“I
couldn’t believe it,” said Tike, “and I was there.”
“What?”
said Freddy.
“Me
and the Professor were standing in the wings, offstage, and I
couldn’t believe it.”
“You
gonna tell me?”
“It’s
held every Saturday night, in the San Francisco Opera House.”
Tike swung his duffel bag onto the couch, plopped down beside
it and said, “Hit me.”
In
a smooth, practiced reflex Freddy opened Tike’s fridge, grabbed
a beer and flung it across the studio apartment. In a gurgling,
even more reflexive act Tike chugged the beer can dry. “Every
Saturday night—”
“In
the Frisco Opera House, I know, cut to the chase.”
Tike
belched, “Hit me.”
The
beer was delivered and downed. “There’s a stand-up comedy
competition.”
“So?”
“So
the Professor and I were watching. Three guys—did I mention
the audience is all female?”
“No.”
“Yeah.
Men perform for an all-female audience and vice-versa. And apparently
elective surgery, in twenty-second century San Francisco must
be mandatory. There was half a ton of perky-bouncy tits
in that audience. Can you imagine an opera house full of naked,
pulchritudinous Penthouse pinups?”
“I
don’t know. What’s a opera house look like?”
“It
has a Romanesque façade—”
“That
was a joke, asshole. Call the Professor. I’m going Time-Surfing.”
“Wait,”
Tike smiled. “The first comedian finishes his set, right?
He was okay, better than you, but not nearly as funny as me—”
“Up
yours.”
“And
I swear on my mother’s grave they have this retro-applause-meter,
like on the Ted Mack Amateur Hour and Star Search?”
“I
seen reruns on the 20th Century Channel.”
“These
sweet, naked, edible Aphrodites started clapping and hooting and
jumping up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up—”
“I
get the picture,” said Freddy.
“The
arrow on the applause meter starts moving and they get louder
and louder until the arrow moves out of a red area marked BOMB!
And into a yellow area marked HIT! Then all hell breaks loose.
The front row of Babe-O-Liciousness rush the stage and attack
the comedian. They rip his clothes off and rape the lucky bastard,
right there. Team cock sucking. Cornholing. This guy’s got
more pussy at one time than Elvis had in a week.”
“Holy
Shit.”
“So
he services like three or four of them and shuffles off the stage,
still stiff-cocked with his pants around his ankles, followed
by this in the buff harem. The second row of women moves
into the front row and the second stand-up comes out. I didn’t
get any of his political references, but he was a funny sonuvabitch:
rubber-faced like Jim Carey, loose-limbed like Dick Van Dyke,
cool and smart and sarcastic like Denis Leary—”
“I
love those Old School fuckers.”
“—real
smooth, great timing: biting delivery. Some babe heckled him and
he had her in tears in ten seconds—merciless. He said he
was glad she said something because she’s so ugly he thought
she was standing on her head.”
“Right
on.”
“He
was slick,” said Tike. He buries the applause meter and the
front row carries him off stage. The Professor told me they have
this male aphrodisiac they shoot into his ass and he’ll be
able to go for days.”
“Incredible,”
said Freddy.
“Here’s
the good part.”
“It
gets better?”
“Yeah.
They won four million dollars. Each.”
“Four
million for one stand-up set?”
“Yeah,”
said Tike. “Inflation was pretty bad. Twenty bucks for a
Heineken, but four-million is a chunk-of-change. And all of the
politicians, money-guys, importers, exporters, any shaker-and-mover,
all of them started out by winning this weekly comedy competition.
Listen, in twenty-second century San Francisco the haves and have-nots
aren’t determined by race, creed, or gender—”
“That’s
cool.”
“The
Leaders are Funny; the Followers are Unfunny. It’s our utopia,
man.” Tike shook his head. “While we’re living
on fast-food, playing fag dives and feminist bars in this century,
future stand-ups kick ass and take names.”
“So
what’s the government regulation on us Time Surfing forward
and entering this competition one week and a hundred and fifty-seven
years from now?”
“The
Professor says we got it made. After CENTURYFLEX INC. got busted
for returning to present time to reanimate, the rule is simple,”
Tike read from a piece of paper he fished from his duffel bag:
“If a Traveler affects a wrinkle in Future Time: i.e., sexual
contact, death of a Futurist, or death of the Traveler, return
is obviated.”
“So
we win the stand-up sweepstakes,” said Freddy, “bop
some babes, and we have to remain, by law, with four million
bucks in the land of milk and funny?”
“You
got it,” said Tike. “And we’re already entered
in next week’s competition.”
“Wow.”
Tike
pointed at the duffel bag, “So we work up a couple of routines
based on current events in the video-mags I brought back; we Time
Surf, rock the house, and live like real Kings of Comedy.”
Freddy
said, “Hit me.”
* * *
“Jesus
Christ on a crutch,” said Freddy, “this is the life."
He and Tike stood in the stage-right wing of the San Francisco
Opera House and watched a Standing Room Only crowd of birthday-suited
beauties file to their seats.
“Hey,”
said Tike, “there’s the other guy.”
Freddy
whistled. “Hey Buddy, over here.”
The
third comedian, dressed in green denim overalls, appeared visibly
pained, nervous and uncomfortable as he reluctantly entered the
wings from a back-alley entrance. He saw Freddy and Tike and said,
“Get over here, you idiots.”
“What’s
wrong with standing here?” said Tike.
“Just
admiring the scenery, Mister Greenjeans,” said Freddy.
“Get
the hell over here,” he said.
“Why?”
said Tike.
“They
might see you,” he motioned at the audience, “and decide
they don’t like you.”
“As
long as we leave them laughing,” said Freddy, almost drooling,
“what’s the big fucking deal?”
“We
have to decide who goes on first,” said Greenjeans.
Tike
dragged the reluctant Freddy over to a small table littered with
$380 worth of empty Heineken bottles. Tike extended his hand.
“Name’s Tike.”
“Jamaal,”
said the future comic. “You assholes been drinking?”
“Yeah,”
said Tike. “Takes the edge off.”
“Drinking
before The Competition,” he said. “Stupid fuckers.”
He fished a deck of cards from his overalls. “Let’s
cut to see who opens.”
“What’s
the big deal?” said Freddy. “I’ll open, Tike follows
me, and then you can try and tickle the babes.”
Jamaal
exhaled. “Thanks, thanks a lot.” He hugged them both.
Tight. “Good luck, both of you.”
“Thanks,”
said Tike.
“You,”
said Freddy, “are the freakingest, most emotional dude I’ve
ever met. It’s comedy, not brain surgery.”
The
audience began chanting: “We want Number One! We want Number
One! We want Number One!”
“No
emcee?” asked Tike.
“An
emcee for this?” said Jamaal. “You’re shit-for-brains,
man.”
“Fuck
it,” said Freddy. “I’m going.”
“Luck,”
said Jamaal.
“Break
a leg,” said Tike.
Freddy
jog-trotted onto the stage and became slightly confused and disconcerted
by the absence of a microphone stand. A microphone wasn’t
necessary in the acoustic-enhanced building and Freddy’s
confusion was momentary, but that’s all it took. You can
lose an audience in a micro-second: with a misplaced gesture,
a stammer, or the slightest sign of fear or embarrassment.
Freddy
had lost this audience before he even opened his mouth.
Shielded
by the curtains, Jamaal and Tike winced as joke after joke failed.
Not visible to the audience, a triangle of sweat was forming in
the small of the failing comedian’s back. "This is tragic,”
said Jamaal. “I’m sorry. I know you guys were friends.”
“Freddy’s
bombed before,” said Tike. “He’ll get over it.”
“Really?”
“Everyone
bombs occasionally. Haven’t you?”
“Of
course not,” said Jamaal, “that’s impossible.”
“That’s
exactly the kind of confidence you need, Jamaal.”
“I’m
curious,” said Jamaal, “where exactly did Freddy bomb?”
“Some
cowboy-biker bar in Bakersfield.”
“And
he got out alive?”
“Yeah,
Bakersfield is a tough town. Answer me this: when did stand-up
get so popular?”
“Huh?”
“In
the old days we, I mean, we comedians, used to perform for nothing.
The stages were tiny and the dressing room was a closet that stunk
of vomit and urine. You worked for free beer and a percentage
of bar receipts that the owner’d fuck you out of. This is
a dream, man. The Opera House. Women, sex. Four million dollars.”
“The
money and sex was added after they amended the AAPA: Audience
Amnesty in Participation Act. After that, Hollywood, the NBA,
jetbike derbies, nothing could compete.”
“Like
I said, Jamaal, this is a dream come true.”
“Thank
you very much, ladies,” said sweaty Freddy, “and gentle—”
“You
stink,” yelled a contralto from the audience.
“Ladies
and ladies,” said Freddy, “is what I meant.”
“Here
we go,” said Jamaal.
The
spotlight on Freddy faded and the applause meter was lit. The
crowd of ladies so raucous, loud and antagonistic moments before
was absolutely silent.
“Shit,”
said Jamaal. “Sure you want to go on next?”
“No
problem,” said Tike. He stretched his neck and ran in place.
“I won’t make that mistake with the microphone. Everything
can be fixed in comedy. We learn from other’s mistakes.”
“You
are cold,” said Jamaal.
“So
he bombed,” said Tike. “Big fuckin’ deal.”
In
silence, Jamaal and Tike watched as the first row of perfectly
proportioned women hopped up onto the stage and approached Freddy.
He flashed the thumbs-up to Tike and Jamaal and said to the phalanx
of ladies, “Which one of you bitches likes it up the ass?”
That’s
when they tackled Freddy and like a pack of crazed hyenas ripped
and bit and tore at him until the stand-up comedian was a supine,
bleeding, unfunny, and dead rack of blood and meat and bones.
Tike,
wide-eyed, pissed his pants and said to Jamaal, “Audience
Amnesty in Participation Act?”
“Yep,”
said Jamaal. “Knock 'em dead, motherfucker.”
