chair amid the footlights. He smiled wearily at the audience, the way his grandfather always did. He drank his Jägermeister. Directly before him was a table where three judges sat.
    “Say something,” suggested a judge.
    Jeremy nodded. He understood what was required of him. However, he hadn’t planned any material. He’d expected a perfect, spontaneous anecdote to rise within him, but it wasn’t happening. A minute passed. Jeremy gulped at his Jägermeister.
    Relax, Jeremy told himself.
    A judge wrote something down.
    “Um,” said Jeremy.
    His heart lurched. He saw Patrick frowning. People stirred in their seats, whispering. Jeremy stared at the drink in his hand.
    “What’s the deal with malt liquor?” he stammered.
    One of the kinder judges smiled. “We don’t know,” she called out. “What is the deal with malt liquor?”
    Jeremy didn’t answer. He sat motionless in his chair. There was a riot in his stomach, in his mind. He tried to think of a story, any story.
    “Jägermeister,” he said, “is German for Master Hunter.”
    Someone in the audience sighed. Seconds passed.
    “Women are celery,” blurted Jeremy.
    The Hovel fell silent. Patrick Rigg left. People looked at the floor.
    “Thank you,” said the judges.
    Outside the Hovel, in the darkness, in a clearing of trees, Jeremy came to himself. His first instinct had been to run from the pub, to get out into the October air. He’d expected himself to throw up or cry or gnash his teeth. He was perhaps on the verge of doing these things when he made out another figure in the dark beside him. It was a girl kneeling on the ground, her face in her hands. It was Freida, the awful singer.
    “Hey,” whispered Jeremy. “Hey, there.”
    Freida looked up. Her face was miserable, splotchy with eye shadow.
    “Are you great?” She sniffled.
    “What?”
    Freida pointed at the Hovel. “I—I meant, were you great. In there. Onstage. Were you great?”
    “No,” said Jeremy. His voice was hard. “I sucked.”
    As he said this, Jeremy felt a chill inside himself. It was a cold, new rage of some sort. It was painful, but somehow good. It made him feel capable of startling feats, like bludgeoning his grandfather.
    “I’m Jeremy Jax,” said Jeremy. He was practically shaking. “I’m terrible.”
    Freida shivered. She wiped her face, took the hand of the furious young man.
    “I’m Freida,” she said. “Come on.”
    They went to Freida’s dorm room. In