Page 19 of No Funny Business

“Haven’t you been on a road trip? Whoever drives gets to DJ,” he says, defusing my warm fuzzies. Now there’s an antiquated law that needs amending.

“So we have to listen to Bon Jovi for two weeks straight?” I snap.

“No. I’ve got a whole range of classic rock.” Nonstop classic rock? Okay, Nick’s really starting to sound like my dad. But I’m not going to take this lying down.

“Here’s the thing, if this is all we listen to my head will be so clogged with guitar licks that I won’t be able to remember my jokes. And that’s bad for both of us. So how about this: you give me one veto and one song of my choice every hour. Seeing as we have three thousand miles to go, that’s a bargain.”

His mouth twists in consideration. “Fine. But you have to promise to play by the other rules.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the no-driving thing or the no-funny-business thing but in any case, I agree.

Nick taps in an address on his phone and locks the device in place with a doohickey on his dashboard. Current ETA—2:17 p.m. Four hours and nine minutes until we get to D.C. Sounds long, but with our itinerary this is probably going to be one of our shorter commutes.

“Good! We’ve got lots of time,” I say, strapping myself in with the seatbelt.

“Yeah, we’ll see. Between the Jersey turnpike and D.C. traffic, that could change.”

“Is that why we’re leaving hella early?” I ask.

“People still say hella?”

I flash a tight-lipped smile. “Only really cool people.”

“Get used to leaving hella early. Trust me, it’s worth it.” He turns up the volume and we’re off.

I sit quietly, letting him focus on driving through the city and making his way to the bridge. As Nick picks up speed the road noise ramps up. The height of the Jeep makes me feel like we’re towering over all the other drivers. I gaze over the little white peaks on the water as we cross into Staten Island. When we make it to I-95, Nick sets the cruise control and I watch him relax in his seat.

“So have you played Capital Comedy before?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Any pro tips?”

“Don’t bomb.”

“You’re full of great advice, aren’t you?”

He takes his eyes off the road for a split second. “That’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten.”

I roll my eyes with a slight chuckle. There’s something about Nick that feels familiar. Maybe it’s the Jeep, or that we’re cut from the same stand-up cloth. Or maybe we both know we’re going to be stuck together for a while so we might as well get used to it. No matter how it feels, the truth is we’re still technically strangers, and I’d like to get to know him. Biblically. But I’ll settle for something less naked.

“So, how long have you been touring?” I ask.

“On and off for about a decade. Mostly on.” His words carry the weight of an exhausted sigh.

“Wow, I’ve only done shows in the tristate area.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised and now I feel sheepish.

“Yeah.”

“Well, buckle up because you’re about to get a crash course on tour life.” His tone echoes all the other comics that warned me the road isn’t for everyone.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll see. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” He flips his blinker and the ticking fills the space before he speaks again. “But I will say this. Be prepared for anything. And I mean anything. Because the road won’t hesitate to show you what you’re really made of.”

I feel a twinge of something in my gut, and the urge to hug myself like I have a tummy ache. Instead, I roll my shoulders back and say, “Roger that. I’m fully prepared to kick this tour’s ass.”

“You think so?” he asks.