Years ago, as a mere neophyte in the comedy game I took gigs
anywhere that I was booked. Hungry for stage time, money didn’t matter. There
was many a time I lost money getting to a gig, and this inspired some
interesting fights with my parents where they yelled, “WE ARE JUST CONCERNED
ABOUT YOUR FUTURE. YOU ARE GOING NO WHERE FAST!”
Mind you, most parents aren’t thrilled at the prospect of
their kid becoming a professional ventriloquist. They were happier with that
than the original plan, and that was to become an acrobat in the circus. Yes, I
wanted to become an acrobat. I was a skilled tumbler as a child but after
injury continually sidelined me I picked up a puppet. Oh what tangled webs we
weave.
Anyway, most of the time I just performed for the sake of
food because I rarely ate in those days. Comedy was my only love. I wasn’t jaded
then by the politics and sexism involved in the game, nor did I know to be.
Heck, I was so unspoiled and humble I would even do a check spot because it
meant getting up. Looking back, not having awareness or standards in some ways
was a very beautiful thing.
Through craigslist, I got a gig at a fundraiser for a 7 year
old girl that had a genetic illness that was killing her, and treatment was
expensive. The family couldn’t afford it, so it was going to be a night of
music and variety. I asked if there was pay because I always did, plus it was a
long way away. Yes, Toms River, the small town one meets before going to
Atlantic City. Maybe they would even have food. They had neither, it was a
benefit. These days I would probably say no, but then stage time was stage time
so I went.
When I got on the bus immediately I knew this was going to
be a strange night. In those days, I always travelled with radio blasting in my
ear. The bus driver, an old black man resembling Uncle Remus, turned around and
told me he could hear my radio. The strange part was, for as loud as my radio
was, it’s not like anyone but him was complaining. He remarked that my “white
noise” was going to interfere with his driving. Later I understood why. Uncle
Remus was a terrible driver, and he needed to concentrate all he could. Yes, it
was one of the bumpiest, most terrible bus rides ever.
After getting off the bus, I was so dizzy I was afraid I was
going to vomit. While AC was only a stones throw away, this little hamlet
seemed peaceful as opposed to the glitzy, sometimes seedy gambling capital of
the Eastern Seaboard. People were probably kind and hard working…….boy was I
wrong.
Of course, later in life, against my better judgement, I
would date a man from Toms River. He’s currently in prison. Don’t feel bad.
Prison is better than Toms River. He’s moving up in the world.
However, I had yet to experience the culture and high
society of Ocean County. The man who organized the event said it was walkable.
So I began to walk. In the darkness, I only saw a handful of streetlights and
became rather nervous. That is when a cop car began to follow me.
At first I thought nothing of this cop car following me so
close. Maybe he had things to do. But when I turned the corner, he turned the
corner. This literally happened for five minutes. I knew I was an outsider in a
small town. Still, there are times where outsiders are picked up because the good
old boys feel they need taught a lesson, and cops are notorious for hating
blacks and women……especially in small towns.
I picked up my step and began to run and the cop car
proceeded to follow me. I was lugging May Wilson in tow, suitcase and all. My
heart beat as I ran into a 7-11, sweat pouring down my brow. The cop car pulled
in. I figured that I would just get arrested peacefully.
Instead, the cop got out of his car. He resembled a mall cop
more than regular patrol, and had the look on his face like he was confused as
to why I was so frightened of him. “Officer, I…..”
“Are you okay?” The cop asked, confused, his gut hanging
over his belt buckle. I wanted to tell him he had only been stalking me for a
few blocks and I would get arrested peacefully. Then he went on to tell me how
good the donuts at the 7-11 were. Yes, he was going to the 7-11 to get donuts
and we both happened to be going the same way. Suddenly, I knew this town was
perhaps the safest place ever to commit a felony. All I would have to do was
race walk away, and not do it in the vicinity.
So I asked the cop where the venue I was supposed to perform
at was. He gave me a look of utter cluelessness. Why would Barney Fife know the
town he patrolled ever? I got into the 7-11 and asked the middle eastern man
behind the counter whom the cop called Akbar. Apparently, Akbar knew where the
venue was. Akbar revealed he lived a few towns over. Yes, Akbar was the one who
didn’t scare me in a cop car but would be collared as a terrorist by anyone
else. We like Akbar.
The venue was five blocks down, and I figured the night
could only get better and perhaps this show was going to be a good one. When I
caught sight of the venue, it was glowing the embers of a crisp, early spring
night. A sign said, “Help Save Little Kayla.” It had teddy bears and other
things on it. This benefit was a darling idea.
But then from the inside I heard the symphony of heavy metal
music, and a singer yelling, “DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!” So much for saving
Kayla. Wasn’t this because they wanted her to LIVE?
As the melody of the prose of the lyrics caught my ear, I
saw two of Toms Rivers finest scholars, Plato and Socrates, on the side of the
brick wall. Both were taking turns banging their head on this brick wall. I
watched in utter shock and horror as both of this young man approached this
mind reducing task with Herculean effort.
Plato said to Socrates, “I bet you that if I hit my head
hard enough, I won’t crack my skull and won’t get knocked out.”
Socrates remarked, “Oh yeah, you are probably going to get
knocked out first and I’m just gonna keep going.”
Both Plato and Socrates engaged in this intelligent, top of
the bell curve discussion and proceeded to bang their heads against the wall
for about another minute as I watched astonished. Mind you, I grew up with some
geniuses but these guys were of the special, gifted variety. Just then, Plato
caught sight of me and asked, “What the hell do you want looking at us all
stupid?”
Not even getting into the irony of the statement, I asked if
this was the benefit for poor dying Kayla just to make sure I hadn’t entered
some parallel universe. Yes, the one who fate maligned when these two able
bodied individuals were turning themselves into vegetables.
Socrates, who’s one brain cell appeared to sometimes work
told me it was, and Kayla’s stepdad was in a heavy metal band and all of his
friends were playing. Okay, so at least these people were using their resources
and attempting to do something nice. Granted, file it under fail, but they were
attempting which there was something to be said for that. But then Socrates
asked, “Which one of us do you think will go longer without getting a
concussion?”
Yes of all the eternal questions one could ponder such as
the existence of God, the possibility of world peace, or even the end of all
war, there was this. Oh this world was beyond fucked. Fucked up the asshole.
And the odds of these two reproducing someday were quite good.
I just smiled and said, “Be careful.” Then I went inside.
What else could I do?
Once inside, the band onstage was yelling, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!”
Years later, a club owner I worked under told me when a comedian kept yelling
that in their act they didn’t have jokes. And apparently when a band yells at
onstage they don’t have lyrics. Perhaps they could have benefited from a session
with my club owner friend and wrote something meaningful, but in the words of
my mentor, “You can’t fix stupid.”
Two girls, high school age were talking. I overheard one
mention she had a baby. Quickly I did a double take. While this was not the
epicenter of new aged philosophical discovery, it also appeared that at 23 I
was already at advanced maternal age. I saw Kayla’s mother wandering around for
a minute. She looked to be a little older than me. Kayla was 7. Dear God in
heaven, these people weren’t just white trash. This was a snow covered
landfill.
I found the event organizer who was in fact very nice. He
had heard about Kayla’s plight through mutual friends, and the reason he was
able to even put on the event was that he wasn’t from the town and therefore
had the only brain in the box. Unlike Socrates and Plato, he spent his time
writing music and had performed earlier that evening. I had a feeling his songs
had words in them, and not, “FUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!” OR “DIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
The event organizer told me Kayla’s bio dad was nowhere to
be found. Who knows what might have happened? They may have lost him
accidentally when his skateboard went too far off in the distance. Either way,
Kayla’s stepdad was picking up the slack and raising her as his own. Granted, while Albert Einstein was not to be found in this quaint hideaway, at least their hearts were in a good place.
Seconds later, the event organizer pointed out little Kayla’s
stepdad. He wasn’t onstage playing, but rather, he was with the rest of the
Darwin Award nominees starting a makeshift mosh pit. And the band onstage
continued to yell, “FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!” That is when Kayla’s
stepdad stage dove. I took a deep breath. In Toms River, this man was not just
a knight in shining armor but a prime catch.
Finally, it was my turn to go on. The room full of heavy
metalers looked at me as if I was an alien from another planet. This was going
to be interesting. I did some material and to my surprise they gave me polite
chuckles. I wasn’t going to hope for a miracle and plus they had seen metal all
evening, so polite chuckles would have to do. However, if one isn’t careful
polite chuckles turn to silence and that is when I decided to hit them hard and
went blue, very blue. This was no time for a clean set.
May Wilson took them home, and they LOOOOOOVVVVVVEEEEDDDDDDD
the dirty, shock worthy stuff. As a matter of fact, they laughed really hard. I
was surprised that it went over as well as it did. Then I got off the stage. It
wasn’t my best work, wasn’t my worst, but I lived. And in comedy, sometimes
that is the best you can hope for.
When we got offstage, Socrates and Plato, now my friends
both ran up to me. “That was good.” Plato said.
“You thought so?” I asked, now somehow caring about the
opinion of two people who I would have probably tutored in high school.
“Yeah, you were good. The last comedian totally ate it.”
Socrates told me. “I mean, he fucking sucked.”
“Really?” I was now curious.
“Yeah, he was really bad. So bad we chased him off the stage
after the third joke. Not even letting him finish. I mean, it was awful. And
then another dude was supposed to come perform, but they saw him being chased
off and he ran out scared. You lasted. You’re alright.” Socrates explained.
“How did you chase him off?” I asked, now curious.
“Oh, we got on the stage, told him to get off, and then ran
after him so he would get off.” Plato informed me. They had literally chased
him off the stage. The fact I had lived through this set was a bigger miracle
than I thought.
The conversation with the scholars made me need some air, so
I went outside. Standing was a crowd of young women, all who had pitch black
hair that looked like it had been sexually assaulted by the nearest can of tar.
Their faces had cheap, drug store makeup, and they had so many piercings they
would make a metal detector have a wet dream. As for the tats, they weren’t just
body art, but you could get Hep C just by looking at these ladies. But by the
way Plato and Socrates approached them, these honey traps were akin to Miss
America.
One gave me an up and down look of contempt, probably because
she felt my lack of trailer park chic made me inferior. Then one whispered to
her friend, looked over at me, and went inside. Whatever it was, it was a
series of one syllable words. Oh well.
Just then, I was approached by an evil, inbred clone of
carrot top with a vicious mop of red hair, a scowl, and crooked teeth rotting
out of his mouth.
“You want to know what I thought of your set?” He asked.
“No.” I replied, knowing it wasn’t good and I really didn’t want
to talk to him.
“I thought you sucked.”
“Okay.”
“You were way too shocking and too dirty.” He told me. Wow,
and this was from someone moshing to a band that kept yelling, “FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!”
The standards in this town were quite strange.
“Do you want to hear anymore?” He asked.
“No.” I said and walked away. This was definitely my cue to
go.
“I have more to say to you!” He called. And I kept on
walking.
After my strange evening, I made my way to the bus depot.
The streets were dark and I wasn’t afraid of getting killed, but being
kidnapped by some of the mutants I had just met. I had also lost my way so I
called a cab from a number I had scratched down on a piece of paper before I
left my house.
The ride was short and the cab driver was nice enough. He
mentioned he had a wife and three kids, and I figured this town wasn’t all
mutants. Maybe I was going to be okay. Just as we got to the bus depot, the
driver mentioned it was going to be a while before the next bus came and wanted
to know if I wanted to talk.
I said sure. So then he asked what my financial situation
was. When I mentioned broke he offered me $50 for a blow job. Something told me
for as much as the money would have been great, getting out of this situation
alive would have been even better. So I jumped out of the car and ran like I
saw Godzilla. He drove away, probably a tad upset that his manhood was crushed. But rest assured, if he went a little ways up some of the women at the show would have given him what they wanted. After all, they probably needed the money to feed their throngs of children out of wedlock. Then he would forget about me because they are the standard of beauty in Toms River.
At the bus depot there were two other people. One was a big
black dude and the other was a short, fat white woman. I asked them when the
next bus out was, and they said it would be a while. So we began talking. The
black dude revealed he had just gotten out of the Ocean County Jail and since
the moment he got arrested, all he wanted to do was get out of Toms River. Now
he was trying to make his way back to Paterson, an even bigger shithole. But
alas, that was his shithole.
The woman revealed she had been in and out of mental
institutions for the last three years with various bouts of bipolar and schizophrenia,
and was now looking for employment. Despite the fact I should have been afraid,
these were the two most normal people I had met since I had come to town. She
lamented that she didn’t know how to explain the gaps on her resume. So the
ex-con and I began to brainstorm ways to help her. It was team work in the most
surreal scenario ever.
The ex-con suggested making up places of employment and
using friends as references. It had worked for him. I suggested saying she was
caring for a sick relative, and was the only family member they had to do so.
She remarked both were good ideas. Then we talked about the importance of
helping others.
Just then a ragged kid approached wanting to know when the
next bus out was. All he wanted to do was get out of Toms River. He wanted to
get to New York to the Salvation Army. Note, the Salvation Army is no great
shakes, but it is still better than Toms River. The kid was worried he missed
the last bus out. We told him he still had time.
Finally the bus came, and the kid didn’t have enough money
to get to NYC. I had $40 on me, and the ticket was $20. Looking at the kid,
desperate and ragged, knowing that like the three of us he just wanted to get
out of Toms River, I said, “Here, I am your guardian angel right now. Take it.”
“Thank you! How will I ever repay you?” He replied,
speechless at my generosity. Note, I am not normally that generous. I pity the
fool that is stranded in that town.
“Do something nice for someone else and don’t be a dickweed.”
I replied, and off we went.
And whenever something good happens to me out of no where,
or someone does something nice for me, I believe in my heart it’s karma coming
back to help me for the young man I took pity upon as we all worked to escape
that ever hallowed layer of hell before one reaches Atlantic City.
]Moral: Sometimes a crazy night produces a great story, and when in doubt, help someone else because it's the right thing to do.
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