WHAT PERFECT PEOPLE DO
At work the next day, Alice came up to me: “You were so good! I told you that you could do it.”
I was still high from the night before, so I didn’t hesitate when she asked afterward, “You gonna do it again?”
“Yeah, I’mma do it again!”
I returned to the club the following week, and I was much better. This time, I was familiar with the club, the host, the audience, and how the whole open-mic thing worked. My brother’s friends didn’t show up, but a few of my friends from work did. There were only about twenty people in the audience, but they were all laughing.
As he was closing the show, TuRae made an announcement that got my attention. “We’re going to raise the stakes a bit.” I listened closely; even then, I liked my stakes high. “Next week, we’re changing things up for amateur night. It’s going to become a competition: Blazin’ Thursday! The contest will be judged not by me, but by you, the audience. Whoever gets the most applause wins the night—and a cash prize of seventy-five dollars! So, for you performers, make sure to bring your friends so you get that money.”
Though I didn’t know it at the time, with twenty people a night, TuRae’s amateur night wasn’t making the Laff House much additional money before its regular show. The real purpose of the contest was to motivate us to bring more friends to the club on Thursdays in hopes of winning.
As I got ready to leave that night, TuRae sauntered over. It seemed like he wanted to speak directly to me, which was exciting because he’d barely acknowledged me before, outside of introducing me. “Come to amateur night,” he said. “You’ll be great. I’m telling you, you’ll kill it.”
To this day, I still don’t know whether he said that to everyone or not, but he was the first comedian to believe in me—or at least act like he believed in me. If it was a hustle, it worked. I told everyone who came the first two nights about the competition and asked them to come next Thursday with as many friends as they could round up. The other comedians did the same thing: That night, there were almost a hundred people in the audience. And unfortunately, because I was still the new guy, I was up first again.
* * *
I’d moved some jokes around so the set started out rough. The room was quiet, and it felt like people were laughing to break the awkwardness. But when I hit them with the midget joke, and those hundred people went from silence to laughter and hollering, any thought I still had of being a Nike rep was gone. I wanted to be on stage. It was competitive, like a sport, and I could do what I did best: be the fun, loud guy.
At the end of the night, TuRae brought the comics back to the stage. I was sure I’d lost. A few of the other comedians were really funny, and I was so inexperienced.
TuRae began the judging by holding his hand over the head of one of the comedians, and a light round of applause ensued. He moved on to the second comic, and the room erupted. Then me, and the room exploded again, but it didn’t seem as loud. I felt certain the guy before me had won, and I resolved to come back and keep trying.
When TuRae got to the end of the line, however, he kept me and the guy next to me on stage and did a final clap-off. Not only did all my friends applaud, but other people’s friends applauded for me too. These were people I’d never met before in my life, and they were rooting for me to win. I looked around the club and tried to take it in.
A moment later, TuRae announced, “Congratulations to this Thursday’s winner, Lil’ Kev the Bastard!”
I pumped my fist into the air and did a victory lap around the stage. It was the third time I’d ever performed, and I’d beat out all the veterans. Maybe I did have a talent for this—or at least a lot of loud friends.
That day, I became a professional comic. I was amazed that I’d gotten paid to do something I genuinely enjoyed. I couldn’t stop talking about it on the train ride home.
Me: Damn, I won. Like, I won. That’s crazy. I can’t believe I won.
Spank: Yeah, Kev, you won.
Me: And I just started doing this! How’d I win so fast? I gotta think of some more jokes. Hey, though, you think I was really that good?
Spank: Yeah, you was all right.
Me: You think I won cause I was the best there, or just cause y’all were really loud?
Spank: Cause we felt sorry for you.
Me: No, come on, for real. This is important.
Spank: Come on, Kev, stop talking about it already.
I was obsessed. All week I worked on new jokes to add to my set—most of it hacky, obvious stuff, like about the differences between the way white and black people dance.
The amateur competition kept me and the other comics working hard and bringing our friends. I reached out to practically everyone I knew in high school. I even had my customers coming in. It was like a friends arms race among the amateurs.
My performance at the second contest was stronger, and I won again. At the third contest, I was no longer first on stage; I was in the middle of the lineup. When TuRae announced me, he said, “This guy here has been tearing up the amateur scene. He’s won two back-to-back Blazin’ Thursdays!” When I walked on stage, people in the audience were no longer bracing themselves to feel sorry for me but getting hyped for a good time.
After my third win, I stopped doing triple shifts at work and started taking comedy more seriously. I went to the club on nights when I wasn’t working to watch professional comics. The first thing I noticed was that they didn’t just think about their jokes; appearance was also important to them. Like Eddie Murphy, they had a look they’d crafted for the stage.
As I sat there in the club night after night, I thought about who I was and what kind of image I should be creating. Should I buy a suit, a leather jacket, a sports jersey? Each of those items conveys a specific personality. Which should mine be?
After winning my fourth contest, I spent the money I’d accumulated on a safe look that I thought would appeal to everyone: thick Banana Republic dress slacks, black dress shoes, a stiff dress shirt, and a J.Crew sweater. I thought I looked like a professional comic, but in retrospect, I looked more like a deacon’s son. Of course, how you feel you look is more important than how you actually look anyway, because it’s all about your attitude. And I was Lil’ Kev the Bastard—I was all attitude.