Third funniest person in the room

Griff stands facing the backstage wall, earbuds blasting Prince,

shifting his weight to and fro

on the balls of his feet

like a slaloming skier.

The girl with the ponytail onstage

gets a tiny cluck of

laughter.

The scene out there is bad.

Eight comedians,

me next, Griff closing.

Stacie, who’s I’ve been trying

not to listen to is bombing.

Big time.

She clears her throat and laughs at the floor,

asks if anyone’s ever been in love, raise your hand.

NEVER LISTEN TO THE OTHER ASSHOLES, Griff said to me

before the show started,

when we were eight comics standing awkwardly

behind a black felt curtain,

awaiting our turn.

He looked me in the eye and that was awkward,

with the others watching him

confide in me and condemn me at the same time.

I just nodded. My head did, anyhow.

Now, onstage, Stacie is suddenly silent.

I look at the slit of light

in the curtain,

Then at Griff, whose tinny white ears

are blasting

I WOULD DIE FOR — U.

And silence onstage.

The urge to look out and see

what the fuck is happening

is overpowering.

Maybe a creak of a footstep?

I rub the flutter of nerves in my guts

and lean toward the light.

Then I pull back the edge of the curtain

little bit.

Then more.

It’s so bright out there.

No sound.

And

there’s nobody in the audience.

Just Stacie onstage,

soundman in back

looking at his phone.

And I think this is a nightmare.

I walk out, to the dark rim

of stage light shadow and sit down.

Stacie’s eyes are closed

and she’s standing dead silent,

only the airy breeze

of microphone transmitting itself

available to the ear.

At the creak of my chair, she opens her eyes.

Awakened,

sees me sitting there,

and like a capsized ship that bobs up unexpectedly for a moment,

clears her throat

and continues.

Been in love? she asks me. Sure you have.