Meth To The Spotlight

On the table sat the notes for his set. They were written on the back of an envelope in cramped handwriting, jokes squeezed between numbers and half-finished thoughts. He picked them up, read the first line, and forgot the second. His mouth was dry. His jaw felt tight. He had been awake long enough for time to lose its shape.

The theater was waiting for him. That was the part he could not make small.

He had won the free slot. Three thousand seats were inside that building, more people than he had ever tried to make laugh at one time. Until then, the opportunity had felt like a rumor someone had handed him. Now it had a place, a time, and a door he had to walk through.

Eddie put the envelope in his back pocket.

At the apartment door, he paused. The hallway light showed every stain on the carpet and every crack in the paint. He looked down at himself. The jacket hid the paper. His shirt was clean enough. His face looked too alert, but he had no idea how to make it look otherwise.

He opened the door and stepped out.

The trip to the theater was short, though Eddie experienced it as a series of small negotiations. He kept one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the strap of his bag. He watched passing faces and looked away before anyone could study him. The cold air touched his cheeks. It should have steadied him. Instead, it sharpened everything - the traffic, the exhaust, the scrape of his shoes against the pavement.

He kept thinking about the lobby.

A lobby meant people standing close together. People asking questions. People noticing a shaking hand or a fast answer. He imagined the theater staff looking at him and deciding he did not belong there. He imagined another comedian smelling the chemicals on his clothes. He imagined reaching into his jacket and finding nothing.

At the entrance, he stopped long enough to smooth his shirt.

A poster for the open mic hung beside the glass doors. Eddie saw his name among the others. It was printed in small letters, but it looked permanent. For several seconds, he could not move.

Then someone opened the door from inside, and warm air rolled over him, carrying the smell of carpet, coffee, and old theater dust.

He went in.

The lobby was brighter than he expected. Fluorescent lights reflected off the polished floor. People gathered near the registration table, holding paper cups and folded programs. Their voices rose and fell around him. Eddie heard laughter from somewhere near the concession stand and felt his stomach tighten.

He kept walking.

The objective was no longer to become a comedian. It was to reach the sign-in table without being noticed.

A volunteer looked up. “Name?”

“Eddie Morales.”

The volunteer ran a finger down the list. “You’re on.”

The words landed with more force than they should have. Eddie nodded, as if being on the list was ordinary. His fingers shook when he accepted the number written on a small card.

“Backstage is through there,” the volunteer said.

“Right. Thank you.”

He moved away before the volunteer could see how hard he was gripping the card.

The lobby seemed to expand around him. Three thousand seats waited beyond the walls, though the crowd had not yet filled them. Eddie saw performers practicing lines under their breath, checking phones, rubbing their hands together. One man stood near a column with his eyes closed. Another comedian spoke loudly about a club in Manhattan, making sure everyone nearby heard him.

Eddie kept to the edge of the room. He did not want conversation. Conversation required eye contact, and eye contact invited questions.

A comedian passed him and glanced at the card in his hand.

“First time here?” the man asked.

Eddie looked toward the backstage door. “Yeah.”

“Big room.”

“Yeah.”

The man waited for more, then shrugged and walked away.

Eddie felt sweat under his collar despite the cold outside. His thoughts moved in circles. He needed to get backstage. He needed to remember the jokes. He needed to keep the meth hidden. He needed to stop thinking about the meth.

The paper inside his jacket seemed to have its own pulse.

He went into the restroom and locked himself in a stall. The tile smelled of disinfectant. Water ran in the sinks outside, followed by the sound of two men talking about the lineup. Eddie stood with both hands pressed against the metal partition.

He did not take anything out. He did not need to. The craving was already there, rising through him like an argument he could not finish.

For a moment, he considered leaving. He could walk back through the lobby, out the doors, and disappear into the night. Nobody would stop him. The free slot would go to someone else. His name would be crossed off, and the theater would continue without him.

He looked at the envelope in his back pocket.

The jokes were not good enough to justify what he was doing. He knew that. But the chance mattered anyway. It was the first time a stage that large had come close enough to touch.

He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and stared at his reflection.

His pupils looked wrong to him. His face looked thin. He tried smiling. The smile appeared late and left early.

“Just get through it,” he whispered.

The words sounded less like confidence than permission.

Backstage was narrower than the lobby, crowded with cables, folding chairs, and performers waiting for their names. The theater’s machinery made a low vibration beneath the floor. Eddie could feel it through the soles of his shoes.

A stage manager called numbers.

Eddie sat down, stood up, then sat again. His knee moved so fast the chair trembled. He placed both hands between his thighs to keep them still. That worked for several seconds.

Someone beside him noticed.

“You all right?” the person asked.

“Yeah. Just cold.”

The stage manager called another number.

Eddie nodded without looking up. His mouth tasted metallic. He tried to rehearse the opening line, but the words broke apart before he reached the punch line. He pulled the envelope from his pocket and unfolded it. The paper had softened from being handled.

He read the first joke. Then the second. The room seemed to tilt slightly.

From beyond the curtain came the muffled sound of the audience settling into their seats. Thousands of small movements became one continuous noise. Programs opening. Shoes scraping. People coughing. A laugh starting and stopping before it reached the stage.

Eddie pressed his hands together.

He had wanted this. He had imagined the lights, the microphone, the first laugh. He had not imagined the waiting. Waiting left too much room for the craving to speak.

He thought about the paper in his jacket. He thought about how easy it would be to make the fear disappear for a while. Then he pictured himself walking onto that stage unable to remember his own name.

The stage manager looked at the card in her hand.

“Eddie Morales?”

His hands began shaking harder.

He stood.

The walk to the curtain felt longer than the trip across town. His legs were steady enough, but his hands would not obey him. He tucked them into his jacket pockets and felt the folded paper against his fingers.

At the edge of the stage, the curtain opened.

The theater was enormous. The seats rose in dark rows, and the lights above them made the audience difficult to see as individual people. Eddie could make out faces in the first sections, then only shapes. Three thousand seats seemed to become one large body waiting for him to do something.

The microphone stood in the center of the stage.

He stepped toward it.

The applause was polite, not warm and not cruel. It gave him a few seconds to breathe. He wrapped one hand around the microphone stand. The metal was cold. His other hand shook at his side.

He opened his mouth.

The first line came out too fast. He heard it disappear into the room. A few people laughed, but the laugh was scattered. Eddie reached for the next line and found the wrong one. He corrected himself, lost the rhythm, and looked down at the floor.

The crowd waited.

He kept going.

Some jokes landed. Others fell flat. He rushed the pauses and stepped on his own endings. At one point, he looked toward the wings and saw the stage manager watching him. He thought about the apartment, the jacket, the hidden paper, and the distance between the person he wanted to be and the person he had brought onto the stage.

Still, he finished.

The applause came again. It was larger than the first time, though Eddie could not tell whether it belonged to the jokes or to the relief of seeing him leave.

Backstage, his hands continued to shake.

A man Eddie had not seen before stood near the curtain. He wore a dark jacket and held a small notebook. Eddie recognized the look before he understood the reason for it. The man had been watching.

“You’re Eddie?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Marlon Pierce.”

Eddie nodded. His throat was dry.

“You fumbled a little,” Marlon said. “But there was something there.”

Eddie looked toward the stage. “I know.”

“You work bars?”

“Not really.”

“I’ve got a spot at a bar coming up. Smaller room. You want it?”

Eddie should have answered immediately. Instead, he felt the paper under his jacket and watched his hand tremble against the seam.

“A paid spot?” he asked.

Marlon shook his head. “Not yet.”

Eddie almost laughed. The sound came out thin.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

Marlon wrote something in the notebook. “Give me your number.”

Eddie reached for his phone. His fingers missed the pocket twice before he found it.

The opportunity had become real. He had gone from hiding in his apartment to standing under theater lights in front of three thousand people. He had earned another stage, even if he had not earned much else.

But the cost had come with him.

Looking back, I understand that the theater did not prove I was ready. It proved I could hide long enough to be seen. I had mistaken those two things for the same achievement.

That night, I got the free slot. I got noticed. I got another chance at a bar. And backstage, with my hands shaking around my phone, I understood that the addiction was not waiting outside the dream. It was already inside it, standing beside me while I accepted the next invitation.

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters and about 95,837 words in the full book.