Backstage Door.

This was not my first stint as a stand-up comic, but it was shaping up to be my last. Mac, the Manager, had given me several consecutive dates months ago, and I never managed to fill even half the room, but Mac was desperate when he called me that morning.

Hired to fill in for a more popular act, the crowd was a touch hostile. Most of them had come to see Abe Jordan. His name was on the marquee after all, and I was hoping he would show up for his last two sets because I was bombing big-time with the audience.

I tossed my cigarette in the gutter and went inside to get the next set over with.

A half-hour later, Mac, the manager waved me over to his cubicle-sized office. I already knew what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry Jackie…”

“I know…”

“…but I gotta let you go.”

“I know but…”

“You need better material, Jackie.”

“Yeah, well, it was pretty short…”

“Or a better schtick.”

“A better…”

He held up his hand to stop me. “I got the word from the big-shots upstairs. I explained the situation. Told them their main act didn’t show so I called you in off the bench. But they don’t give a shit. They want me to give everyone a raincheck. It’s a fucking mess. I hate giving out rainchecks. I appreciate your help, Jackie, even if they don’t.”

I think he had more to say and then thought better of it. Stand-up comedy is brutal, dog-eat-dog, and part of Mac’s job was quality control. I simply wasn’t up to the club’s standards. I don’t think I was really cut out to be a comedian at all. “I understand,” I said. “Did you hear from Jordan?”

“Yeah, said he was on his way. He’ll handle the last set. That should appease the savages.” He shook his head and shrugged, then handed me a couple of crisp hundred-dollar bills, chump change, and added, “Don’t spend it all at the bar.”

I didn’t.

That was the end of that career.

It had rained during my grisly final set, everything was wet and shiny when I stepped out the backstage door into the alley. I was startled by a man standing in the shadows just a few feet from the door. He was dressed in black except for a long white scarf. He wore a top hat, which he politely tipped in my direction. He resembled a magician, but, the residual comic in me thought, ‘Oh great, just what I need, a confrontation with Jack-the-Ripper.’

He said, “You’re the comic named Jackie, right? Jackie-the-ripper.”

“I was,” I said, with a touch of sarcasm. “Do I know you?”

He seemed pleasant enough as he stepped forward out of the shadows. “Not really,” he said. His smile was brief and cold. He produced a black cane from out of nowhere. “So—how’d you do in there? You knock ‘em dead? Were you killing it?”

“T’yeah, right,” I said. ‘I couldn’t even get a laugh out of a bunch of drunks.’

“Oh, that’s too bad. I’ve no patience for fools and drunks, they’re exempt from contracts.” He tilted his head from side to side. “Those are the rules, though. Right? It goes with free will and all that other crap.”

I was not in the mood for an existential chat with a weirdo in the alley at midnight. Not tonight anyway.

I felt a twinge of guilt when he said, “Well, you certainly have the wits to be funny, what’s the problem, material?”

“No, I’ve got some funny stuff. I pay for half my material. I don’t know, it’s either my appearance, or my timing. Not sure.”

“Yes, timing,” he said, making the cane disappear with one hand, while producing a cigarette case with the other. “Timing is everything.”

I was impressed with his sleight of hand. “Maybe I should dress like you,” I said, suddenly feeling hilarious.

He held out the case, allowing it to open. “Would you like to knock ‘em dead?” He said, offering me a cigarette.

I accepted one and put it between my lips. It was a stupid question. “Well of course I would.”

“I could make that happen,” he said. “Easily.” The sound of a steel Zippo lighter clanged moments before a flame appeared in front of my face: a large, fluttering, orange inferno that threatened to set my hair on fire. “Jesus!” I said, leaning back, and I thought I saw a fleeting wince flash across his features.

“That’s quite the flame-thrower you’ve got there, mister,” I said, tilting my head, inhaling the enticingly aromatic smoke.

“Thank you. Nice, isn’t it?” He said, holding it out in the palm of his hand, as if I should take it.

It was a burnished black with beveled edges. On each side it possessed a singularly gruesome holographic skull that seemed to float deep within the wafer-thin lighter. It was almost mesmerizing, and I realized, quite by chance – that he was moving his hand slightly, enhancing the holograms effect. I looked up to see him studying me and felt an unconscious shiver, though the night was warm and humid.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I said, a subtle insult. Like saying it’s chilly in Antarctica. The lighter was so cool, so thin, I didn’t see how it could even work.

“Exactly,” he said.

I know it’s impossible, but at this point, I felt like he really was reading my mind. I instinctively stepped backwards. Something about him raised the hair on the back of my neck. It was just about midnight, not a soul in sight but the two of us, and unnaturally quiet: Not even the sound of a car on a distant street could be heard.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “You just need a good promoter. I could turn you into an overnight success…” He snapped his fingers for effect and I thought I saw sparks. “…like that.” Despite an inner core of reluctance, his offer was surprisingly tempting, but for an errant thought that popped into my head, fresh from my own subconscious: ‘Nothing in this world could make you a great comic.’

The cigarette’s exotic aroma was intoxicating. I took another deep drag and examined it as I exhaled, looking for the brand. There was just the faint image of a skull.

I felt a sudden and acute sense of dread and foreboding when a church bell began to toll somewhere in the night. I wanted to flee but felt transfixed in time and place. As if the man had a physical hold on me. The stage door opened, nearly hitting me in the back. Mac, the manager, appeared in the doorway. “Where the hell is Jordan, goddammit?” He swore, looking up and down the alleyway.

As echoes of the church bells died away, the manager looked at me curiously, put a hand on my shoulder and said, “What are you still doing here?”

I dropped the cigarette and slipped inside the building.

Abe Jordan never showed up. I stuck around for another hour, totally creeped out by ‘Mr. Skull, then waited for a mass exodus near closing and placed myself in the middle of the throng all the way to the parking lot.

The next day, Mac called me around noon and asked me if I’d heard from his missing comic. After some discussion about who was where and what was said, I brought up the magician in the alley and his amazing sleight of hand, wondering if Mac knew who he was.

The manager was dismissive. “What magician? We don’t have any magic acts, other than you. First you make the customers disappear, then the other comedians.”

Before I could say, ‘That’s not funny,’ Mac hung up.

A few days later, by pure chance, I happened to glimpse the missing comic through the window of an upscale café, a restaurant I couldn’t afford to eat at. I pushed my way past the blustering maître d and found Abe Jordan dining alone in a comfortable booth.

I sat down and said, ‘Remember me?’

He did. “How ya doing?”

I told him how badly I performed in his place and asked him why he never showed up for his own damned gig. I was still annoyed, and I’m sure it showed.

“I did, actually,” he said, dabbing his chin with a napkin. “It’s a funny story.”

I stared at his sumptuous breakfast, waiting for his bullshit explanation.

“I ran into this guy in the alley by the back door.”

“At the club?” I asked, just to be clear.

“Yeah. He stepped out of the shadows just as I was about to go in, dressed like…”

“Dressed like Jack-the-Ripper?” I suggested.

“Well? Yeah, I suppose. I figured he was just some rich fag in a costume. Told me he could turn me into an overnight sensation. ‘I’d knock ‘em dead,’ he said.”

“So what happened?” I asked, sliding closer to his eggs. Surreptitiously smelling them while pretending not to.

“I told him to get lost. Whattaya think?”

“Oh,” I said, “but…”

“But,” he continued, “the guy whipped out a contract and ten grand in cash. Says he’s in earnest. Says he slit a guy’s throat once for assuming he was gay, but he’d let my attitude slide this once.”

“Wow,” I said.

“That’s not ‘wow’, wow was the ten grand and the contract. He signed it too, and said he was ‘compelled’ to honor its terms.”

“What were its terms?” I asked. “You didn’t sign it, I hope.”

He looked out the window. “I did sign it.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked me in the eye. “So what? It’s bullshit, Jackie. A contract signed in demon’s blood? For my soul? Jesus, give me a break. The guy was a crackpot.”

“Oh.” I said, “So the money wasn’t real either, then.”

After a long, suspended, pause—he said, “The money was real.” He looked out the window again.

“Did you spend any?”

“I celebrated. I’m done working off strip, for pennies. I’ve got some big-time irons in the fire—and cash in my pocket.”

God those eggs smelled good. “Sounds to me like you have a deal, buddy, unless you give that guy his money back.”

He rolled his eyes and fixed me with a hard stare. “I ever see that guy again? I’ll cave his head in with a crowbar.”

He shoveled more food into his maw while I stared at him. “What?” He asked, after swallowing.

I took a deep breath. “I don’t think you can break deals with guys like that.”

“Fuck him. What’s he gonna do? Put a curse on me? I hired a body guard. I’ll be fine. I don’t have to honor a deal with a nut-case in an alley, Jackie. Consumer protection laws give us three days to back out of a deal.” He was done with the subject, and me, it appeared. “How ‘bout we get together next week? Give me a ring. I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t have your number, Abe.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well I have yours, I’ll call you, then. How about that?”

What could I say? I barely knew the guy, and we both knew he would never call me. The silence lengthened until I said, “That’d be great, Abe. You’re sure you have my number?” I almost laughed. Instead, I slid out of the booth without waiting for an answer. He didn’t even offer to order me a cup of coffee. None of the waitresses had bothered to ask me if I wanted anything, either.

“I got it,” he says. “And I really am grateful Jackie, no kidding. Now get out of here and let me finish my breakfast.”

A few days later I heard a rumor about a guy in Vegas who had such a funny act that people could not stop laughing.

A week after that, I overheard some customers discussing something they’d heard on one of those trashy entertainment shows, about a comedian who was so funny, dozens of people had reportedly died with laughter as a result of his act. I almost snorted into an espresso and their three latte’s. A barista’s job is not glamorous, but at least it paid the bills. The tips weren’t bad, either.

A few months later, the Las Vegas Health Department issued a press release concerning suspected Legionnaires Disease at a prominent Vegas venue. The Casino owners were furious, citing a lack of forensic or biological evidence to support such a claim. The story dropped from the news after an unnamed Health Department official said, and I quote, “The Casino would have us believe that dozens of people fell ill and died from jokes told by an up-and-coming comic. Let’s be serious now, people.”

Finally, another popular comedian who I refuse to name told me he was there when it happened. He said “The comedian’s name was Abe Jordan…”

I mumbled a curse under my breath.

“…and he wasn’t really that funny. But for some reason, his jokes, his delivery, or his timing was so good, he made people laugh so hard that their hearts couldn’t take the strain.”

The casinos have deep pockets and long arms, so Jordan was soon indicted by a grand jury, charged and arraigned and represented by a world-renowned attorney who accepted the case free of charge. The show trial was conducted in a light-hearted manner, and when they put him on the stand in his own defense, nine of the jurors, the judge and two bailiffs died laughing in mid-testimony.

It was quite a startling affair and while he was leaving the courthouse with his lawyer, he was taken into custody by large, serious men, wearing dark sunglasses, driving black, unmarked cars.

Nobody’s heard from him since. It was like he was cursed.