Hiding in the Punchline
Hannibal Buress is never coming back here.
“What did you say to me?” Hannibal Buress stands at the corner of the stage, microphone in hand, making direct eye contact.
He had given the rambunctious audience a warning about heckling just five minutes prior. I feel my face flush with embarrassment. My hand is over my mouth, in part to hide my toothy laugh, a result of his last punchline, in part to hide my horror. His opening comic, standing in that very same place, almost an hour prior, had pointed me out in the crowd for the punchline of a joke about not being able to tell how old some women are based on the way we dress. Trust me, the joke is way funnier than I’m describing.
“What did you ask?” There’s an amused, bordering on hostile, smile on his face now.
I try to push the words out but I can’t. Instead, I give him a dismissive wave and point at the woman sitting next to me. Not my smoothest moment, but it was her heckle. Let her have the attention.
The last of a three-show run in our small city, in our small comedy club, Buress was starting to loosen at the seams. The Tuesday 10pm crowd is too. None amongst us could figure out why he chose this city for his surprise dates or what prompted him to announce two last minute Tuesday show.
The woman sitting next to me repeats her question between sips of white wine, “Why did you cum in her then?”
The crowd stirs uncomfortably in momentary tension until our Sovereign of Laughter cackles, “ I didn’t mean to but now I got a daughter!”
I breath in through the nostrils and slowly out the same way. I’m a semi-regular at this club and getting kicked out as a result of someone else’s drunken behavior, on a night that I thought I could take a break from my grief, is not in the cards for me.
I listen to a lot of comedy podcasts, probably more than is deemed healthy. I spend so much time with Marc Maron, Gianmarco Soresi, Josh Johnson, and literally anyone else who can make me laugh through my earbuds that I could tell you the details of their personal lives and how often they’ve crossed paths with each other, Superhero Team-Up style. I wish I could say I don’t know how this obsession started, but over a decade working at a desk, paired with an undeniable need to be partially distracted to focus (is that ADHD?), led me from YouTube to Spotify to full-blown comedy nerd status.
A few of my dates with Bryan took place in this very comedy club, in this very small city. I brought him to see Jordan Jensen and sat us in VIP, setting the standard for our comedy club dates moving forward. He was impressed that I knew what I wanted and I was grateful that he was willing to let me plan the things I wanted (he always the better date planner though).
We always made it a point to be the cheesy couple taking a picture with the main act. We did not spare Jensen.
What are you? A fuckin’ Skarsgård or something?
Bryan’s shockingly blonde hair and height was always a topic of conversation, even Jensen couldn’t resist.
“Are you Scandinavian”
“Maybe?”
“What are you? A fuckin’ Skarsgård or something?”
He just laughed at this.
“Well get in here you American Psycho-lookin motherfucker!”
He was so easygoing.
On my way into the Hannibal Buress show I avoid the eyes of the bartender who knew us and would probably ask me if Bryan was coming too. I wasn’t drinking anyway. Endless hours of alternating between crying and sleeping didn’t seem like it would mix well with alcohol. On the way out I take the side exit to avoid Bryan’s friends, seated in the back, who would undoubtedly want to share their condolences. I don’t want to explain why I’m out in public instead of emotionally destroyed in my home. There hasn’t been a service yet and I’m not ready to talk to them.
Outside, I run into the infamous heckler. After the opening comic had roasted me she had leaned over to tell me he was only picking on me because I had nice boobs. She tells me the same thing outside.
I respond, “I think it’s more about my nice boobs and exposed midriff, but I haven’t been insecure about my body in years. I just dislike the feeling of that many eyes in a small space.’"
She turns out to be insanely sweet and like adults, we exchange Instagram information with the goal of “hanging out soon.”
Hannibal never comes out to take the customary but optional pictures with attendees after the show, so I snap a selfie and convince myself I look like a normal, un-bereaved person.
I drive myself home, take off my normal person costume, turn on some Marc Maron, and cry myself to sleep.