Faking the Grade
A story for the True Fiction Project by Michael Kobzik
“I don’t go to Dirkin Donuts to get avocado toast. That’d be like going to Denny’s and asking for filet mignon.”
The small audience at the Laugh Store laughed at Yasiru’s joke as he stood onstage. His five minutes at the open mic night were almost up. There were maybe twenty people sitting around and having drinks. If he was lucky, maybe one or two people would remember his name in the morning.
Yasiru looked down at the floor. He imagined all of his idols standing here, decades ago. Gerald Steinman stood here. He spent all of his teenage years watching every episode of Steinman. But Yasiru didn’t feel worthy of the stage.
In the last thirty seconds of his set, Yasiru’s hand trembled, blasting microphone feedback into the room.
“S-sorry,” Yasiru stumbled. “Alright, my time’s almost up. Thanks everyone for coming out to see me. And for all the blind people here, thanks for listening!”
“Give it up for Yasiru Giruge!” the female announcer shouted.
The audience politely clapped as he exited the stage, disappearing into the darkness of the bar.
He joined his friend Gio at the bar. Judging by the glasses nearby, he was already two bourbons in.
“Do good?” Gio said, his words slurring.
“Weren’t you watching?” Yasiru sighed.
“Sorry,” Gio replied, waving his phone at Gio. “Matched with this cute girl down the street and the rest of the world kinda…went away?”
“Thanks a lot,” Yasiru said, slumping in his seat. “I thought I did a little better this time.”
“You’re gonna get there,” Gio said, patting Yasiru on the back. “Soon you’ll be the next Steinman!”
“I’m no Steinman.”
“Doesn’t he still come by here sometimes? Who knows, you might get discovered!”
“He’ll discover I have no talent. All those workshops, all those classes, hours and hours of practice…and I can barely get any bookings. Not like I have any time anymore.”
“Oh right, you’re still doing the doctor thing! You’re gonna be a doctor in, like, discography?”
“Geography,” Yasiru said, running his palms over his face. “I’m at the very end of my program, but…I don’t even wanna graduate, man.”
“Why not? You’ll be the first comedian doctor! A…doctorian!”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It should be! At least it’s a ‘lil more dignified than what I’ve been doing.”
“And that is…?”
“I’m playing Mercutio at this ‘Shakespeare in the Park’ thing next month. I gotta dress up all funky and read all these lines I don’t even understand!”
“Gio, Gio…wherefore art thou, Gio…”
The two friends laughed together, before settling back into commiseration.
Yasiru turned his phone on and started to flip through his gallery. He saw a group shot of him, Gio, and a bunch of their friends doing improv a couple of months ago. Of course, he got picked to be the “doctor” of the bit. The audience told him to test Gio’s reflexes, and he kicked him in the balls. He couldn’t feel anything below the crotch for a week.
He flipped to another photo. It was a picture of him, his mother, and his father in front of the Statue of Liberty.
“They came all the way from Sri Lanka just for their kids,” Yasiru mused. “And here I am, slumming it up in a bar somewhere on Fifth Avenue.”
“We’re both gonna make it!” Gio said, hugging Yasiru. “Fake it ‘till you make it!”
Yasiru’s eyes widened.
“Fake it…” he whispered. “Dude, I have an idea!”
Listen to ‘Faking the Grade’ on the True Fiction Project podcast:
Yasiru always wanted to make people laugh. He was always the kid in the middle of the classroom who had to be the center of attention. And he loved the attention. But, Yasiru’s parents would rather he had his head down and his pen on the exam page.
As an adult, the only thing he was signing was his dropout notice.
“I am hereby dropping out of my program,” Yasiru’s notice said, written in plain script on a yellow pad of paper. “Thank you for your time.”
He dropped the piece of paper in his advisor’s mailbox and closed the door to the department for good.
He stepped outside of the sciences building of NYU, the crisp New York air ruffling his brown hair. The grey sky was featureless, save for the gleaming buildings of the nearby metropolis.
He tilted his head towards the empty sky.
It felt like Yasiru’s entire life was before him, extending into oblivion.
Then, Yasiru’s phone rumbled. His friend Gio was FaceTiming him.
“Hey,” his friend Gio said, his voice marked by distortion from the bad signal. “Where are you?”
“I…I had to take care of something,” Yasiru stumbled.
“Get over here, we’re almost ready for the show,” Gio shouted. “These robes are really itchy!”
“I thought you said you could get the good costumes,” Yasiru chuckled.
“Shut up, it was last minute! Now, you know what you’re gonna say?”
“Yeah,” Yasiru said, even if his mouth didn’t match what was in his head. “I’ll be right over. Is everything ready?”
“Yeah,” Gio said, laughing. “You should see how many people are here!”
Yasiru stopped walking towards the train station.
“How many people…?” Yasiru said flatly.
Gio turned the camera around, and Yasiru’s heart dropped clear through his chest. His whole phone screen was full of people. Young, old, moms, dads, kids. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand people. And they were all waiting for what was to come.
“They’re all waiting for you, dude!” Gio shouted. “I’ll stall ’em. Now get over here!”
Yasiru ended the call and dashed down the steps of the subway.
After the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Yasiru finally arrived to Central Park, right on time for the ceremony to begin.
The crowd had multiplied. They were listening to the dulcet sounds of the New York Amateur Light Orchestra, performing live in front of the stage. Gio had bribed the conductor with free pizza and champagne. You could tell the curly-haired conductor had pepperoni and fizzing bubbles dancing in his head as he waved his baton. It was the perfect distraction for Yasiru’s entrance.
He dashed around the crowd, trying to find an entrance to the stage. He found a door cordoned off with police tape, and a sole guard standing in front with his arms folded.
“Excuse me,” Yasiru said to the guard. “I’m part of the ceremony. I need to get in.”
The guard looked down at him, frowning.
“You look like you’re lost,” the guard said. “Aren’t you supposed to be good with maps?”
Yasiru’s mouth opened wide, and the guard took off his hat and sunglasses to reveal his best friend Gio’s smiling face.
“Dude,” Yasiru said, his surprise mixing with his despair. “What the heck?”
“You wanted a cop, you got a clown!” Gio laughed. “Now, let’s get you onstage!”
Yasiru hurriedly changed into his graduation cap and gown as the crowd applauded the last song from the light orchestra.
“Thank you, thank you,” the female voice said. “And now, we are proud to welcome the pride of NYU, Doctor of Geography Yasiru Giruge!”
Yasiru couldn’t move. He was feet away from the podium, hidden from the crowd. He felt like he would walk out there and immediately get devoured by the sheer mass of people.
Yasiru felt a push from Gio, nearly sending him to the lacquered wood floor. As he steadied himself against the fake podium, Gio gave him a thumbs up.
Yasiru accepted the fake diploma from the young woman, who shook his hand.
Yasiru smiled, turning his head towards the crowd as they applauded. Maybe he would see his parents.
Not only did he see his parents, but he saw him. Yasiru did a double take as he saw the man himself. Gerald Steinman. It was as if he had leaped off of the television screen and into the crowd, standing right next to his parents at the edge of the crowd. With sweat running down his forehead, he wrenched himself away from his idol’s gaze and towards the crowd at large.
As the applause died down, Yasiru stood in front of the largest audience he’d seen in his life. The crowd of people went all the way down to the end of the block. More than half of these people weren’t even invited. They just happened to show up and wanted to see the spectacle. It was a miracle. And it was Yasiru’s worst nightmare.
“Uh, uhm,” Yasiru stammered. “Thank–thank you for coming here to see me, I mean, coming here to…alright, I’m lost. Good thing I’m a geography doctor now, huh?”
The joke got a couple of laughs, reverberating across the vast crowd.
Yasiru tugged at the collar of his itchy robe.
“If anyone puts this on TikTok, make sure you spell my last name right, okay? Gih-ruh-geh. Don’t put a ‘y’ at the end. I already have a lot of people who call me gay.”
This joke got some more laughs, and a stray cackle from an older lady.
“Right,” Yasiru continued. “I want to thank my best friend Gio. Without him, none of this would be possible. I want to thank his credit cards, too! Just like me, I bet they’re at their limit now.”
The laughs grew and grew. Some looked around, wondering if this was all for real.
Yasiru looked back at Steinman, standing next to Yasiru’s mother and father. His parents looked bemused, but Steinman was just happy to be there.
Yasiru looked back at the crowd and clenched his fists.
“Don’t break the bit,” Yasiru thought to himself.
He adjusted his microphone, sending a blast of feedback into the crowd.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yasiru said, closing his eyes shut. He thought for a second that if he willed it, all of this would be over and he could be back home, where he was a loser, but a safe loser. “And most of all, I want to thank my parents. I don’t want to point them out, since they’d probably kill me if I did.”
His mother covered her face, but Yasiru could still see her smile.
“If I had to say one thing,” Yasiru continued. “There’s not enough words for my parents. They were always so supportive, no matter what stage I stood on. Thank you.”
The crowd erupted into applause, many standing from their seats. Gio came out of the back of the stage, grabbing Yasiru and hugging him until all of the air went out of his lungs.
“That was so awesome, dude,” Gio yelled. He popped the cork on a fresh bottle of champagne, dosing him and Yasiru in it immediately.
Yasiru hugged him back with all of his strength.
“That was amazing,” Yasiru said, his heart pounding.
“Did you see how many phone were out?” Gio said, his voice growing hoarse. “We’re gonna go viral!”
“We’ll see,” Yasiru said, his lungs heaving.
Yasiru looked back at the crowd, now dispersing. He looked for Steinman again, but he was nowhere to be found.
Yasiru’s phone rumbled again. With shaking hands, he answered it.
“Hello?” he said.
“Congratulations, Yasiru,” his father said. “Or should I say, ‘Doctor Yasiru’?”
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