The Road Warrior... by Nikki Payne
This story is based on events that never actually happened.
The Clansman Inn and Pub were written on the gig sheet. I’d been working full time as a stand-up comic for about six years with a fair amount of success but in Canada, you still had to do these road gigs out in the middle of God knows where to pay the bills. Still, I’m amazed at some of the places that put on comedy shows. Who was the marketing genius that thought, “Oh yeah, people will come out in droves to the edge of nowhere on a single-lane highway during the worst storm of the winter to see comedy at the Clansman.” The snow was coming down hard before I left so I called Hal, my booker, to see if the show was still a go and he said yeah. So, I got on the road early to give myself some extra time and if the gig cancels after I’ve already left, they have to pay me anyway. Now I was regretting leaving at all because I could barely see if I was still on the road. Even at 50 clicks, I was sliding around like a tiny bug on it’s back. Good thing there was no one else stupid enough to be out here for me to run into.
My heart was in my throat as I passed a bunch of emergency vehicles. A Ford Taurus wrapped itself around a pole. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I yelled at myself, “where is the Clan Hut or whatever it’s called. I could do a normal job, this isn’t worth it.” I rented a car because I’d rather take my chances on a set of bald all seasons than to spend one minute trapped in the car with the other comic on the bill, Bruce O’Keefe. I’d rather die alone in a snow-covered ditch along the side of Highway 12 than to spend two hours listening to Bruce tell me how I only got my TV special because I’m a woman and how he was headlining before I could walk and now he’s got to open for some chick to pay the rent. First off, it’s the Clansman Inn, who gives a shit who’s headlining? It’s a fail for everyone. Second, maybe Bruce would be headlining the illustrious Clansman if he’d bother to write a joke since 1984. If I hear his “Newfie Air Force” closer one more time I might scratch my eardrums out. Plus, he drives like a maniac and road rages at all the other drivers. He smells like old spice, captain Morgan, export A’s and resentment.
My tires spun in the parking lot snow as I turned into the Clansman. The manager was shocked to see me. “I’ve been calling your booker all day to cancel the show but he never got back to me.” That son of a bitch Hal would rather me risk my life than possibly miss out on a commission. The snow was coming down too heavy for me to risk going home so I got to curl up with the Clansman for the night.
The pub looks like any other gig your average comedy road warrior would be performing in any weekend across Canada. Small basic stage riser in a corner that most, but not the whole room could see. A couple of TV’s near the bar to help distract the audience from your show and that sticky, rotten fruit smell of stale beer.
There was an old SM 53 microphone from the ‘70s Sitting in the stand. They are kind of rare, I don’t think they even make them anymore. I’ve read that they are actually really great for stand-up shows because they were designed to prevent popping when you speak directly into them. It had a wad of electrical tape holding the cable in place so my guess is they weren’t too careful with it. Too bad they don’t realize the gem they have sitting on their stage.
My plate of Nachos showed up the same time Bruce did. There are only a few barflies and me in the audience but Bruce said he wanted to go up. I guess the Royal Newfoundland Air Force is itching to fly. Only, he didn’t do the Air Force joke, he didn’t do any of his old jokes. Instead, he talked about his life. The crazy things he did in the ‘80s and how he almost got a sitcom on NBC. He talked honestly about the end of his marriage, how he never got to see his kids grow up and how he played a role in creating that. It was vulnerable, gut-wrenchingly honest and still very funny. He did what great comedians do; held up the sticky, messy heap of shit we call human existence and broke it down showing everyone how ridiculous and beautiful it all is so we all feel less alone. Bruce did this masterfully that night with a level of experience and skill I can only hope to have someday. He wasn’t just some bitter old road comic. Like the microphone he was speaking into, he was something special.
My phone started ringing at 6 am. My head was throbbing from the bad decision-making juice I had. The icy cold shower of shame started to wash over me as I remembered pieces of the night before. Getting on stage and rambling on about how great Bruce was. I think someone told me to get off the God damned stage. Then I went looking for Bruce, then nothing after that, all blank. “Where are my pants?” I was thinking my phone was in my pants but I couldn’t find them. They were in the bathroom and so was my phone. The missed call was from Hal; there were a number of missed calls from Hal so I called him back to find out what was so important now that the storm was over. Hal’s voice was weightier than the usual upbeat I was used to. He had called to tell me that last night Bruce had slid off the road and hit a telephone pole. He had died instantly. That’s why he never made it to the gig.