I’ve done some brave and foolish things over the years. Egged on by my friend Amy’s little sister, I once jumped from a 12-foot high porch railing into an ice-cold outdoor dip tank. I abruptly left a man I loved when he was unfaithful for the second time, and moved to a new town with no job, no plan, no contacts. I got my terminally ill mother onto a cross-country airplane flight so she could spend the last three weeks of her life in the new home in California that she’d designed. Once in my early 20s, as an assignment for an alternative psychology class, I played guitar and sang in San Francisco’s Ghirardelli Square while another student danced. This assignment was terrifying. We were shocked when passersby threw money into my open guitar case, as if we were buskers.
Tonight I’m seated in a warm, crowded room only a few blocks from Ghirardelli, not nearly as self-conscious, but nervous anyway. I’ve come to this club tonight as a sort of experiment, nostalgic for a time when I used to attend comedy performances frequently. The spate of recent foggy nights make people want to huddle together in neighborhood bars or coffeehouses. I’m glad to be here, enveloped by the chattering crowd. Still, is stand-up comedy really the kind of thing one goes to solo? Most of the people here tonight have sauntered in with companions or a spouse.
I like the other three people at my table, though I’ve known them all of 20 minutes. They’ve shifted their chairs slightly in order to give me a better view of the stage, and one called the waiter over to take my drink order. It’s almost as if we all decided to go to the comedy club together. They’re not bothered that the hostess seated me at their table, a common practice in this small room. Anna and Wade, clearly a couple, smile generously at me between sips of something amber-colored on the rocks. Their friend Michael nurses a Guinness and tells us about the time he heard Wanda Sykes perform here, recounting a few of the funniest bits. All three effortlessly include me in their conversation, for which I am secretly grateful.
Neither my tablemates nor I know the headliner. The printed bio says he’s a stand-up comedian from L.A. He’s probably not getting paid especially well, since the club offered last-minute discount tickets, which means he has no following yet. But this city has always been hospitable to comics. Clubs just like this one helped turn unknowns like Phyllis Diller, Dana Carvey, and Whoopi Goldberg into stars. Maybe our guy will get his big break tonight.
Alas, the two warm-up acts are only mildly funny, though they still garner resounding applause. Mostly we are relieved for them, glad they made it through their sets intact, glad it wasn’t us up there. Stand-up takes such courage. But our unknown headliner will have to kick it up a notch, or the restless audience may lose its good will.
Fortunately, the star of the evening is superbly talented. He embarks on long, quirky, autobiographical glimpses from his life, striking just the right tone of self-deprecation laced with wit. He masters the accent and dialogue of his crazy martial arts teacher to relate a story that is at once savagely funny and profound, and circles back to his original themes like an expert flamenco dancer. The stories build on each other via some kind of invisible stepping-stones, and the cumulative effect has us all spellbound. I glance at my tablemates. Anna is laughing so hard she has to wipe away tears from her eyes.
The show nears its close. The comedian asks us, in a very formal manner, to close our eyes and bow our heads. The house lights dim a bit. We do as we are told, wondering what gag he’s got up his sleeve. Lots of people are chuckling in anticipation.
“Repeat after me: I am a light in the darkness.”
“I am a light in the darkness,” chants the audience dutifully.
“No matter what has gone before in my life, I feel the light inside me expanding outward.”
We repeat his words. A few in the crowd are chortling now. No one is sure what to expect. Everything so far has been hilarious, and we are eager participants.
He goes on for quite awhile, speaking softly and distinctly into the microphone, asking us to repeat phrases after him.
“I am wise.”
“I feel Divine Intelligence within me and around me.”
He asks us to listen to the silence. We are feeling really, really good now, waiting for the final big punch line. The house lights go up.
There is no punch line. There isn’t even any applause, since he evidently walked offstage just before asking us to open our eyes. My tablemates and I look at one another, puzzled and delighted. We have all just been tricked into meditating in the middle of a boozy downtown nightclub. The crowd is a little confused, but the peaceful camaraderie in the room is unmistakable, as is a feeling of joy. No one says a word as we exit through the lobby. We have just been ambushed by something unexpected, something nonlinear and more meaningful than humor, and we are glad of it, though we don’t understand what happened. The silence carries us on a gentle, steady arm out into the night, where the fog has slipped away.
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Stacy Appel is a writer in Lafayette whose work has been featured in the Chicago Tribune and other publications. She has also written for National Public Radio. She is a contributor to the book You Know You’re a Writer When . . . by Adair Lara. Contact her at WordWork101@aol.com.