Across the room, maybe even from the heckler, there was a single shout of laughter. Besides that, silence. The tables around her fidgeted with their cell phones and drinks, waiting for Andrew’s turn to be over. Not for the first time, Barbra was glad that she’d never wanted to be a performer.
“By the way,” continued Andrew, valiantly, “I know that the only thing that white people love more than jokes about white people is when black people make jokes about white people. Right, guys, right? But you know what white people really, really, really love? When Asian comedians make fun of their parents. Yep, because you guys just want an excuse to laugh at Asian accents. Black people, no offense, but in this joke you basically count as white people. Admit it, as soon as I came up, you thought to yourselves, ‘Oh man, I hope he says lots of r words, just tons of them, I hope this whole night is brought to you by the letter r.’”
All that scribbling in the backseat and this was what he came up with? It wasn’t going very well—Barbra saw a black girl roll her eyes at her friend. Andrew must have rehearsed his pauses, because he again stared out into the audience, expectant, uncertain, waiting for the laughs she knew were never going to come. Finally, he went on.
“Here’s what I don’t understand: British people do not say the letter h. They just drop it entirely. Like, don’t even try it, but we don’t laugh at that. French people are not on speaking terms with zee ths, isn’t zat true? But none of that turns y’all on like an Asian person messing up the letter r. The only thing that comes vaguely close is a Canadian oo: aboot, hoose. Just close your eyes for a minute and imagine an Asian immigrant who learned to speak English in Canada saying the word roustabout—oh, what does that mean? It’s an unskilled laborer, you roustabouts! Seriously, though, what does that even sound like? Here, let’s try it, let’s say it out loud. You know you want to. It’s okay. I’m telling you, on behalf of Asians everywhere, it’s okay. Here, I’ll say it with you, we can do it together, okay? On three. One, two, three—loostaboot!”
Only a couple of game audience members played along, dutiful. Someone else said something that sounded like “Loser dude,” and several people headed towards the bathroom, but Andrew went on, his good cheer starting to sound a little desperate.
“You racist motherfuckers! No, no, I’m just kidding. Really, I’m kidding, I know all of your best friends are colored. Ha! Aw, I feel kinda guilty. I tricked you into it, and now you feel like douchebags.” Andrew flapped his hands in a gesture that would have been meant to quiet down the crowd if they’d been making any noise at all. “Okay, okay, to make up for it I’ll give you what you really want, okay?” He stood up straight and looked off into the distance. Raising an arm, he said, in a Laurence Olivier voice, “An elderly Chinese man, perhaps my father, perhaps not, just saying words. Words with the letter r.” And then, again, that embarrassing accent. “Lobots. Logaine. Lome. Lotaly Crub—good one, right? Corrabolate. Collobolate—that was two different words, by the way. Well, thanks for helping me undo the last fifty years of the Civil Rights Movement. Y’all are assholes. Good night!”
Barbra realized that she’d managed to drink the entire gin and tonic, and was now clenching the small red straw between her teeth. She let it drop, the plastic shredded and wet, onto her lap.
In Chinese, the word for ugly was chou—it was the same as the word for shameful. Ugly and shameful, both chou. And the slang for shameful was diou lian, which was usually translated to English as “lose face” but more literally meant “throw face.” As if the bereft had willfully tossed away anything worth finding and keeping. Thrown away the pretty face on top, leaving only the ugly, embarrassed face underneath.
Andrew stood in front of her, dripping sweat.
“Can we go?” he asked. She looked up, trying to pull together some words of congratulation or encouragement, but she had none.
“Now?” he added.
Andrew was too soft, thought Barbra. It made sense that you had to make people laugh. Comedy was an act of aggression, and Andrew was not a fighter.
“Please?”
For a brief moment, Barbra felt the urge to refuse, to make him stay and watch the other comedians, to point out the moments where he’d fallen short. She could coach him into being a better comedian. Force him into it.
But Andrew continued to stand, not taking his hurt eyes off her, and Barbra realized that it was a decade or two too late to be a mother, so instead she gathered her things and led Andrew out of the bar.
二十五
Helios, NY