Comedy Girl by Ellen Schreiber

Joyce. Who are you, sweetie?”
    â€œTrixie Shapiro.”
    â€œShapiro…You’ll be number seven. Do you know the rules?”
    â€œYou have rules?”
    â€œNo swearing, especially the F word. No more than five minutes onstage. Jimmy, the guy testing the mike, will shine a flashlight at four minutes so you can wrap it up. Gary,” she added, waving to a guy in a red-flannel shirt, “is the emcee. Any questions?”
    â€œDoes he know CPR?”
    â€œYou’ll be fine!”
    â€œNo F word and no more than five minutes,” I repeated.
    â€œAnd there’s another rule. Have fun!”
    Have fun? I only hoped it would be more fun than sitting in the dentist’s chair.
    I hung by myself at a darkened table while other would-be comics checked in. Where was Janson? I decided it was best for me not to look around for him. Anyone or anything could be a distraction to me. Hopefully he wouldn’t show. He did say this was an elective. Maybe he elected to grade papers.
    â€œTrixie,” a deep voice called from behind me.
    Startled, I quickly turned around. It was Ben. “I saw your name on the list,” he said. “Cool!”
    â€œYou can’t watch!” I demanded.
    â€œAre you crazy?”
    â€œYou’ll make me nervous. More nervous than I already am.”
    â€œYou’ll be fine.”
    â€œI’m not fine! Please!” I begged.
    â€œOkay, girl, I’ll slip in the back when I hear your name called. Want a drink?”
    â€œHow about a Coke and rum without the Coke?”
    â€œHow about a Coke and ice without the ice?”
    â€œWho’s the comedian?” I said. I sat down alone at my usual table in the back and began to pray.
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    The amateur comedians weren’t nearly as funny, polished, or confident as the touring professionals I’d been watching at Chaplin’s. They clutched the mike like a beer bottle, bringing it to their mouths then letting it dangle, slurring the punch lines—if there were any. Several participants told inside jokes to their friends in the audience, who laughed like crazy.
    The Coke went right through me, so I made a bathroom run as comic number four left the stage.
    I looked in the mirror and forced a smile. I had all my lines written on a tiny piece of paper hidden in my bra—just in case I blanked out. I fluffed my hair and said my first line. “Just have fun,” I then reminded myself. “Fun—now that’s the F word!”
    I had one more chance to go to the bathroom, I thought, and headed back to the stall. My mind must have wandered and before I knew it, I had flushed down a whole roll of paper.
    The toilet began to overflow! Great. I had just ruined Oz’s plumbing.
    Suddenly the ladies’ room door opened. “You’re on!” Ben scolded.
    â€œBut I—,” I began.
    â€œNo time.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the theater as Gary said, “We have only one femalein the show tonight, and she’s really funny, so let’s welcome her to Chaplin’s—Trixie Shapiro!”
    How does he know if I’m funny or not? I haven’t performed yet!
    I stumbled onto the tiny stage, shook Gary’s hand, and grabbed the microphone. But it was stuck, and after I struggled for what seemed like an eternity, Gary ran back onstage and pried it out for me.
    He took a bow as the audience applauded.
    â€œDoes that count for part of my five minutes?” The audience laughed. My first laugh. Wow.
    â€œThere’s a rule at Open Mike that you’re not allowed to talk for more than five minutes. I’d sure like to bring my mother here!” The audience laughed even louder. “I bet my dad would like to bring her too!”
    The laughter crescendoed. This was unbelievable—they were really laughing!
    â€œMy mom is a major control freak. She walks into a furniture store—and rearranges the