The Comedian
By Larry W. Van Guilder

  In that crowd, six drunks at a table and a tired hooker at the bar, Johnny couldn't miss the dark-haired woman in red. He watched her light a cigarette, thinking her every movement pure sensuality. A moment's unintended silence must have passed as Johnny studied her, for the club manager stage-whispered from the side: "Tonight, McGinnis!" Johnny glanced at the manager, smiled weakly, then turned back to the microphone.

"Hey, it's good to be here, folks. With my luck lately, it's good to be anywhere. Things have been so bad that on the way down here I stopped to talk to my priest. He asked me if I ever thought of converting. I said, 'Converting to what, Father? I'm already a Catholic.' He said, 'I mean to a human being.'"

"Get a writer, shithead! And don't quit your day job!" Johnny waited while the heckler's friends pounded the table and laughed.

"That's a good one, sir. But your mother won't let me quit anyway unless your daddy starts working nights."

The drunk looked puzzled, then angry as his buddies laughed harder than before.

"You son of a bitch," the drunk yelled. "Don't you talk about my mother."

"Ah, you're right. Who am I to deprive the pimps of their favorite conversation piece?"

The drunk reddened and slammed down his glass. He had nearly risen from his chair, cursing and hurling threats in Johnny's direction, before his companions wrestled him back down. Johnny watched the struggle for a moment, then turned to look at the dark-haired woman. She was smiling at him, a warm, delicious smile that brought a tiny stir to his chest. He tried to match her smile, felt strangely awkward, and looked away. Who is she?

Johnny turned back to the heckler and offered an apologetic grin. "Hey, no hard feelings, pal. OK?"

A stony silence answered, and the set moved downhill from there. The routine went flat, fizzled out, and crashed and burned long before his allotted forty minutes expired. Fuck the bastards, he thought as the set ended. I don't give a rat's ass.

As he walked off the stage to the left Meyer was waiting.

"Piss poor crowd, McGinnis. Too bad."

"Tell me about it." He studied the manager in the dim off-stage light. Bald, short, pale, and a chain smoker, the thin little man gave off an air of imperceptible twitching, as if thousands of muscles constantly thrummed just beneath the threshold of visibility. Watching the smoke twist and curl from Meyer's cigarette, Johnny realized that he hated the man.

"Look, Johnny. If things don't pick up by the end of the week..."

"You're going to have to let me go," Johnny finished.

The manager's thin eyebrows rose in surprise and he thrust his chin belligerently. "Yeah."

"Why ain't I surprised, Ray?"

"What do you mean?"

"Considering the clientele you get in this shit-hole I'm surprised that you manage to stay open at all."

"Now, look, McGinnis..."

"No, you look, Meyer. Fuck you. I'm not waiting for the end of the week. I quit."

Anger colored the manager's cheeks as he pointed a shaky finger at the comic. "Quit? We've got an agreement through Friday. I got friends in this business, McGinnis. You won't work around here any more if you walk out on me."

Johnny plucked the cigarette from the manager's shaky hand, tossed it in the floor, and ground it under his foot. "Stick it in your ass," he said. He turned and started for the club's rear exit.

"Goddamn you, McGinnis! You'll be sorry for pulling this shit!"

He didn't bother to answer and didn't look back. The steel door opened with a groan and he was standing behind the club in the chilly November air. The cold reminded him he had forgotten his overcoat. Better get it tomorrow. Spoil my exit if I go back in now. He grinned at his impulsiveness. Next time get the coat first, Johnny boy.

He walked around the corner of the building and headed for Grand Avenue. Nearing one A.M., the street was quiet. Johnny stopped in front of the club and considered his options. He didn't want to go back to his hotel, but he knew only of a couple of strip joints open at this hour. As he debated, the club's front door opened behind him and he turned to see the woman in red walk out. She had slipped a black trench coat over her dress. In the heat of his confrontation with the manager Johnny had forgotten her. Now he looked at the woman with renewed interest.

"Good evening. Or should I say 'good morning?'"

She smiled at him, that same melting smile he had seen earlier. "I suppose it would be good morning." Her voice was pitched slightly high, almost child-like, not at all in synch with her dark curls and sensuous air.

"Pretty dress."

"Do you think so? It's new."

Johnny grinned. "You wore a new dress to this place?"

The woman shrugged. "I like to dress up, and I like comedy."

"Boy did you come to the wrong place!" He offered his hand. "I'm Johnny McGinnis."

"I know," she replied, taking his hand. "I've been here every night this week."

"And I've seen you every night this week. You're hard to miss."

She ducked her head, almost shyly, and Johnny felt the stirring in his chest again. "Thanks," she said.

He suddenly felt clumsy and nervous, and he tried to cover with a weak joke: "Of course, I guess I was too. Stinking up the joint every night."

She looked up, her face serious. "Oh no, you were wonderful."

"Well, I appreciate that, Miss..."

"I'm sorry! Norlene. Norlene O'Conner."

"O'Conner?" Johnny attempted an Irish brogue: "And a fine name it is, lass."

"Like McGinnis," she answered and smiled.

They fell silent for a moment. A block away a street cleaner turned the corner and started in their direction.

"May I call you, Norlene?"

"Of course."

"Good. And call me, Johnny. Norlene, would you like to have a cup of coffee with me? I mean, unless you're afraid to be alone with a broken-down comedian."

"I'd love a cup of coffee."

"Great!" He looked down Grand for a moment, watching the street cleaner's approach, and tried to think of a place respectable enough to take the woman.

"Uh, Johnny, I know a little coffee shop not far from here."

He looked at her as if she had read his mind. "Lead on, Miss O'Conner."

The coffee shop was only two blocks north, and they covered the distance in less than five minutes. They spoke little during the walk. Johnny mentioned that he had grown up only a few blocks from this part of town. Norlene volunteered nothing of importance. Mostly, she listened. . She had taken his arm easily, but Johnny's feeling of teenaged awkwardness around her lingered.

Inside the "Florentine Café" they took seats opposite one another in a booth and ordered coffee from the bored waitress. The faint, but inextinguishable aroma of an endless stream of greasy breakfasts blanketed the café's warm air. Except for the waitress and a drowsy cop sitting at the counter, they were alone. Johnny could see her eyes clearly for the first time, and he marveled at their startling green clarity. The pale fluorescent lighting made her look older than he had first surmised, but he decided it didn't matter; she was still a striking woman.

"So, do you like comedy in general, or just certain comedians?" he offered, leering slightly, and immediately regretting his facetiousness. Idiot!

If she was offended, she hid her feelings.

"I didn't mean that the way it must have sounded."

"Don't worry about it. I do like comedy, but I guess it's no secret that I like watching you or I wouldn't have come to see you so often."

The waitress brought their coffee. "Cheers," Johnny said, raising his cup. She raised her cup and answered, "To your health."

Johnny placed his cup on the table. "Speaking of health, what's a lady like you doing out so late every night? I don't have a choice, but you?"

Norlene shrugged. "I don't sleep well sometimes. Anyway, I like the late nights and the early mornings in the city. It's much more peaceful, don't you think?"

"Wasn't too peaceful in Meyer's place tonight."

"Meyer?"

"Meyer manages the club."

"Oh. You mean the heckler."

"Yeah, and Meyer, too. I told him to, well, I told him I quit."

She looked surprised. "You quit? What happened?"

Johnny waved a hand in dismissal. "It was nothing. Same old story. There'll be other jobs." She looked down and sipped carefully at the hot coffee, and he used her silence to change subjects. "You know what I do, Norlene. Tell me about yourself."

"I doubt my story would interest you."

He looked into her green eyes: "Everything about you interests me so far. You're a mysterious woman."

"Mysterious? Me? That's a good one. My life is plain vanilla, Johnny."

"Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend? Maybe a few skeletons trying to fight their way out of the closet?"

"No husband, no ex-husband, and no boyfriend. As for the skeletons, let's leave them where they are for now."

"Fair enough. What kind of work do you do?"

"You probably wouldn't think of it as work. I'm, at least I am sometimes, a writer."

"A writer? I'm more impressed by the minute. What do you write?"

"Poetry lately. I used to write novels. Would you believe that at one time I was sure I was going to write The Great American Novel?" She laughed. "That was a long time ago." She stopped as the waitress walked over to refill their coffee.

"You mean you gave up?"

"Yes."

"Why? I'll bet you're one hell of a writer."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but it just isn't going to happen. It took me years to admit that."

He nodded. "It's tough to let go of a dream. Look at me, I'm thirty-nine and still playing dives." She didn't answer, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable with the lie. "OK, I'm forty-three. But Dangerfield was older than me when he hit it big. It could happen."

"Maybe it can, Johnny."

He looked down at the scarred tabletop. Just beside his cup, someone had scratched "B.L. + A. R." into the black laminate. "I wonder who they were?"

"Who?"

He pointed to the scratched initials. "B.L. and A.R."

She motioned to the counter where the waitress was whispering something to the cop. "Maybe those two?"

Johnny turned, looked back to see her smiling, and laughed loudly. "Norlene, maybe you should have been the comic."

"I don't think so. I could never stand up in front of an audience."

"You get used to it."

She shook her head. "Not me. I get nervous talking on the phone to strangers."

"Well, it's a living. Barely."

She only nodded.

"I still wonder why a beautiful woman like you wasn't snatched up a long time ago."

"Maybe I'm picky."

"Are you?"

"Yes," she answered slowly. "I guess I am. Besides, I believe in Fate, capital 'F.' When the right person comes along, I'll know it." She locked her green eyes on his. "Anyway, I might ask you a similar question."

"Me? Who would want to marry a beat-up old comedian like me?"

"Maybe somebody who saw things in you that you don't see for yourself."

"Not much else to see. Besides, this is no kind of life for a married woman. Traveling all the time, rotten food and lousy hotels. Not to mention the low life audiences like tonight." He paused. "Present company excepted, of course."

"There are other ways to live, Johnny." She said this so earnestly that he could not meet her steady gaze or compose a sensible response. He picked up the check and pretended to study it.

"Two bucks for coffee. Good thing you're dining with a rich entertainer, Norlene."

"Why don't you let me get it? After all, I suggested the place."

"I wouldn't think of it."

"Well, why don't you at least come back to my place? We can have a drink, or another cup of coffee if you want. It won't cost you a dime."

He heard the slightest tremble in her voice and noticed a flush in her cheeks. "You don't say that sort of thing very often, do you?"

Norlene cast her eyes down and shook her head. "No, I don't. In fact, I've never said it at all." She looked up at him. "And I mean that sincerely."

Johnny reached across the table and held her arm very lightly. "I know you do. Let's get out of here."

Her building was only three blocks from the coffee shop. A three-story brownstone, it stood squarely in the middle of a row of buildings under renovation, most by aging baby boomers yearning for their humble roots. She stopped in front of the steps to retrieve the key from her purse.

"Which apartment is yours?"

"All of them, I'm afraid."

"Huh?"

"The entire building is mine."

"You didn't tell me you were rich."

"You didn't ask."

He followed her up the steps and waited as she unlocked the outer door. It was heavy with leaded glass, and appeared to be solid mahogany. In the small foyer she unlocked the main door, stepped just inside and flipped on a light switch. He followed her in, surveying the room appreciatively. He could have lived comfortably for several years from the sale of its contents.

"Wow."

"I can't take any credit for it." She seemed embarrassed by the room's opulence. "This building belonged to my parents." She waved a slim arm vaguely. "All this, and a sizable trust, was what they left me." She paused. "Now you can see why I've had the freedom to write bad novels and terrible poetry for a number of years."

"Who said your novels were bad?"

"I did." She shrugged off her coat, and reached for a cigarette in a pack that lay on a lamp stand. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Bad for you, you know."

"I've quit a thousand times. But I'm always nervous the first time anyone comes here."

"Have a lot of visitors?"

She shook her head. "A few friends. Nobody worth mentioning."

"Well, you've got plenty of space for entertaining."

"If I did any. Let's go upstairs. I'm more comfortable up there."

A wide, winding staircase spiraled from the first floor, past a second floor landing and on to the top level of the building. Johnny detected a dim light on the second floor from what might have been a library, apparently as elaborately furnished as the lower rooms. The third floor was a surprise; the thick carpeting ended at the top of the stairs, replaced by hardwood floors; the decorations were modern, almost spartan, and bright colors dominated. At the end of the hallway in which the stairway terminated, a doorway opened upon a small kitchen.

"This is more like it," Norlene said. "This is home."

He looked around the kitchen and down the hall from the doorway. "A lot different," he agreed. "I like it."

"Good. Now, how about that drink?"

"Scotch is good. A little water, no ice."

"Coming up. Make yourself comfortable, Johnny."

"I'll stand, Norlene. I do it for a living, remember."

"I remember." Johnny watched her take a bottle and two glasses from a cabinet over the kitchen counter, fascinated by the insistent rhythm of her body within her dress. He was standing within inches of her almost before he realized it. Her dark hair smelled of apples and fruit wines, and he thought of the first girl he had ever kissed.

When she turned and saw him she murmured, "Oh," very softly, and placed the bottles and glasses on the counter.

Their arms rose around one another at nearly the same instant, and the kiss was long and deep. A breath, then another kiss, this one longer than the first. They stopped. Norlene took his hand and led him from the kitchen.

***

Later, lying in the darkness of her bedroom, he could not say if it had lasted ten minutes or an hour. He felt, he knew, that a lifetime's hoard of passion had poured from his body. He had experienced nothing like it before. Who is she?

He glanced to his right where a clock radio on a nightstand displayed four twenty-three in blurry red numerals. As he pushed himself upright, Norlene switched on a lamp at her side of the bed.

"Johnny?"

"Yes?" With her tousled hair and flushed cheeks he thought her more beautiful than ever.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything you want."

"There's a reason that I've been to that club for the last four nights."

"Yeah?"

"Well, the first night was purely by accident. I told you that I have trouble sleeping some nights, and that first night I was just walking when I saw the place. I don't know why I went in. I just did. And then I saw you on the stage. I watched two sets that night, and I came back the next night for your last set. The two nights since then I've waited for your last set as well, so that I might..."

She hesitated, and Johnny prompted her. "So you might?"

"Have you more to myself," she finished in a breathless rush. "Can you understand that?"

He felt his heart pound a little harder with her words. "I'm not sure I do," he answered.

She placed a hand on his chin and turned his face in her direction. "Look at me, Johnny, and try to understand."

He couldn't have looked away from her green eyes had he tried. "I'm listening."

"I'm a hopeless, foolish romantic, Johnny McGinnis. I sit around here and spin silly poetry and dream of things which most people think went out of fashion with the hula hoop."

He couldn't help himself. "What's a hula hoop?"

"No comedy now, Johnny, just listen."

"I'm sorry."

"Remember back at the coffee shop when I told you I believed in Fate? Well, I wasn't kidding. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were meant to be my companion, not just for a night, but forever. Don't ask me how I knew, I just knew. I saw something inside you, Johnny, something that you can't see. You're more than what you think you are, more than just a broken-down comedian playing hole-in-the-wall clubs. You're special to me, Johnny. You're what I've waited for." She fell silent, and waited for him to respond, but kept her hand on his chin.

He was stunned. "Norlene, this is crazy. You don't know anything about me."

She shook her head vigorously. "I know all about you, Johnny. I know everything there is to know; I know all I'll ever need to know."

He removed her hand and rose from the bed. "Look, this is nuts. You don't know what you're saying."

"I've seen how you look at me, Johnny. Can you tell me that you don't feel something?"

She was right. There was something different, something special about her. "I do feel that you're special, Norlene. But, it's like I've told you..."

"Told me what?" she interrupted.

"It's this goddamned life of mine! My life is no way for a woman to live. I couldn't ask that of anybody but myself."

"And remember I said there are other ways to live, Johnny. You don't have to live that way. All you have to do is stay. Get off the road. Leave that life and start one with me. Stay with me, Johnny. Say you'll stay."

And there it was, all wrapped up and tied with a shiny bow like every birthday and Christmas present that he had ever dreamed of. All he had to do was reach out and take it; no more filthy clubs, no more roads, no more of the Meyers and the countless other faceless bastards he had grown to despise over the years. No more cheap whores, no strip joints, no more choking down greasy food in cheap restaurants.

He looked at her again, looked at those clear green eyes and the earnest, beautiful face. What was he giving up? Nothing but a dream that didn't have a chance in hell of coming true. In that instant he looked at himself, really looked at himself. He wasn't Dangerfield. He didn't have that kind of talent, and he had given up on luck a long time ago. It was a no-brainer; a slam dunk.

"I can't."

She seemed to collapse within herself, as if she had sacrificed a year's energy in the past few minutes. She could not find a way past a certain timbre in his voice, something in the firm way he refused. Finally, she turned her face from him and whispered: "The dream. Dangerfield."

Johnny nodded, whispered "Yes." He knew she understood everything yet understood nothing, but then neither did he. There was nothing to say that mattered.

He dressed quietly. When he was finished the clock read four fifty-five.

She lay on her side, her back to him. Johnny walked around the bed and kneeled down.

"Norlene, I wish it could be different."

"Go on now, Johnny. You shouldn't see a hopeless romantic cry. Not a pretty sight."

He kissed her lightly on the lips and walked from the room. As quietly as possible he descended the dark stairway to the first floor and out again to the dimly lit streets. Nothing stirred as he started down the empty sidewalks, but the comedian was long accustomed to silence.