Death by Sarcasm

Fourteen

The comedy club names were a parade of bad puns: Punch’s Line. The Delivery Room. Stand Me Up.

Mary went to them all. She talked to every bartender, manager and comedian she could find. She sat and listened to countless comedians talk about such lofty topics as why women check their makeup in the mirror, why there’s so much meat on pizza, and observations on the differences between New York City and Los Angeles. She wondered why so many had the same material. Maybe that’s why they were in these shithole comedy clubs instead of on the Tonight Show. The only thing she knew was that the few times she laughed, it was at something a heckler said, rarely the other way around.

It was at the Comedy Cabin, yes, designed like a log cabin in the Adirondacks, that Mary found the first glimmer of recognition.

“Yeah, I’ve seen the fat f*ck,” the bartender said. He was a skinny white guy with a soul patch and a black T-shirt. “Dickbag never tips. I love it when someone rips him a new a*shole. He deserves it.”

“Is ‘Fat F*ck’ his Christian name, or does he go by something else?” Mary said.

“No clue, babe. All I know is he’s fat, stupid and obnoxious. And he’s got a thing for a chick comic. The one who wears the leather pants all the time?”

He looked at Mary as if she could spout out the name immediately. “No clue, babe,” she said.

“Ask Janet. She’s a scout for one of the networks or something. She knows everyone.” He lifted his chin toward an older woman with big red hair, thick black glasses and sagging skin.

Mary went over to her. “Excuse me,” Mary said.

“Head shot with credits. Leave it on the table,” the woman said. Her voice raspy and bored.

“Thanks for your obvious interest,” Mary said. “But I’m not looking to get hired.”

“Then go away. You’re interrupting Mr. Jenkins’ hilarious take on airline food,” the woman said, referring to the disheveled comic on stage. “Turns out, the food’s not very good. Imagine that.”

Mary pulled out a chair and sat down next to the woman. “Thanks for the invite,” she said. “Get you another martini or will that affect your lovely personality?”

“Sure,” the woman said. “I’ll take another martini and while I’m drinking it, you can place your lips directly on my buttocks. How’s that?”

“Mmmm, yum, very tempting,” Mary said. “Very tempting.” She waved to the waitress and gestured for a refill on the old lady’s drink.

“My name’s Mary Cooper,” she said. “And I’m looking for a female comic, wears leather pants all the time.”

“What are you, a fur trader?”

Jesus, Mary thought. What was the deal with these old people? Do you just get nastier as you get older? Figured you’d taken all the shit you’d have to take in life?

“Absolutely,” Mary said. “Never met a woman I didn’t like. Until now.”

“I’m Janet Markowitz and you’re a smart ass. I like that. Now go to hell.” She reached for the fresh martini with greed in her eyes. “And thanks for the drink. Now why don’t you go find some lesbian and decide who’s the husband and who’s the wife?”

The old woman took a long, loud slurp from her martini.

“Gosh,” Mary said. “You’re not only kind and charming, you’re also homophobic. You just could not be any more likeable.”

“True,” the woman said. “Bye bye now. Go away.”

“The guy behind the bar said you know everyone in these clubs,” Mary said, ignoring her last directive. “And I’m sick and tired of going into these shitholes meeting the dregs of society. Yourself included. So do you know who the woman comic in the leather pants is? Or are you just going to sit there and drink the booze I bought you and be as absolutely nasty as you can be?”

“Hmm. Are those my only two choices?”

Mary paused to think about it. “Actually, no there is a third choice. But I’m not sure you want to know what that is.” Mary leaned in, let her coat open a little bit. Strong arming an old woman didn’t rank real high on her list of personal achievements. But sometimes, the ends justifies the means, no matter how distasteful it can get.

The old lady’s tired and bleary eyes took in the gun, then came back up to Mary’s face. “Tell you what, Beretta,” the old woman said. “One more of these and I’ll tell you who she is. She’s very attractive. You’d love to get her in the sack, I’m sure,” she said.

“My prayers have been answered,” Mary said and waved to the waitress. Moments later, another martini appeared in front of Ms. Markowitz.

“Her name is Claudine. Claudine Leering. It almost rhymes. She’s cute, but not funny. Not funny at all. Her material is stuff Rita Rudner did ten, fifteen years ago. And did it better.”

“Any idea where she might be tonight?”

“What, am I the goddamned Comedy Club Flyer?”

“You’ve been so helpful, Janet-”

“Actually, I just saw her over at Schticky Fingers,” the woman said. “The club on 14th and Wyoming. Don’t know why I’m telling you. Maybe I just want you to get laid tonight. Improve your personality a little bit. Or maybe I’m hoping that you’ll go away.”

“I could only hope to be the kind, giving person you so clearly are,” Mary said. “Does the Welcome Wagon know about you? Because you’re giving them a run for their money.”

“Welcome Wagon, that’s good,” the old lady said. “Maybe you should quit your job and go into comedy. Lord knows the world doesn’t need another dumbass janitor. That’s what you are, right?” The old woman leaned toward Mary and whispered, “Your clothes give it away, dear.”

“Goodbye Janet,” Mary said, getting up. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Don’t forget to mop up before you leave!”

Schticky Fingers was sticky all over. Sticky floor. Sticky air. Sticky walls. Sticky people. Mary felt like she was part of a joke: Lady walks into a bar says, hey, I’m looking for a woman in leather pants.

Luckily, Mary didn’t have to ask anyone about Claudine Leering. Mary spotted her right off. She was on stage. Her leather pants were gold, her shirt black. She had chestnut brown hair piled on top of her head. A pretty face and a knockout body. At least the fat heckler had good taste.

Mary got a beer and walked to the back of the seating area.

Despite the fair amount of people in the club and the haze of cigarette smoke, she spotted him right off.

A baseball cap, a big body stuffed into a small wooden chair. He had a bowl of chips in front of him and a bottle of beer. The suit looked odd on him, a black monstrosity that covered his enormous girth like a circus tent. And the baseball cap on top of his head looked wildly out of place.

There was no point in approaching him now, Mary thought. He was probably in the middle of a fantasy starring himself and Claudine. No doubt involving the leather pants.

Mary found a table and sat down. This Claudine Leering was going on about stupid boyfriends. Well, she could relate to that. She’d had more than her fair share. Like the guy who thought missile silos were actually disguised as real farm silos. Then there’d been the guy who believed Mary when she told him that p.i. stood for Protestant Inspector.

As Mary listened to Claudine’s routine, she found herself chuckling. This woman was actually funny. That nasty talent agent didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. That’s probably why she was a talent scout stuck in these dives.

“Hey, Babe, I haven’t seen you around here before.” Mary turned to see a man in a striped shirt, green sportcoat and denim jeans. He had on thick black shoes, thick black glasses, and his black hair was thick with gel. He was slightly cross-eyed.

“And you probably won’t again,” Mary said, taking a sip of her beer and not even looking at the guy.

“Jeez, tough room,” he said.

“Not tough enough, apparently,” Mary mumbled.

“I’m a comedian here,” the guy said. He stuck out his hand. “Steve Killar. My friends call me Killer.”

Mary ignored his hand. “Nice to meet you, Killer,” she said. “My friends call me Gonnie.”

“Gonnie? What is that, Italian?”

“No, it’s a nickname. It’s short for gonorrhea, which I’ve had for almost ten years. Really, really awful illness.” Mary pushed out the chair next to her. “Want to sit with me for awhile there Killer?”

“Um, I don’t know….Gonnie.”

The annoying guy had moved around in front of Mary and now she couldn’t see the stage.

“I might take a raincheck,” he said. “But are you going to stay for my set? It’s hot, I guarantee you that.”

“Sounds lovely,” Mary said. “But I’ve actually have to go my urologist for a pressure wash. You know, the thing they use to clean patio decks?”

Mary leaned over to the side to get a look at the stage, but the comedian moved with her.

“Well tell your friends about me…” Killer said.

Mary abruptly stood up and saw that Claudine had left the stage and the fat guy was gone, too.

“Shit,” she said, then stood and pushed ‘Killer’ out of her way and hurried toward the stage. She immediately saw a short hallway to the office and dressing rooms, probably. There was also an exit door. She debated for just a moment. If the big guy had been following Miss Leather Pants around, he’d probably been barred from the dressing room. Mary hit the exit door and banged it open, then spilled out into an alley. The big guy was at the end, near a street.

“Hey!” she shouted.

The man turned, then immediately turned left and disappeared from view.

“Shit,” Mary said. And then she started running. “If I can’t catch this guy, I’m going to hang it up once and for all.”