Comedy Girl by Ellen Schreiber

Broadway?” I said sarcastically. “If that happens, you can sit onstage.”
    â€œSo what’s it really like to perform?” Jazzy asked a few minutes later. She was filming me in front of the pier’s massive Ferris wheel.
    â€œYou know. You’ve performed.”
    â€œI was onstage for two minutes. And I spent most of that time trying to get out from under my cardboard Romeo. Besides, this is your documentary, not mine. So shut up and talk!”
    I gazed up at the Ferris wheel.
    â€œIs it like sex?” Jazzy hinted.
    â€œHow should I know?”
    â€œOh yeah, I forgot. Is it like getting wasted?”
    I glared at her through the lens.
    â€œIs it like being thrown into a bush by a gang of testosterone-driven seniors?”
    â€œSometimes!”
    â€œIs it like flipping through Cosmo and stuffing your face with Twizzlers?”
    â€œNo! No! No! It’s the biggest rush!” I declared as Jazzy zoomed in. “It’s like being electrified. For those five minutes I’m not alone. I belong, I have a purpose. I connect—I don’t worry about anything—my future, my past, anything. I feel euphoric.”
    â€œAnd if they don’t laugh?”
    â€œI’ll stay in bed and hide under the covers!”
    â€œThat’s a wrap,” Jazzy shouted, turning off the camera. “I don’t care what you say. It sounds like sex to me.” We giggled as we gathered our belongings and headed for the train.

LIVE FROM CHAPLIN’S
    W ednesday night I began my gig at Chaplin’s. The show started at 8:30 with a second show on Friday and Saturday.
    â€œBreak a leg, sweetheart,” my dad said, giving me a kiss on the cheek when he pulled into Chaplin’s parking lot. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”
    â€œDad, I’m freaking as it is! You’ll be with me here,” I said, pointing to my heart.
    I plunked myself down at my home away from home—a little table at the back of the club.
    â€œLast time you were late—now you’re early,” Ben remarked.
    â€œI was afraid there might be traffic.”
    â€œYou live two blocks away!”
    â€œThere could have been a parade for all I knew,” I said, biting my fingernails.
    â€œCan I get you a pop?” he offered.
    â€œI’ll be running to the bathroom every two minutes.”
    â€œThen I’ll leave you to veg out or Zen out orwhatever you do.”
    â€œFreak out. That’s what I do!”
    I had brought my comedy notebook to review my material. For diversion I’d also brought a Walkman with a Celestial Seas tape and a stack of magazines. But they failed to distract me. All too soon the audience would be filling the empty tables and expecting nonstop laughs. And I was supposed to remain calm and read about abstinence in Seventeen ? Instead I fervently stared at my comedy notebook and bit my nails.
    â€œDoes performing get any easier?” I asked Ben when he came back to check on me.
    â€œHow should I know? I just—”
    â€œMaybe I need a straitjacket to calm me down. Or an injection of Valium.”
    â€œMaybe you need some more nails,” he said.
    â€œTell me again what I do tonight,” I said nervously.
    â€œYou have to announce Cam, the feature, and Tucker Jones, the headliner. When they arrive, ask them how they want to be introduced. At the end of the show thank our sponsor, the Amber Hills Hotel, remind the audience to fill out the comment card on the table, and announce that Martin Evans and Eli Rosenthal are appearing next week. Mention that Eli’s been on Showtime.”
    â€œI’ll be lucky if I remember my own name,” I said, horrified.
    The club was starting to fill up when a guy in a baseball cap walked up to me.
    â€œI didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Cam said, surprised.
    â€œI’m hosting the show. Can you believe it? I won the