Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

Adam’s car was parked at the top of the structure, which gave him a panoramic view of the city. On most days downtown was obscured by smog and haze, but now, after the rain, he could see the glass towers rising like columns of fire in the evening light. There was even a rainbow, connecting Baldwin Hills to the south and the 10 freeway to the north; it arched over the studio buildings and Adam felt blessed as he noticed something both beautiful and preposterous, the kind of thing that was only possible in Los Angeles. Beneath the rainbow, in the immediate foreground, there was a white windowless warehouse, three stories high, with two giant words painted on the side: “Scenic Backdrops.”

• • •

Adam drove to El Goof, a beer dungeon on Lincoln Boulevard. It wasn’t crowded yet; a few regulars milled around in the darkness, playing Ms. Pac-Man and talking with the owner and MC, Frankie “El Goof” Moreno. He was a fellow SoCal, a fat stoner with a stringy black ponytail and one eye that was significantly more bulgy than the other. Adam waved to him.

“I already put you down,” said Frankie, holding up his clipboard. “You’re going first.”

This was Adam’s preferred spot — he liked to go first and get it out of the way. Adam thanked Frankie and left to get dinner. He drove one block to Del Taco and spent an hour in the parking lot, devouring his macho-sized No. 1 combo, listening to the Dodgers game, and going over his three minutes.

A homeless man interrupted him, tapping his window and asking if he wanted to buy a copy of Street Spirit.

“No, thanks,” said Adam. “I read it online.”

Nothing. Adam started rummaging for some quarters, but the man had already moved on to other cars waiting in the drive-through line. After a little while, the nerves hit. Adam got out of his car, walked behind a dumpster, and methodically threw up his dinner. This was all part of his Friday routine.

He looked down Lincoln Boulevard, a treeless span of auto body shops, futon outlets, and discount shoe emporiums. Adam savored these sights, knowing that someday, in a nostalgic mood, he would look back fondly on his tawdry origins.

When he returned to El Goof, the place was full, which wasn’t unusual on a Friday. Frankie had recently rebuilt the stage and invested in a new PA system that didn’t electrocute the talent. Booking agents had started to show up regularly and several people who performed there had landed some nice paid gigs. Adam bought a bottle of Coors Light and took his usual seat next to Sleeper Cell, a sketch troupe made up of Persian degenerates from the Caliphate of Brentwood. They specialized in airport security gags. One of them was insanely talented and had recently moved up another level at the Groundlings. Adam expected to see him on TV at some point, getting sodomized with a broomstick by Jack Bauer. No one else in the room would be that lucky. Behind him there was a guy named Ramon, who for the last six months had been working on the same bit about the disappointing lack of starring roles for Mexicans: “ Lawnmower Man —no Mexicans! The Mexican —no Mexicans!” It had potential, but he just couldn’t get it right. In front of him, a college girl studied her notes, which she kept in her Trapper Keeper. That was one of her jokes, owning a Trapper Keeper. It was ironic. She was supersmart and hip, and on some nights she was easily the funniest person in the room, but she wasted most of her time talking about all the weirdos who stalked her online. One of the stalkers, Adam assumed, was sitting to her right, a pale and neatly groomed bearded man of indeterminate age wearing a stiff pair of jeans and a yellow Izod shirt. He didn’t wear a belt on his jeans and typically, instead of jokes, he divulged repugnant details about his personal life. Hemorrhoids, flatulence, the metallic scent of his urine — these were the wellsprings of his comedy. He had the humid lips of a pedophile, and after three minutes of his squint-eyed horror, everyone in the room wanted to go home and take a shower. But Frankie had a democratic spirit and gave everyone a chance to be heard. Favoring his bad leg — an old spearfishing injury — Frankie mounted the stage and did his normal intro.

“Welcome to comedy night at El Gooooof !” Frankie was a laid-back guy but he always let loose on the goof. It actually got Adam pumped up. “If you don’t know already, everybody gets three minutes. When you see my flashlight, start wrapping up. Please be attentive and respectful. And remember. You’re here to entertain the people in front of you, tonight, in this room. If you have a bigger agenda than this room, then congratulations. The exit is right there. We’ll see you on Carson .”

“Carson’s dead!” shouted Chris Hobbs, a handsome twenty-three-year-old from someplace back East. Most of his material dealt with his adventures as an earnest young man trying hard to make it in Hollywood. Apparently, during his two months here, he had met a lot of phonies. Also, the traffic drove him nuts. Every time he opened his mouth Adam wanted to carve his face with a broken beer bottle.

“Or Leno ,” said Frankie. “You know what I mean.”

“Leno sucks,” said one of the terrorists, getting a round of applause.

“He’s not so bad,” said Frankie. “Dude has to reach a broad audience.”

Frankie was basically just a local. He had never done stand-up, which made his solicitude toward the worst people on earth, comedians, a total mystery. After Adam’s first set at El Goof, he had been very encouraging, though as time wore on Adam didn’t understand why he didn’t do more to help, like giving him longer sets or introducing him to booking agents. But Adam knew he was being ungrateful. Every Friday, Frankie sat in the back of his crappy bar, laughing generously and running outrageous tabs. Adam thought of Father Damien among the lepers.

“Okay. Let’s have some fun,” said Frankie, looking at the clipboard. “Our first comedian tonight is Adam Cullen.”

Mandated applause. Adam rising from his squeaky folding chair, floating down a tunnel of light. Frankie with a pat on the shoulder. Up the steps, beer in hand, and then the turn, facing the audience, a dark treacherous bog. On a dead run: “I finally found the self-help book that’s going to unlock my potential. It’s called Mein Kampf .” Nothing, absolutely nothing. Only Frankie with a squeal of delight. “I’ve got the audiobook on my iPod and it really gets me going when I’m doing hills on the elliptical.” Coughs, bottles sliding back and forth on tables. Pausing. A fatal mistake opening with Hitler. Still paused. “Um.” Peeking at the index card. “Fine. Let’s have some fun. We’ll play the dozens. Here we go. Yo mama so fat… she died of complications from diabetes.” Thirty faces cringing. “More? Sure. Yo mama so stupid… she was declared legally retarded and made a ward of the state. Her kids are now in foster care. It’s a vicious cycle, people.” Too grim, too grim. “On weekends I play soccer in the park with some of my friends from the Honduran immigrant community. They love me and they’ve given me a nickname— cabrón , which I believe is Spanish for ‘champion.’” A few ripples out there. Strike with pathos. “The worst job I ever had was clerk at a party supply store. It was like being alone on my birthday five days a week.” That’s right. Feel the joy. “Um.” Ms. Pac-Man pinging in the back. To the index card. Looking for something to please the rabble. “Do you know what I like most about pornography? The raw and explicit content.” Nothing. “Plus the whimsical sense of humor that presides over the industry. You know, the way porn titles make puns on Hollywood movies. I saw a great one the other day for The Matrix . It was called Teenage Ass Sluts Volume Ten .” Wretched and obvious, longest setup in history. Keep going. “Maybe I don’t quite know what a pun is, but that’s because I was educated on the streets.” Sip of domestic beer. “Of New Haven, Connecticut. I graduated from Yale with a degree in economics.” A car alarm outside. “Um.” Um. Fuck. Um is doom. “Um.” Playing with the mic cord. Red-faced. Sinking into the bog. “Thank you.” Giving up, before Frankie even flashed his light.