Page 88 of No Funny Business

Thirty-Seven

Good God, Livy, whatchu got in here?” Artie asks, dragging my suitcase out to Nick’s Jeep.

“Just a few things,” I say.

“Women,” he says, handing it off to Nick, and the two share a very agreeable bro moment.

Aw, they made friends.

“Don’t forget your garbage bag pillow. Next time, don’t run off so fast, okay?” My uncle brings me in for one last hug before we drive west.

“Okay,” I say, wishing I could stay a little longer (if you can believe that).

“Listen, mija, if you ever need anything, anything at all, Carla and I are here. You’re family.” This is a fact I never should’ve forgotten. And I make a silent promise to remember and come back soon.

“Thanks, Tío,” I say. “That means more than you know.”

Nick finishes loading the luggage in the back and offers Artie a hand. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome. Now, you kids be good.”

Nick salutes the sergeant. “Yes, sir.”

Carla wraps me in one last mama hug and hands me a warm paper bag. “It’s just a little snack for the road.” I thank her and hop in the Jeep. “Good luck with your Late Night Show audition!”

“Don’t wish me luck. Just wish me laughs,” I say, buckling my seatbelt, and we’re off to the next show.

“Take the Money and Run” by the Steve Miller Band plays on the radio. “How you doin’ over there?” Nick asks, approaching the neighborhood stop sign.

I smile, satisfied with... well, everything. “Doin’ good. What about you?”

“I’m not sure. I made an important decision,” he says, his tone turning serious.

“What?”

Nick slides his sleeve up his biceps, a square flesh-colored patch adhered to his skin.

“Nick Leto, are you telling me you’re a quitter?”

“Yeah, I got a lot of life to live. I don’t want my time to be cut short.”

“I have to say, that patch is kinda hot,” I tease, playfully biting my lip and winking at him, unabashed. A smoke-free Nick is really sexy though.

He flexes his biceps. “How ’bout now?”

“Ooh! So healthy.” The two of us share a laugh and head off down the hot, dusty road singing, “Headed down tooo old El Paso!” Somehow over the course of twelve states, Nick’s become more than a headliner, more than my road buddy, more than a crush. He’s become a real friend—the Jerry to my Elaine.

—

Later that evening, we pull into the El Paso Funnies comedy club parking lot, decorated with desert palm trees and an unobstructed view of the gorgeous Franklin Mountains. It might not be New York City but it’s still a piece of my favorite club. I step out of the Jeep and take a deep breath, exhaling with, “Ah, it’s good to be back.”

“Yes, it is,” Nick says.

The outside doesn’t look like much, kind of like the New York location, but the inside is huge—like two clubs in one. I walk the perimeter of the main room, passing the crammed rows of empty tables and gazing at the signed headshots framed on the walls. Wow, for a club on the edge of Texas, it’s hosted nearly as many legendary stand-ups as the one in Manhattan.

“C’mon, the greenroom back here.” Nick points ahead.

Inside, there are even more framed photos on the dark blue walls but instead of headshots, they’re snapshots of performances going all the way back to the ’80s. I had no idea this place was a comedy landmark. I guess El Pasoans, my dad included, love to laugh. Nick and I stare at each picture, enthralled like we’re in some kind of comedy museum.