Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

There is a philosophy that states you will experience whatever you focus your attention on. If you think, "man, I'd hate to trip and fall down in public, that'd be so embarrassing," you'll trip and fall in public, that you may confront your fear.

A while ago, I was performing in the middle slot of a three-person show, and when I walked up on stage I was met with an ear-piercing cry of, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" That someone was so drunk to bellow at a comedy show did not surprise me; live comedy is sadly a realm of entertainment where drunken louts have to be dealt with on a semi-regular basis. The source of the screeching on that particular occasion, however, did make me tilt my head to the side like a dog riddled with confusion. At a table in front of the stage was a group of ten women, all dressed to the hilt, all white, and all easily aged sixty and above. Grandmother's night out, if you will. In the front row, one of them was so drunk she was doing a head bob, as if it were eighth grade history and staying awake was a chore in and of itself. This woman had been the source of the high-pitched screech of obscenity.

I asked her to repeat her war cry, as I wasn't positive my ears were working correctly, and once again the live-action Mrs. Howell cried, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" I half nodded my head, said "Well ok then," and started telling jokes. The woman randomly bellowed the same refrain several times throughout my time on stage, and after giving her the benefit of the drunken doubt for a couple of her interactions, I slammed her pretty hard and the audience roared their approval. The woman realized she was on a losing path and proceeded to doze off and drool lightly out the side of her mouth. Through the rest of my time on stage, two tables of drunks in the corner did their best to "contribute" and derail the show with shouts and inter-table talk, but I simply shouted over them until a bouncer finally made his way over to shush them.

After I exited the stage, the headliner, who I am going to call Adam, was introduced. If I thought the wealthy dowager up front had been belligerent enough to warrant getting kicked out during my set, what happened next was unlike anything I'd ever seen; when the headliner hit the stage, he too was met with a new high-pitched cry from the elderly woman. It wasn't a random generalization as had been with me, this time, she took one look at the comedian and knew exactly what to scream. "Bring it on, nigger!" echoed above the welcoming applause the host had called for. Not "nigga," which could have been considered marginally more appropriate (but not really), but "nigger," as bright as a day in July and loud and proud like Alabama man might cry. It wasn't said as a challenge, but more a hoot, like the full-blown cheer of someone looking to have a good time.

To say the audience was stunned would be saying too little; there are rare times when you can make two hundred people gasp collectively and hold their breath, but this was one of them. Adam, to his credit, handled the situation with as much grace as possible; he didn't blow up at her, but he didn't let it go. His first response was a measured, "Excuse me?" to which he received a second, "Bring it on, nigger!" He asked why she thought it was an appropriate thing to say, or if she was playing or believing she was somehow relating to him. Her response was yet again, "Bring it on, nigger!"

Given that the room was filled with as diverse a cross section of Americana as possible, and that a certain tension filled it from the instant her first racial slur was shouted, anything could happen. Still, Adam kept control of the situation and did his best to move on. The club, believe it or not, made no move to have the woman removed or quieted. In the corner, meanwhile, the two tables of white trash I had done my best to ignore got even louder, to the point Adam could do nothing but wage war with them.

By now, most everyone was talking amongst themselves about what was happening, shouting at either the two tables in the corner or the racist woman to "shut the fuck up," or directly up at Adam, who was doing his best in trying to deal with an out of control room. In the midst of this battle, the manager of the club carried a note to the stage and handed it directly to him. Adam read it, then resumed his war with the out of control audience. Eventually the table of women left, and did so to a chant of "Na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, good bye" from the entire audience (save for the two drunken tables in the corner, who continued to shout random shit to the stage through the rest of the evening). Adam worked the stage for his contracted time, eventually closed his and the audience gave him thunderous applause for his efforts.

After all was over, as Adam and I stood by our for-sale wares, every person that walked by us issued an apology on behalf of the behavior of others. For the woman and her racial slur, for the staff who didn't intervene, for the drunks in the corner… everyone was apologetic save for those who should have been. Everyone was also curious. All who exited remembered the note being passed to the stage, and asked Adam what it said. They wondered if the police were being contacted, or if he was given insight as to how the drunks and racists were being handled. He passed on answering, instead tossing out vague little lies; "It was about something I had asked about earlier," "oh, nothing important," and the like. When all was said and done and every member of the public had left, I asked what the note really said. What I was told floored me. "Let it go and move on," was written in bold strokes on the folded piece of paper. A black man who had just been called a nigger in front of a room full of people, and three times no less, a man doing an amazing job of handling the situation in a club that was doing nothing to police its customers, well, he was handed a note telling him to let it go and move on.

I don’t think I had ever heard of anything less supportive.

To the manager's credit, somewhat, admitted to being in the wrong and said she was sorry for the note and much of the situation. Apparently she and the bouncers were unaware of what had happened, assessed the situation incorrectly and made the decision to intervene inappropriately. But that didn't make it right. An apology follows an accident, and to not have the comedian's back in a situation shows an incredible lack of faith in the person. I couldn't believe she had taken the note up there in the first place, was angry on behalf of the other comedian, and wondered what I'd do if anything like it ever happened to me.

The neat thing about life, then, is when you look at a situation and wonder how you'd react if it were presented to you, sometimes you are given the opportunity to find out.

A headliner myself now, in a different room in a different state, one fateful night I took to the stage a little after 10pm. The 9pm show had been delayed a half an hour, because a birthday party of twelve was exceedingly late in arriving. Such an action immediately set a poor precedent; the incoming people saw the show had been held just for them, and even if they didn't openly realize the power they had, they understood on a subtle level just how important they were.

That everyone arrived intoxicated should be no surprise, nor should the fact they then did jell-o shots all through the opening act. By ten o'clock, they were slurringly drunk. "That's my brother's name!" was shouted at my introduction. "Your brother is named Nathan Timmel?" I asked, and got a laugh from the audience. A gentle enough response, but enough of one to start the table off and running.

The birthday party was listless; they were talking to one another when I wasn't dealing with them, and shouting random incoherent shit when I would break from my jokes to acknowledge and attempt to shut them up. Instead of being witness to a bouncer or club employee kicking them out or quieting them down, I would look over to see them being served even more alcohol. They were all members of the Army, and as the club itself had called for a toast for those that serve, I was placating as nicely as firmly possible. I never have a problem telling a table to shut the fuck up--witness this if you haven't already seen it--but for the life of me couldn't get the group to behave in the slightest. So it was to my stunned anger when forty minutes into my set I was handed a note from the club owner, "Please stop talking to them and move on with your act."

I couldn't believe it. I felt defeated. I had just taken two flights across the country, rented a car and driven an hour and here I was, standing in front of a group of people who never should have been let in the door, let alone served more alcohol or had the show held thirty minutes for their arrival, and I was being told I was the fuckup. Had I an established career, I would have apologized to the people who had come out to see comedy, told the club to fuck off and walked off the stage and out the door. Fuck the pay; if I could have afforded the professional repercussions, I would have eaten the time and money. Instead, I remained on stage for another 20 minutes, doing my best to remain as professional as possible given the circumstances.

Unlike the time I was witness to a comedian being blamed for club failure, I was given no apology for the rude behavior or lack of support. I was, in fact, told, "The other tables complained and I had to give out comp tickets to another show because of that group." Apparently this was somehow my fault.

The final straw on this irritated back came from the doorman, who shook his head in resigned confidence to me; "Those people, I tell you, they came in a couple weeks ago and did the exact same thing."

Of course they did.



I have one other moment in my mind involving the "experience what you witness" theme, but it's rather anti-climactic after everything before it. Hell, given proper narrative form, this whole thing is probably written ass-backwards, with the peak being in the beginning with the racial story, but so be it.

I think Clerks II is a damn fine movie. Watching it recently, the scene that jumped out at me was that with the Jason Lee as the Internet Millionaire. If you're not familiar, Jason Lee arrives at the fast food restaurant the main characters Dante and Randall work at to mock them for being in their thirties and failing their way through life. The scene ends with an angry-at-his-existence Randall needing to get the hell away from everything and blow off some steam. Why that moment in the movie meant something too me I do not know, but I do remember thinking how much it would suck to run into a nemesis that superseded you in life.

As always, be weary what you wonder about.

The next comedy run I went on had me working with a fella who, though not an enemy of mine by any standard, had still been doing comedy less than half the time I had, was fairly green on stage, yet was already being invited to the biggest comedy festival in the world. Agents, managers, HBO and Comedy Central all scout it and thousands of comedians apply for entry annually; the kid on the run with me had a friend who knew those with clout and had gotten him a foot in the door. There is a conventional wisdom that says you respect something you earned more than anything simply given to you, but I'm going to have to cry bullshit on that. I have found money lying on the ground on several occasions and never once did I say, "Damn, I really wish I had earned this twenty dollars."

Playing the game "why not me?" is probably the most self-destructive thing a person can do. "She got a promotion, why not me?" "That person won a million dollars, why not me?" "That person lucked into success, why not me?"

Because life is random, and stupid.

I have no other answer than that right now.

All I have is attrition.

Hopefully that will be enough someday.