MAKING LIGHT
Many years ago, during my Stand-Up comedy years, I headlined a show at a Livermore, California, club. After a rollicking set with an equally raucous blue-collar audience, I signed off and handed them back to the emcee. Back in the Green Room, I did a two-second post-mortem with the other comics.
“Great set,” said my buddy, Bubbles.
“Yeah, Great house,” I added.
So much of what we do is synchronicity. Tonight, it was the right crowd, in the right place, at the right time. There’s a lesson in that. Be open to the choreography.
“You killed,” said Rob, the new-guy opening act.
“Thanks, man. Your Elvis bit is primo. Open with it.”
That’s all I had to say to put a big wide grin on his face.
On my way out, I stopped by the bar for a quick pop before heading out to my motel room.
The bar was aglow with neon lights – elaborate, wall-hung brand names and logos: NASCAR emblems, Mexicali cactuses, cursive vapor-tube signs, and marketing slogans that incorporated company names with implied actions and suggested moods. The flood of glowing colors splashed across barback bottles, gleamed off the varnished countertop, and drenched the drinkers in a kaleidoscopic Christmas tree-light spectrum.
A weary-looking gal in her early twenties, shorts and halter top, set down her drink next to mine and sat on the adjoining stool, just a bit too unsteadily. I recognized her from the audience, where she sat alone at a table next to the stage, looking preoccupied even when the room was laughing it up.
“It’s a beautiful light, you know.” she slurred. “Bar light.”
I realized she was struggling to hide a deep melancholy.
She continued, “Bar light. It’s the most flattering light, they say.”
Her unfocused eyes and cheerless grin told me that she was venturing a hope that I might see some shared, ragged nobility in her remark. She glanced at me, and I saw loneliness in her face – that savage scar of self-despair.
At once, it was empathy, not attraction, that moved me. In my eyes, the bar lights became carnival lights, and I knew what was about to happen. The road is an endless stream of temptations and trials.
The woman turned on her barstool to look directly into my face. Her eyes held a question I did not want to answer. I kept my smile innocent so as not to be misunderstood as I stroked her hair with the back of my hand.
I said, “You are beautiful, and someone out there is hoping to share the universe with you. Stay strong and be open to a better day. Every day.”
And I tossed my drink and stood up to leave.
After all, who am I to deny the magic of colored lights? In truth, that’s all art is, all that films are, all that we see to be interesting in others.
I left those neon signs and their soft, seductive glow to sleep alone in an air-conditioned motel room after making a couple hundred people laugh away their troubles for a couple of hours.
Headliner comics and psychologists both work in fifty-minute hours, because stand-up comedy is an impromptu group therapy session… with a two-drink minimum.
MJH
02/15/2024
“Great set,” said my buddy, Bubbles.
“Yeah, Great house,” I added.
So much of what we do is synchronicity. Tonight, it was the right crowd, in the right place, at the right time. There’s a lesson in that. Be open to the choreography.
“You killed,” said Rob, the new-guy opening act.
“Thanks, man. Your Elvis bit is primo. Open with it.”
That’s all I had to say to put a big wide grin on his face.
On my way out, I stopped by the bar for a quick pop before heading out to my motel room.
The bar was aglow with neon lights – elaborate, wall-hung brand names and logos: NASCAR emblems, Mexicali cactuses, cursive vapor-tube signs, and marketing slogans that incorporated company names with implied actions and suggested moods. The flood of glowing colors splashed across barback bottles, gleamed off the varnished countertop, and drenched the drinkers in a kaleidoscopic Christmas tree-light spectrum.
A weary-looking gal in her early twenties, shorts and halter top, set down her drink next to mine and sat on the adjoining stool, just a bit too unsteadily. I recognized her from the audience, where she sat alone at a table next to the stage, looking preoccupied even when the room was laughing it up.
“It’s a beautiful light, you know.” she slurred. “Bar light.”
I realized she was struggling to hide a deep melancholy.
She continued, “Bar light. It’s the most flattering light, they say.”
Her unfocused eyes and cheerless grin told me that she was venturing a hope that I might see some shared, ragged nobility in her remark. She glanced at me, and I saw loneliness in her face – that savage scar of self-despair.
At once, it was empathy, not attraction, that moved me. In my eyes, the bar lights became carnival lights, and I knew what was about to happen. The road is an endless stream of temptations and trials.
The woman turned on her barstool to look directly into my face. Her eyes held a question I did not want to answer. I kept my smile innocent so as not to be misunderstood as I stroked her hair with the back of my hand.
I said, “You are beautiful, and someone out there is hoping to share the universe with you. Stay strong and be open to a better day. Every day.”
And I tossed my drink and stood up to leave.
After all, who am I to deny the magic of colored lights? In truth, that’s all art is, all that films are, all that we see to be interesting in others.
I left those neon signs and their soft, seductive glow to sleep alone in an air-conditioned motel room after making a couple hundred people laugh away their troubles for a couple of hours.
Headliner comics and psychologists both work in fifty-minute hours, because stand-up comedy is an impromptu group therapy session… with a two-drink minimum.
MJH
02/15/2024