Page 89 of No Funny Business

“Holy shit, Brett Butler’s been here! Now there’s a funny Southern woman,” I say, wishing I could’ve seen her live. “And Pablo Francisco, Steve Harvey.”

“Here’s Bill Hicks,” Nick says, pointing to a small photo in the center.

I briefly look over all the others. “Are you up here at all?”

“Nah, I don’t think I’ll make the cut.”

“Well, not with that attitude.” I give him a playful shove. “I want to be up here one day.” And I really do. Looking at all the legends who make stand-up seem so easy and who probably started out like me. It’s something I tell myself all the time in New York but I really have lost sight of it since we left.

“Speaking of,” Nick says. “Do you remember what we talked about yesterday at Whataburger?” It takes too long to answer because he’s snapping his fingers in my face. “ ’Livia, you listening?”

“Sorry, I was thinking about burgers.”

“Of course you were.”

Regaining my mind, I say, “I remember. Be okay with silence and reconnect with when I fell for stand-up.”

“That’s right. And what did I teach you the night before?” He paces, hands held behind his back like a martial arts sensei.

“Just have fun,” I say, thinking I get an A-plus.

“Good. Now this time, I’m going to leave you to prepare.” And he does. It’s just me, my yellow pad, and my past recorded sets. New Orleans was strong but I really want to nail it here in my dad’s hometown. I have to earn my spot on the Funnies wall.

—

Later, after Nick wishes me laughs and the emcee calls me to the stage, I take the mic, but this time I feel better than steady. I feel electrified (and not because it’s so dry here that I get a shock anytime I touch something).

“What’s up, El Paso!” I begin, moving the mic stand off to my side. “Glad to be in the company of my fellow Texans.” I get a few cheers. “That’s right, I was raised in Midland, which is a very... astute name for a city that’s not even in the middle of the state. But okay.” I get my first laugh. This crowd doesn’t need a geography lesson. “Yeah, I was raised by a single dad”—I hold a pause for an extra beat then continue—“which explains why I’m now a stand-up comedian.” Another laugh.

I imagine I’m back in New York, and at the same time, remain present with this audience. This crowd of comedy lovers. I say a line and sit in the silence just long enough for me to panic that I’ve lost them only to see that they’re listening even closer. Even more engaged. That’s a neat little party trick. I think about the Eddie Murphy album, the Margaret Cho special, the first time I made my dad laugh. I let all of the shitty sets of my past, particularly on this tour, go. I’m still standing. Still crackin’ jokes. But something feels different. More honest—even if my jokes aren’t exactly true stories. I feel like I’m connecting with this audience in a different way than ever before.

I always thought I was being myself onstage. But how could I be myself, my whole self, when I was hiding from part of my life? Parts of my story. By the time my set’s over, everyone’s grinning. I capture the crowd in my mind, filing it away with the other great nights. “That’s my time, everyone. I’m Olivia Vincent. You’ve been great. Seriously, you’re awesome!”

Nick waits for me offstage, leaning against the wall, smiling my way. His eyes pull me in and I’m tempted to grab his gorgeous face and lay one on him for being, well, for being him. “You did good, Olivia,” he says. “Really good.”

After nearly three thousand miles, I’m finally getting somewhere.