The TV writer
The TV writer already had it all. He lived in Hollywood in a modest two-bedroom apartment, which he’d rented for the past three years. He lived messily and led a happy life among friends who knew how to have a good time.
Some of the things he owned (in no particular order): a Nutribullet, which he sometimes used to make health smoothies. A blue BMX bike he found at a random yard sale. A vintage Gretsch drumset. A PlayStation4. A modest but also large and impressive flatscreen TV. Subscriptions to Netflix, Hulu, YouTube Live and Apple Music. A pair of insanely rare and expensive sneakers that he only wore on very special occasions. Multiple other pairs of sneakers worth $100 to $200 each. A nice set of copper pots and pans, gifted to him by his father, which he used infrequently. A pair of HiFi noise-cancelling headphones. An interesting-looking, abstract painting of Snoopy the dog.
But material things didn’t matter much to him. This was quite evident— after all, the TV writer had decided to prioritize his passions as a creative, instead of settling for some soul-sucking office job. When he was 22, he moved to New York and in one summer spent over half of his great-grandmother’s inheritance money on rent and improv classes. He bummed around and lived a minimalist lifestyle; he was still sleeping on an air mattress months after landing his first mailroom job at the biggest talent agency in the city.
The TV writer felt nostalgic for his salad days, when he was young and broke, still trying to make a name for himself. Now he lived in Hollywood and was an established and respected writer on a network sitcom. He was not particularly famous outside of the Industry, but he was well known and respected by his peers. It wouldn’t be long before he was promoted to an associate producer. Within the next 10 years, chances were good he’d sell at least one pilot and become a show-runner on his own series. But this would come with its own laundry list of headaches and responsibilities. What the TV writer really wanted was to become a stand-up comic.
“You’re up next.”
“Okay.”
“Any particular way I should introduce you?”
“Just say I perform all over the city.”
“Right.”
This was the first night the TV writer had ever performed stand-up. He’d done improv in New York years ago, and he had no fear of getting on stage. The TV writer faced many things in life he considered ‘frightening,’ but this was not one of them. He’d written what he considered to be an air-tight ten minutes, and through a mutual friend had gotten booked on a weekly showcase in Westwood. He didn’t consider the show a big deal and hadn’t invited any of his friends.
“Anybody single?” The woman on stage said. A man by the bar whooped, and a few others clapped. “Well, I’m not… That really sucks for you guys, though.”
She continued on to talk about her boyfriend’s sexual quirks and emotional hang-ups. Then she told a joke about how magazines compare women’s bodies to different kinds of fruits, and that the only freedom that women get to experience in life is the sweet release of death. The crowd was attentive but also a little bit lazy. The TV writer felt sure that his set would liven the room up. He was energetic and captivating, and strange, but in an endearing way that sticks with you.
The host jogged back on stage as the comic finished her set. The TV writer stood in the back of the room and put his hands in his pockets. He did feel nervous, but in a positive way. The kind of nerves that help clear your mind and keep you focused on the task at hand.
The writer jumped on stage and told a joke about his mom’s name being Diane. Then he told a second joke about his mom getting cancer and dying in 2009, which got a big laugh as the audience realized that the first joke had been a red herring to set up the second joke. After that he told a short anecdote about meeting Brittany Spears in a shopping mall, and then he closed with a series of short jokes about an anteater learning to do things aside from eating ants.
Overall the set went well, and there were a few moments where the audience seemed to really enjoy themselves. The TV writer stayed for a while after the show and chatted with the comic who’d performed before him. She was from Michigan and had been doing stand-up for five years. They drove to the TV writer’s home, and as a reward for their courage and hard work, they ate two OxyContin pills and went to bed together. In the morning they said goodbye, and the TV writer sat for a long time alone in his kitchen drinking coffee. He decided that what he really wanted was to become not just a stand-up comic but a famous stand-up comic. Barring the demands of his present commitments, this is what he would dedicate his time and creative energy to above all else. Clearly he had a gift, and he would do everything in his power to give that gift the life it deserved.
