Just Stand up
I'm sitting backstage in a bar. It's not crowded, but it's a busy night. People are all here to see their friends, or just to enjoy a laugh or a drink. There's not much room, but there's a line of chairs back here, about five or six seats leftover for bigger bookings or busy nights. They all squeak or wobble somewhere. I think I can see an employee's bag over in the corner.
I'm fourth along here, sitting in the line. I've been counting the people ahead of me over and over, obsessively counting the people and the time. At first, it was five people. I had about 15 minutes, give or take. I checked my phone, barely reading any of the emails or messages popping up. I forgot to even check the time and had to look again quickly. 13 minutes to go, and I'm getting ready to play this little musical chairs game, moving up one and making room for the next person.
I start rehearsing the few jokes I feel good about. I know them so well at this point I don't even go through the whole thing, it's just one keyword from the punchline to jog the entire line. I've only got a couple I'm confident with so far. Kitchen, windows.
It's very challenging to sit in a line and know you'll be going up to speak to a full crowd of people. I keep trying to remind myself that the crowd all want to be here; they want to laugh at everything we say. Public speaking has always been a fear of mine, which doesn't help. This is what I decided to try to conquer that. Maybe it'll even make me a little funnier, as a side effect.
Jerry Seinfeld had a joke once: “According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two? Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.”
It's still a little scary back here, though. But that could just be first-time jitters. There's a touch of impostor syndrome too, that feeling where people can't be waiting for you. If they are waiting, surely they're waiting to laugh at you, not at your jokes.
I've got to get my mind to more positive things.
Kitchen, windows, sunlight.
What if there's a heckler though?
What if, what if, what if? It doesn't help me at all to think like that, but I really can't help it. It's like I'm fighting myself to actually get up and do it. Looking for a way out, looking for an excuse so I can leave, go home and be comfortable. I don't think I could handle a heckler. Someone who thinks I'm so bad that their insults are funnier? I'd be scared off of stages for life. How am I supposed to deal with that?
Can't think about that right now. I'll never go up if I do.
Kitchen, windows, sunlight.
* * *
The next person in line gets called. I figure I've got just over 10 minutes before I'll be going up now. I still can't believe I'm doing this again. I'm not even that good at conversation with people normally, let alone up on a stage speaking to a crowd.
I can't hear much laughter from back here. Is it a good night? Is the audience okay? Everyone's whispering and gossiping with each other back here. I say everyone, but it's just a few more comics ready to go up.
“...Saw an article saying a dark sense of humour is an early warning sign of dementia. After reading it, I just laughed and thought... 'Where am I?'”
I can hear the crowd now. Laughing. That's reassuring, at least. It feels good to hear someone else doing well; it helps pump up the atmosphere out the back here a little. I try and listen to a few of the others back here, see if they've got any tips I can pick up on.
“Hey, it's been a while! I think the last time I saw you was going up at the Imperial over near Parliament, right?”
“Yeah, that's it! It's nicer here than there. Better crowds, better stage.”
“Yeah? I haven't gone up here before, but it's good to hear that!”
Nothing worth listening to. It's really just some small talk to try and help their own tension. No one's trying to have a substantial conversation. It's all just for a little mutual comfort - just something to take their minds off the stage.
I fall back on going through my own set. Kitchen, windows, awkward, sunlight.
Writing comedy is hard. Some of these jokes can take hours and hours to get down in a way I like them. It's like starting an essay: there are so many places you could start or go it's hard to narrow down to just what you need and nothing else. After all that, the very hardest part is making sure it's actually funny.
The general rule is that the audience should have something to laugh at roughly every 25 words. It takes about 10 seconds of speech to hit this point. Which translates to your three minutes up on stage feeling much longer than it really is.
Kitchen, windows, bar, sunlight, awkward.
Going up and bombing is, I think, almost everyone's worst nightmare. That nightmare of performing on a stage while everyone's staring and quiet (or worse, laughing at you) brought to life. It doesn't feel great when it happens. I've had the experience only once or twice now, but it feels... bad. In every sense of the word. The performing crowd can all feel it, too. They'll all come up and offer empty sympathies, knowing you'll bounce back, or you won't show up again. They buy new people a drink or two maybe, but give them all the silence and room they need.
Calling attention to it when you're on stage is another amateur move. Thankfully I managed to never quite do that, but you see it every so often. It's hard to tell someone new about it, but easier to show them. Someone goes up, bombs, and goes “Whoa, tough crowd!”, or “That guy in the back, he gets it!” They don't realise until it happens that it just makes it all the worse: It doesn't get the crowd on your side. Calling attention to this lack of a reaction just makes it easier for everyone to see you aren't doing well. Eventually, everyone will always do badly or make a mistake, regardless of how good they are. You just need to remember that if it starts going downhill, get off that stage with as much grace as you can as fast as you can.
“Hey, mate, you're up next. You ready?”
I look up, pulled out of all my thoughts, and realise it's me the host is speaking to. All the time I thought I had is just about gone, and if I thought I was nervous before, I could barely stutter out words now.
“Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm ready.”
“Great! You'll do fine, mate. It's a good crowd tonight.”
I'm barely registering anything he says. I'm hyper-focusing straight on the stage curtains: just waiting for them to peel back, for me to be the one to head up and go through.
Kitchen, windows, bar, sunlight, awkward, won't leave.
Why do I keep showing up to do this?
* * *
I've started hitting an absolute fever pitch in my head. I can't check my phone; I'm too paranoid the whole set will drop out of my head. There are a few new things to try this time, and I've cut a few things out. The first time I’ve really retired jokes. I never thought I’d be doing this long enough to do that. I've heard the same jokes from the same comedians enough that I figure they're probably just as bored of my jokes. I keep running through my rote keyword memorisation. Kitchen, windows, awkward, bar, phone, bar-two, closer.
This place doesn't change much. Still the same wobbly chairs. The same faded artwork and faux-inspirational messages for the comics and employees. The only things that really change are the faces sitting in the chairs.
“First time going up?” I ask the person next to me without even looking. He doesn't look up either. Small words without much meaning. Nothing much changes.
“Yeah. I'm a bit nervous,” he says, also without looking up. He's studying the room intensely. I don't know if he's looking for a tutorial or a way out.
“So am I.” He looks up now. He looks a little bit panicked, even.
Kitchen, windows, awkward, bar, phone, bar-two, terminal, closer.
Finally, I'm called up.
It feels like all sound but my own footsteps is muted as the lights go down and I climb the staircase to the stage. Every step takes an hour to climb.
There's one spotlight, directly on me.
Walking to the microphone, I can feel every pair of eyes directly on me.
Then...
“I know exactly what you're thinking. Yes, I'm tall. And to answer your next question: yes, I do in fact play mini-golf. I got a hole-in-one when I was 14, and I've chased that high ever since.”
I don't stutter. I didn't trip on the way up. I finish speaking, and people laugh.
I keep going, and more people laugh.
“I work in a kitchen. It's a great place to work if you ever want to learn how to hate strangers and make them hate you. You ever yelled 'BEHIND!' and pushed an old lady in a supermarket? I have.”
All the tension I've been holding fades away. I start to relax a little more, finding it hard to remember why I was so nervous in the first place.
Up on the stage, you're hit with an entirely new feeling that's difficult to put into words. It's a heady mix of elation and pride, born through controlling a crowd's reactions and being just as happy as they are that just your words can produce that reaction.
“I was waiting once, to go into work. The restaurant next door had a charity pancake breakfast for kids going. I thought, I'm mentally about the same age, I wonder if they'll give me a pancake? So I head over and speak to Santa, who's operating the pancake station. We look at each other. He asks if I have a ticket. I say no, I don't, but I do have five dollars. Santa looks at me for a little longer and says ‘Son... you can't bribe Christmas.’”
By the time I come off the stage, I'm ready to go again. There's another mic happening a few blocks over, and I know already I'll be heading there. Every time I come down off the stage, I just know I'll be going up again. I can't wait for this same rush.
This is why I torture myself every time.