The Foam Pit

“When you’re having a good time, rest assured the folks in the seats are too - like my dad used to say “A man who can laugh at his own jokes should monetize it.” My mom used to say  something too - That my dad was an ass-faced loser - but that’s besides the point. 

If you’re out there on that stage, facing down a crowd of infinitely clever big-brained apes who all probably know a better joke or two than you do, the only thing to do is take a breath and plunge right in. It’s like the foam pit at my daughter’s gym: you never know what kind of smelly socks you’ll discover, which yellowed six-year-old’s bandaid you will find clinging to your leg hair like a baby gorilla to her mother’s tit, but you plunge in anyway. And it’s never very fun - foam pits. I usually get a big letdown once I hit the surface. You just kind of sit there, and it takes a tremendous amount of energy to move even a few feet in the sticky, toddler infested mire.

I apologize for making that comparison - It was not the whole truth - Adults don’t jump in foam pits.

 We’re much too sophisticated for that.

We engage in much more mature activities: Water skiing, bungee jumping, tax collecting, pastry making…

Trembling in front of a room of other grownups, trying to remember that thing that was going to make them laugh...

You practice in the mirror before heading out - run through what you’re gonna say, of course, but mainly you’ve gotta master just the right combination of depressed, losing it, and “I’m actually okay, don’t call the fire department just yet” attitude. The audience doesn’t have to pity you, but I like to play off that emotion just a little - I’ll take a boost where I can get it. 

And they’ll always clap, because they’re polite, because they’re adults, but you sure can tell what kind of clap it is. There’s the “That sure was funny” clap, the “I’m sure glad that’s over clap,” the “I am so drunk I can’t even tell whether or not that was funny, but I don’t care,” clap, and, of course, the “This guy on stage is so hot I couldn’t understand a thing he said but I sure could understand those rippling biceps under the T-shirt” clap.

Guess which clap I get the most.

For reference, I’m a fifty-something balding single father with a slight beer belly, and most of my shows take place in establishments that specialize in serving alcoholic beverages. 

So anyway, if you wanna know a story about something that happened to me that’s kept me flailing in foam pit despite the odds, here it is: 

It’s the end of a show, it’s a Monday. I’m sweaty, exhilarated. Folks are clapping somewhere midway between the drunk clap and the sure glad it’s over clap, and I’m thinking I might’ve worn a slightly less form-fitting T-shirt. Or skipped out on the breadsticks at Olive Garden the other night. Anyway, I’m kinda waving at the crowd, kinda bowing, we’re in this dingy old pub called McGinty’s, and somebody throws a rose at me. 

I’m not kidding, that’s right. A whole ass red rose, de-thorned, two leaves, twenty-seven petals. Of course I counted-wouldn’t you? So I don’t catch it, of course, my reflexes aren’t quite JV Pittsburgh High School freshman tennis champion level any more, so it hits me on my upper shin, just below the knee and lands kinda lopsided on my foot. So what do I do? What the hell do you think? I bend over in front of that whole pub and I pick it up, that’s what, and I turn it over in my hand and I hold it up in the air and I say “Who threw this rose?” 

But then it’s kinda loud in there, so I go back up to the mic and I say it again, but bigger: “WHO THREW THIS ROSE?” And when that feisty crowd bless their hearts still can’t hear me I have to kind of bellow into the mic, like “WHO THREW THIS ROSE?”  And that shuts them up. See what I was trying to do here was create a whole other joke out of this joke that was being played on me, kind of turn them on their heads if you know what I’m saying. I brandished the rose in the air like a sword and I squeaked out my obligatory “Wherefore art thou, O Romeo,” and the crowd went wild.

But what made them go full-on batshit crazy was when she stood up and answered, proud, tall, clear as an Austrian spring “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” And the ball was in my court, and hell if I wasn’t tree number three in Romeo and Juliet interpreted as “The Cat Lady and the Neighborhood Stray” Sophomore year of college. 

“'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.

Thou art thyself, though not a wayward stray

What’s dirty pussy? It is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose (brandishing the object)

By any other word would smell as sweet.

(upon speaking a certain line pertaining to a stray cat, it dawned on me that some would interpret my words as having another meaning. I resolved to suck it up and continue. Go big or go home, that’s what I say.)

So pussy would, were she not pussy called,

Retain that dear perfection which she owes

Without that title. pussy, doff thy name,

And for that name, which is no part of thee

Take all myself.”

Now, as you probably would guess, the audience of a small comedy show in a pub are generally pretty good sports. But this was a bit much, even for them. There were a few wayward chuckles, but for the most part, it was a sea of miffed faces staring up at me. If I had to guess, I would say the majority of them were questioning themselves and their two dollar payment to see a hopeless misogynist and slanderer of women do stand up, but that could just be my insecurity. 

Alrighty so what I’ve said is sinking in, the woman is still on her feet, and God I don’t even want to look at her after that recital. But I do, because sometimes your brain and your adrenaline do things and your stupid neck turns a fraction of an inch and you face a woman with wild black hair and moonpale skin and a half a raised eyebrow and a smirk like a sliver of the garden of eden. And sometimes that smirk reminds you that you ought to redeem yourself before you lose your life and livelihood to a big misunderstanding, so you stutter into the mic “I...I did a cat version of Romeo and Juliet in college.” And sometimes that's enouggh to break the ice, lighten the load, get a room full of embarrassed chuckles. At least that’s what happened to me.

She smiles, though, through the nervous laughter, and the sliver turns to crescent turned to waxing gibbous and she says

“ I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized.

Henceforth I never will be known by “pussy” again

(unless certain circumstances arise.)

Love ain’t always elegant, folks, but that’s pure geeky romance if you ask me. 

We’re getting married eight months later. Will we stay together? Who knows - 50 percent of American marriages fail, so, as the Trojans said as their capital was besieged by the Greeks, we have a fighting chance.”

The audience erupts into applause, and the young couple gaze adoringly into each other's eyes. The groom, forty something, balding, leans over and whispers into the bride’s ear: “What kind of applause do you think that is?” To which she replies “you know the Trojans lost the war, right?” A groomsman hands something to the groom, and he presents it to his new wife: A single red rose.