I took a seat at the corner of the bar so I could get a good look at everyone entering the place. Cristina looked up, “Fanta orange?”

I shook my head, “No, a beer.”

“Non-alcoholic?”

“No, a normal beer,” I spoke slowly so she’d understand, “A beer with alcohol.”

She raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth, but then shrugged and got my beer. That’s right honey, it’s none of your business. If only she had as much in her head as she did in her bra, she might have been a smart chick.

I turned back to watch the crowd trickle in. Once a week the flamenco bar turned comedy club and hosted an English comedy night, attracting a large expat crowd. There were some of the regulars, friends and girlfriends of the other comedians. Well there was one less amongst their numbers tonight. I don’t imagine Sarah will risk coming to a show. Not after that text message.

I have to choose happiness. I’m sorry.

That’s a good one. I’m going to turn that into material. Just as soon as I find the fucking joke in it. 

And I tell you, for a girl who couldn’t tell a joke to save her life, she got the timing on that one perfect. One hour before my last show. I walked up on stage and froze. My knees trembled, the nausea rose and just like that, after ten years of killing it in the spotlight, my stage fright was back. Even tonight, I could feel the cold sweat gathering in my pits and creeping down my back, but that wouldn’t be a problem once the beer got to work.

A large girl in a frock walked in with a group of friends. Excellent! A real chubster. I got my cue cards out and shuffled through to the fat girl jokes. It’s a good set, even if the jokes sting some people harder than others. I mean people know my routine, I’ve had almost a thousand views on YouTube. People want me, no I’d say they need me to be cruel. I’m probably saying things all their friends are thinking anyway. The relentless fake politeness of their interactions are killing them inside. They may flinch from my bite, even cry, but they still buy the tickets and come back. Well the ones who cry don’t usually come back, but others do.

Next came a bunch of hipsters. I pulled out the ugly jokes. This one was so easy. Nothing a hipster hates more than being made to feel ugly. They don’t cry, they just get real angry and their faces scrunch up like curled fists. I like to do them just after the fat jokes and watch the laughter die on their coiffed beards and pouting scarlet lips. Facial hair and garish lipstick has been the camouflage of uggos for generations, and still they think we won’t notice.

I finished my beer, and then because I wasn’t on for thirty minutes I asked Cristina for another. She was okay, that Cristina. Almost a friend I’d say. And that red top she had on tonight suited her.

Frank was on first. Why he didn’t just call himself Francisco and do his jokes in his native language, I don’t know. It was painful to watch him fall flat night after night. Not the brightest kid, but I bet he’s the only one who rehearsed his entire set before the show. It was endearing in a way. The audience was dead cold so I decided to give the boy a hand.

“Yeah! Woo! Go Frank!” I cheered loudly. Cristina joined me in clapping and cheering him and that guilted a smattering of applause out of the audience. I looked over at her and she flashed me a conspiratorial smile. Yeah, we had each other’s backs. These guys were probably the closest I had to friends here, more so now that I was alone. Shit, shouldn’t have thought about that. I felt the panic rising in my chest.

“Give me a shot sweetheart.”

“What would you like?”

“Hmm a whisky?”

“How come you’re drinking tonight, Danny? I thought maybe you were an alcoholic?”

“Nah, Sarah bugged me to stop all the drugs and drinking. You met me at a very strange time in my life, but things are going to get better now.”

She poured a couple out and joined me in knocking them back. Then they were announcing me and it was show time.

“Love him or hate him, wait who am I kidding? It’s the man we all love to hate, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Daniel Byrne!”

There were gratifyingly loud cheers. No pity applause this. And no stage fright either. The alcohol had warmed me nicely. I felt relaxed and happy, like I was in exactly the right place, exactly where I wanted to be in this moment in time. My eyes fell on the chubster. Poor kid had really dolled herself up for the night. In fact it looked like she was on a date with one of the blokes in the group. I couldn’t do it to her tonight. The uggo jokes then. But they just sounded kind of nasty and unfunny when I ran them through my head now. So what if they were posers, weren’t we all just dealing with our shit as best we could?

“Yo! We didn’t come here to stare at your pretty mug man. Start the show already!”

I’d been quiet since I took the stage. Shit. My mind went blank. There was no other option but to pull the cue cards from my pocket. I flicked through the child abuse jokes, the depressed dyke jokes, the wife-beating jokes. I couldn’t get myself to use them. Someone could be suffering these things. What the hell was wrong with me?

Then I remembered why I always did coke when I drank. Without that the alcohol took over. I’d forgotten that softness that welled up inside, turning me into a goddamn Care Bear. Maybe I could just explain it to the crowd. They’d understand. We were all just people at the end of the day.

“My…” my voice shook, “My girlfriend Sarah left me….”

That’s when they started throwing things.  

 

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