Open Mic

Yet again, a true story from my life cast into third person with my name changed to make the third personiness less  weird. This time, I'll be Dave. Robert and Mary play themselves, though the temptation to rename them Roscoe and Weezy was well-nigh overwhelming. This happened in Philadelphia in the winter of '87-'88. The club was almost certainly called Comedy Factory Outlet, but I'm calling it Zeppo's because a) I don't feel like looking it up; and b) Zeppo's would be a kickass name for a comedy club.
    Dave was ready to step forward and take up his destiny as a standup comedian. It was the '80s, and Dave figured all he needed was some jokes, a skinny tie and a willingness to stand in front of a brick wall. He had listened to his Steven Wright tape over and over again, and decided he was ready to roll.
    Around the block from his house in Old City Philadelphia was a comedy club called Zeppo's. And Zeppo's held an Open Mic night once a week. Dave asked around, and was told that the club was easy on new comedy aspirants. Sort of. Knowing that the new guys would be nervous and therefore would probably suck, the club put them on at the very end when most of the audience had left already. "Sign me up!" Dave thought, and busily set to typing all his jokes on little index cards.
    By the time the Night of Open Mic arrived, Dave had made little progress memorizing his routine, but hey, he would be going on last. He had all evening to learn the material! This turned out to be the funniest joke of the night. Dave went in to sign up and was told that the order of performance would be determined by pulling their names out of a hat. Aaaaand when the names were pulled, Dave was first. All evening to learn the routine turned into, maybe, half an hour.
    This was an age before Janeane Garofalo. Comics didn't bring their jokes with them up on stage on a clipboard in the '80s. (Though maybe it would have helped.) No idiots they, Zeppo's salted the open mic night program with a few ringers, pros or at least very talented amateurs, to keep things moving. The one who kicked off this open mic night was a gentleman whose schtick was making helicopter noises with his tongue. It was probably very funny, but Dave couldn't get much of a yuck out of it, because he was on next.
    Dave's friends Robert and Mary had come out in support, and he sat with them until he was called to the stage. And he left his winter coat with them when he went up. And in the pocket of the coat were his index cards. Somewhere, no doubt, Janeane Garofalo is saying, "Told you so!"
    Dave had been on a stage before, in high school, but couldn't remember the lights being this bright. He could barely see the audience, just the dim outlines of the people in the front row. He did, however, perceive an air of expectancy from in front of him. It would not last long. Dave remembered two of his jokes, maybe three, and performed them haltingly. If there was any laughter, it was not the warm, friendly kind. And Dave bailed. Said "thanks" and ran from the club.
    Having paid the cover, Robert and Mary wanted to stay and hear the other comics and in an era before cell phones were widespread, they couldn't call up to abuse Dave. Dave felt charged, amped, relieved, and not at all embarrassed or ashamed about having totally bombed. He was at home, drinking Strongbow, and calling friends and family long-distance to chortle about the experience.
    Robert and Mary eventually showed up, bringing Dave's jacket. They reported that the emcee spent the rest of the evening riffing about Dave between every act. "Dave? Has anybody seen Dave?" Dave felt that if this was the entire extent of his fame in comedy, he could live with it.