Perfect Timing Page 3

  The next day I went to the doctor to see what the diagnosis was. Once I let slip I’d been at a week-long music festival I was sent on my way with a friendly pat on the back and an oral subscription to “take better care of myself.” She said to come back if it happened again. I never mentioned it to Beth, and we split up a few months later.

  My next attack wouldn’t be for another year.

  * * *

  —

  A lady carrying shopping bags stops on the other side of the street and looks at me sitting on my arse, ashen-faced. She’s about fifty or sixty. I don’t know, I’m rubbish with ages and right now it’s the least of my worries. I blink a few times and get my bearings. I glance at my watch and see that not much time has passed.

  “You all right, love?” she asks. “Just, you look like a sack of shite.”

  “I’m fine.” The old dear looks at me with skepticism and sniffs to try and work out my level of intoxication. “Honestly. I’m fine. Just a bit tired. Been burning every end of the candle, that’s all.”

  My excuse seems to be enough for her as she nods, picks her shopping back up, and trudges off. I brush off any dirt I may have collected from the ground and make my way back inside the building. Gretel has gone. The band are in a circle chatting, a beer in each hand. It looks like a mini celebration. Even Colin seems to have been converted to the cause.

  “All right, Ken,” Brandon says, chucking me a beer. “Thought we’d lost you then.”

  I open it and chug. It’s finished in under ten seconds. It’s my most self-destructive party trick, one that I honed during college. As someone who felt like an outsider, I learned pretty quickly that if you can be seen as the one who parties well, people will forgive your less attractive qualities. Self-annihilation by alcohol gets you cool points. I lob the empty can into a bin ten meters away to the sound of ironic cheers.

  “Right, if we’re entering this piss-poor pissing contest, we better win. Let’s get on it.” As if my words are magic, they put down their drinks and assume their positions. I look to Scott.

  “Number four?” he suggests.

  “Number four,” I repeat.

  Now the music works. It fits. The tension’s gone and we play as one. Any roughness, any rawness, is exactly as intended. When we’re in the middle of it, I don’t feel pleasure or pain. Everything fades away. It’s just the music.

  Everything is in its right place.

  4

  Exposure

  Jess

  Orchard Lane, Sheffield

  July 17, 2015

  “You’re not funny!” yells out Arsehat #1.

  Arsehat #2 offers, “You’re not fit either!”

  It’s always a tough choice between giving them the attention they want with a witty put-down and a comeback to a heckle, or persevering and sticking to the script. We choose the latter, because Julia and I both know we have a secret weapon up our sleeves for the closer. The room is almost three quarters full, about eighty punters, and we’re doing well enough that “The Arsehats” are pissing off those who paid their money to see some “new” and “exciting” comedy.

  Julia and I have collectively generated a nice little following in Sheffield and some very favorable reviews for these shows of ours. It’s a real mismatch of sketches and stand-up, and it would be fair to say a large portion of my stuff on stage is impressions. But when the Academy votes for actors who are basically mimicking real-life people year in year out, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna see it as a lesser form of comedy. And my Angelina Jolie is on point. It’s all in the lips and the hips.

  We’re coming to the end of our set. Our penultimate skit is one of Julia’s favorites—a “what if” where the “what if” is “What if Harry Potter never got his invite to Hogwarts and had to go to a state school.” I’m not as big a fan of it as Julia clearly is, but it’s going down well tonight.

  Arsehat #1, completely oblivious to the applause and laughter which shows that what we’re doing is working, yells out, “Don’t give up your day jobs, loves!” Their reentry into proceedings is perfect timing for what’s to come. And when comedy is all about timing, really, we should be thanking them both.

  Julia moves to the back of the keyboard. I turn and smile as sweetly as I can at our two hecklers, before purring with a Jessica Rabbitesque piece of seduction, “This song is for the two handsome fellas in the front row.” And then we launch into our “Tiny Wanger” song, with “wanger” being my absolute favorite synonym for a man’s joystick. “Joystick” being second.

  Our song is a reasonably well-crafted reworking of Elton John’s sing-along hit, which substitutes observations about seventies California with reasons why we know men have got a small penis. It’s crass for sure, but it always gets a laugh. Thanks to our hecklers it should prove even more of a hit tonight.

  And so it does.

  As we reach the final verse, Julia changes our usual line “Because you heckle us on the street” to “Because you heckle us at our shows” and brings the house down. The objects of our ire slope off before we take our bow.

  It’s a good show and one that was badly needed.

  * * *

  —

  One of my absolute favorite parts of stand-up comedy is after-work drinks. It’s always the relief that you made it through an entire set that feels so good. Even if no one turns up and nobody laughs, you know you did a thing that few people have the guts to do. That sense of accomplishment and the release that comes with it is palpable in everyone sharing the lineup, so then you get to spend the early hours of the morning with completely relaxed—usually a bit squiffy—people who also happen to be pant-wettingly funny. You do, however, need a very thick skin to be out on the lash with fellow comics.

  There are five of us tonight (including me and Julia), with Tariq, Jim, and Hannah. Hannah is Sheffield born and bred and specializes in character comedy. Everyone is convinced her “Patty C”—a white girl hip-hop star—is going to be huge one day. We all get a turn to be roasted and, because I was foolish enough to state an unhealthy attraction to Labour politician Chuka Umunna, it’s now my turn to be mercilessly ribbed. Tariq kicks things off: “Er, Jess, I’d like to show you the, er, inside of the Labour HQ.”

  I eye-roll. “That’s more Obama than Umunna, you big fat racist.”

  In character, Patty C offers up, “Obama, Umunna, you know Jess wanna do ya. If you got a cheese-face, she’ll dip ya like fondu-a.”

  Julia applauds this like a seal because she’s been in love with Patty ever since she met her. That she’s still yet to admit this to me makes me sure it’ll be a helluva long time before Patty finds out. I sometimes wonder if Julia knows herself.

  I turn to Jim who’s stayed surprisingly quiet thus far. “OK, Jim, what have you got?”

  He sips on his neat whiskey, a pompous drink that is so unbelievably Jim.

  “First, I don’t think a white girl from Sheffield,” he points an accusing finger at Hannah, “should use the term ‘cheese-face,’ and secondly I can’t believe you’d fawn over some neo-liberalist Blue disguised as Red, metropolitan elite…”

  The four of us boo in unison, drowning Jim out, until he holds up his hands in surrender. Hannah slides over to me and whispers, “Don’t look now. But there’s a guy at the bar who’s been checking you out for the last half-hour.”

  I look and I make eye contact. He’s wearing an expensive suit, has slick black hair, and is carrying a black A4 legal pad. The whole look is a little bit eighties yuppie/serial killer. As soon as we lock eyes he starts striding over.

  “I told you not to look,” Hannah chides.

  As he approaches, he sticks out his hand to me and says with an American twang, “Julia?”

  We shake. “No, I’m Jess. This is Julia.” Julia stands and shakes his hand too.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,
Jess and Jules.” He says our names as if we’re one word, like we’re the iconic brand we’d like to be. “Can I join you?”

  In unison, we realize he’s an industry type and it might be best to act professional. Hannah does not get this memo and lets out a really teeth-rattlingly disgusting belch.

  He ignores it and says, “I work for Topanga Talent. My name is David Matthews.”

  Hannah snorts and is about to say “Like the band!” but Julia kicks her under the table as we all take our seats again. David has his back to Tariq, Jim, and Hannah, and faces me and Julia.

  “I really liked your set. I thought you did a great job in holding off on those two fools in the front row until the last possible moment. It showed great—”

  “Timing,” Tariq chips in. David turns and gives him a withering look—not of contempt so much as somewhere between pity and annoyance—then he turns back to us.

  “…it showed great commitment to your act. I’ve seen older, more established comics lose their way under that sort of pressure. You’ve also got a fantastic—”

  “Timing,” Tariq tries again and gets a death stare from all three of us.

  David continues “…surety of who you are. A real voice.”

  Behind his head, Hannah—or to give her the benefit of the doubt, let’s say it’s Patty C—mimes a double blow job.

  “And let’s not forget your—”

  “Timing?” Julia and I ask in unison.

  “Exactly. Do either of you have plans for Edinburgh next month?”

  It’s a conversation we’ve had countless times. While playing Edinburgh is the Holy Grail for upcoming comics, we’re not naive to the fact that attendance for first-timers in Edinburgh is about one to one. As in, one member of the audience for every one comic. We’ve got a semi-good thing going on in Sheffield. A reasonable crowd, some good material. Are we ready to jettison a fair bit of money on what could turn out to be a big fat plate of rejection? But he wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t have an offer of some kind.

  “We’re thinking about it,” Julia says with the sort of come-hitherness I’d usually reserve for gangsters’ molls in the forties. I squeeze her knee under the table to stop myself laughing.

  “Giving it serious thought, certainly,” I add. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s a couple of weeks away, but there’s a little showcase I’m putting together. I suppose it’s a little like a talent show, but y’know, not as lame as I’m sure that sounds. Would you be interested in that?”

  Julia nods and I reply, “As long as it’s not named something godawful like Edinburgh’s Got Talent, I think we could be game. What’s it called?”

  The professionalism of Mr. Matthews flies out of the window as he goes a shade of red that would make a beetroot blush. “Well, it’s not called Edinburgh’s Got Talent anymore, that’s for sure.”

  “Is there money in it?” I ask directly, causing Julia’s butt muscles to flinch so much I can feel them quiver through our shared seating.

  David points a finger at me. “I like you. You’ll go far in this business.” He tilts his head like he’s doing maths on the spot. “We had contemplated a purse for the winner…”

  “What, like a Mulberry one or something nice like that?” pipes up Tariq to stifled laughter.

  “…but exposure would be the real prize.” A groan comes up from the other comics. Jim leans over as if he’s absolutely entitled to join our conversation.

  “Ah, the great ‘exposure’! The thing that’s been keeping artists warm since time immemorial.”

  “Quick, everyone,” Hannah joins in. “Take a bite of this lovely ‘exposure.’ It tastes so good and fills you up for weeks.”

  David Matthews holds his hands up in surrender. “OK, OK. We could probably stretch to a grand or two for the winner.”

  “How many are on the bill?” Julia asks.

  “Ten acts. There are four bands so far. Three comics and two poets. You’d be taking the last spot.”

  “OK, how about a guaranteed two hundred quid for each act?”

  The businessman among comics shakes his head. “Why do I feel like I’m being hustled?”

  Julia and I extend our hands in perfect symmetry, then say the word “Deal?” in unison. He smiles begrudgingly and shakes our hands.

  “This conversation has cost me two thousand pounds. How did that happen?”

  “Welcome to Sheffield,” Julia says with a grin.

  He gets to his feet and pulls out a business card from his wallet. “Email me on this and I’ll send you the details.”

  We shake hands for the third time and he exits into the night. There’s an awkward silence around the table as we all try and figure out what just happened. Then Tariq finally opens his mouth and we all know exactly the word he’s going to say.

  Park Grange Court, Sheffield

  July 18, 2015

  “Mum!” I yell, barreling through the front door.

  As I enter the house, I hear Radio 2 blaring and I follow the sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival to the kitchen. I’m met with what can best be described as a forest’s worth of admin paper covering every inch of the dining table. The family cat, an aged tortoiseshell named Agatha, is sprawled on top of the documents, pawing a packet of pens off the table one at a time.

  “I like your new tablecloth,” I jest as I enter.

  “Oh, Jess, I wasn’t expecting you,” she says as she hugs me tight, pulling me into the back of her chair from her seated position.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I white-lie. “So, what’s the sitch?”

  “The ‘sitch,’ my dear, is that Sheffield City Council have deemed our little four feet of extra space a planning permissions violation. They say our only option is to remove it, and that’ll end up costing more than the initial build.”

  My stomach cramps a little at the thought of her dealing with stuff like this alone. Our dad walked out on us when I was four and my little brother, Dominic, was two. I know some cod-psychiatrist would use this (a runaway father) and Olly (a duplicity weasel) to explain my current relationship obstacles, but if they tried to do that to my face, I’d bend them over and shove an entire couch up their rectum.

  The truth is my parents were both heavy drinkers, and not in that “we’re British and we’re fun” way. I suppose it really stopped being fun for him when he had the actual responsibility of two human lives to look after. And so, he ran. Mum’s drinking took longer than it should have to stop, but stop it did. I have nothing but admiration for her for getting there in the end.

  She did an amazing job with both me and Dom, sacrificing everything, because my a-hole of a “biological” father couldn’t just suck it up in the trickier times. To me, she’s a superhero, and if she needs my support every now and again during episodes like this, she gets it. One hundred percent. Above all else.

  I scratch under Agatha’s chin and slide a piece of paper out from under her, a BT phone bill from ten years ago. “So, what are you looking for in this tree massacre?” I ask.

  “I don’t know really,” she giggles. I love it when she giggles at the ridiculousness of life. “I just assumed I’d magically land on the document that says, ‘It’s All Fine, Really.’ ”

  I leaf through a few more letters.

  “Here it is!”

  Mum peers over to see what I’ve found, and I shield it from her so as not to shatter the illusion that I’ve just picked up an old mortgage statement. “It says, ‘To Whom It May Concern, piss off back to chasing real criminals and leave my brilliant mother alone.’ Brew?” I start the tea-making ritual before she responds, because in my twenty-seven years she’s never said no to a cup.

  She nods and smiles. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’ll never have to find out,” I assure her.

  As she
turns back to the paperwork, I see the worry on her face and start to visualize the worst. I open each cupboard one by one.

  “The tea is where it always is, Jess. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Even though I’m the one playing parent here, I hate being rumbled.

  “You don’t need to check the place for contraband. I’m doing OK. Even my mouthwash is alcohol-free now.”

  I offer her a sympathetic smile. “I know, Mum. You’re doing better than OK. But”—I hold up the paperwork as if it’s evidence in a courtroom—“I also know how crap like this can be triggering. I had to do a self-assessment in January and almost turned to smack.”

  She barks a laugh and a fictional Freud enters the room to tell me how my chosen profession is entirely built around the warm feeling I get from making my mother happy.

  “But you won’t always be here to look after me. What about the day you meet a nice boy”—she pauses and I know what’s coming—“or girl.”

  As much as I love her, her tendency to think I might be gay, simply because I haven’t had a long-term relationship in my twenties, is as offensive as it is infuriating. I’d never let anyone else off with the “different generation” fallacy but, like I say, I cut my mum a huge amount of slack.