“Ooh,” says Rachel. “That is so, like, grody and home ec-ish.”
“Home ec is sooooo home ‘yech,’ ” adds Rebecca.
“Yo,” says Ben, arching one of his eyebrows as he struts over to the two blondes (and the camera lens). “Are you two girls angels? Because you’re definitely the answer to all my prayers.”
“Lame, Ben,” says Rachel.
“Rilly,” adds Rebecca with an eye roll. Or it could have been Rachel who rolled her eyes and Rebecca who said Ben was lame. Like I said, they’re identical twins, so it’s hard to tell them apart.
Now Grafton Maddox Bacardi strides forward. “You know what my pappy used to say, ladies? Two can live as cheap as one, providin’ one of y’all don’t eat.”
“Jamie?” whispers Uncle Frankie. “Shouldn’t you say something funny? Everybody else is. This is probably for the TV show.”
I raise my hand and wiggle my fingers at the Doublemint Valley Girls. “Uh…”
Yeah. I’m not even onstage and I’m already choking.
Fortunately, Uncle Frankie can tell I’m in no condition to be caught on tape. So he clears a path and we make it through the sliding glass doors and out to the sidewalk, where a whole bunch of limousines are lined up at the curb.
“Sirs?” A guy in a crisp black suit waves at us.
He’s either our chauffeur or my funeral director, standing by for when I die onstage.
Chapter 31
I DON’T HAVE A GHOST OF A CHANCE
Hey there,” Uncle Frankie says to the man in the dark suit. “I’m Frank Grimm. This is my nephew Jamie.”
“Pleasure. I’m Charles. Your driver.” He sounds like he could be somebody’s butler.
“You got a lot of room in your vehicle,” says Frankie, peering into the back of the stretch. “You want Jamie should carpool it with some of the other kids?” he asks the driver.
“No need. Each contestant has been provided with his or her own private limousine.”
“Kind of a waste of gas, don’t you think?”
The driver points toward the open door. “I am not paid to think. Do you require assistance with your wheelchair?”
I shake my head.
“We got this,” says Uncle Frankie.
We quickly do our standard transfer from the chair into the car—even though I have to sling my butt sideways with a little more oomph than usual to make a soft landing on the limo’s very low bench seat.
Uncle Frankie folds up my chair, stows it in the trunk, and climbs in the back with me, and we hit the highway.
In Los Angeles that means we basically do two, maybe three, miles an hour in bumper-to-bumper, smog-choked traffic on a six-lane strip of hot concrete.
The back of the limo feels like a sauna. I’m sweating so much, my shirt feels like I went swimming in it.
Then, all of a sudden, I’m freezing. My teeth start chattering. Now I feel like somebody dumped a bucket of ice cubes down my pants.
“You okay, kiddo?” asks Uncle Frankie. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know.”
Yes, I do, I think. Everybody is counting on me. I’m Jamie Grimm. The sit-down comedian. I funny.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “I guess I just need a Coke or something to settle my stomach.”
Uncle Frankie finds one for me in the limo’s refrigerator. “Here you go, kiddo. And, Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay away from those little green apples.”
Chapter 32
ONE DAY I SPENT A WEEK IN LA TRAFFIC
The limo crawls up the 405 Freeway for what seems like forever.
It takes us an hour to drive five miles.
“Welcome to LA,” says Uncle Frankie. “Reminds me of that Conan O’Brien joke: ‘In Russia, there was a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-mile traffic jam that had drivers stuck in traffic for over three days. Here in Los Angeles, that’s known as Friday.’ ”
I laugh. The driver laughs.
After his yo-yo show on the plane and his quick monologue in the back of the limo, I’m thinking Uncle Frankie should put on a bowl-cut hairdo wig, borrow my wheelchair, and take my place in the finals.
Eventually, the limousine escapes the freeway and takes us to the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills.
“All the contestants will be staying here,” says the driver as we pull up a very fancy driveway to the hotel’s even fancier entrance.
About six guys in uniforms and gloves and snappy hats start opening doors and grabbing our luggage and unfolding my chair and saying stuff like “Welcome back, sirs,” even though Uncle Frankie and I have never been to this swanky hotel before.
“We’re here for the kids’ comedy show,” says Uncle Frankie, slipping the head bellhop a wrinkled one-dollar bill. “We just need to find our room and freshen up.”
“Hey, Jamie!”
I look toward the lobby. It’s her.
Judy Nazemetz. The kid version of Tina Fey. The one comic who’s actually been kind to me on several different occasions throughout all the rounds of this competition.
“Can I go say hi to Judy?” I ask Uncle Frankie.
“Sure, kiddo. I’ll check us in and have the bags sent up to the room. I’ll leave you your key at the front desk.”
“Thanks.”
Uncle Frankie checks his watch. “We need to head to the studio in three hours. Whaddya think, Jamie? Do I have time for one of those honey-and-papaya facials?”
“Seriously?”
“Well, I am kind of hungry.”
“You’re joking. Right?”
“Of course I am, kiddo. We came out here to make people laugh, remember?”
Right.
Somehow, I keep forgetting that.
Chapter 33
JUDY, JUDY, JUDY!
Smiling, I roll over to say hi to Judy Nazemetz.
I beat Judy in the New York State round of the competition, but she became the judge’s wild card choice for the Northeast Regionals, where she came in second and earned a trip to the semifinals in Las Vegas. The comic who beat her at the regionals in Boston? That would be me.
“Hey,” I say when I roll into the sparkling marble lobby to greet her.
“Hey. Welcome to Hollywood. This your first trip to LA?”
“Yeah. Love what they’ve done with the freeways.”
“Oh,” says Judy, with a twinkle in her eye, “you enjoy spending time in slow-moving parking lots?”
“Oh, yeah. I could spend a whole week on the LA freeway.”
“You will,” says Judy, picking up on my riff. “In one afternoon.”
“And when the smog lifts in Los Angeles…”
“UCLA.”
We laugh, even though that “you see LA” joke is corny enough to get us both kicked out of the finals. We keep riffing off each other.
What can I say? Judy is nice. It’s great to see her again.
“I hope you win, Jamie,” she says.
“Really? Because I sort of hope you do.”
“Well, in this round, there are going to be four winners, correct?”
“Yeah,” I say, realizing she’s right. “Guess we both have a fifty-fifty shot at moving on, huh?”
“Yep.”
Then my personal smog disappears. All of a sudden, I’m filled with nothing but golden California sunshine and Hollywood hope.
Because—don’t tell Gilda—Judy Nazemetz leans down and kisses me.
Chapter 34
SHOWTIME!
The first of the two finals shows goes on the air, live, at eight o’clock Eastern time.
That means five o’clock LA time.
So, after a quick lunch and an even quicker change of clothes, we climb back into our stretch limo for the one-hour drive to the BNC studios, which are, maybe, three miles from the hotel.
We could’ve walked it faster.
Yes. Even me. I could’ve walked it faster.
When we get to the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic
Contest set, I see four of my comedy idols.
Ray Romano is, once again, the host of the show. The judges will be Louis C.K., Tina Fey, and Eddie Murphy. That’s right. The Eddie Murphy. The funnyman who did the voice of Donkey in all the Shrek movies. He’ll be here to see me make a jackass of myself.
Of course the judges don’t really get to judge us. Well, they do, but it doesn’t count. They’ll critique our performances and say stuff like “You stink, Jamie, but it’s up to America to decide if you smell worse than a hard-boiled egg that’s been soaking in a pickle juice jar for six months,” just like the judges do for the finals of American Idol and America’s Got Talent.
Two seconds after we arrive (well, that’s how it feels), the show goes on the air.
Live!
Chapter 35
STIFF COMPETITION (I’M THE STIFF)
Contestant one, Chatty Patty Dombrowski, heads to center stage.
She’s wearing a matchy-matchy outfit that’s so red-white-and-blue it makes her look like a sideways flag.
“Golly, America! I’m so gul-dern glad to be here, don’tcha know? I hail from Minnesota, which is a weird word. Not Minnesota, which I guess is weird. I think Minnie-sota is Indian for ‘small Coke.’ No, I was thinkin’ about dat other word. Hail. Isn’t dat the stuff that falls from da sky during a gul-dern tornado?”
Wow. I was going to make a very similar hail joke. Guess I better cut it.
I have to admit, the seven other comics in the Elite Eight, even Chatty Patty, are a pretty funny bunch. Guess they wouldn’t’ve made it this far if they weren’t extremely talented.
Just like on Idol or AGT, when a comic wraps up a set and listens to the judges’ comments, the contestant makes some kind of goofy hand gesture to remind viewers what number to vote for with their texts and phone calls.
Chatty Patty has a big purple foam finger so she can show us she’s “number one” (and a Vikings fan).
Next up is Grafton Maddox Bacardi.
When number three, Ben Baccaro, takes the stage, the girls in the studio audience start screaming and squealing so loudly that One Direction would be jealous.
I’m pretty sure Ben just won half of the vote. Maybe more.
But the audience screams even louder when the fourth contestant, Judy Nazemetz, hits the stage. After all, Judy’s a TV star. She’s also extremely hysterical and has this relaxed way of telling a crazy, convoluted story filled with wacky characters with even wackier voices.
If you ask me, Judy is the funniest kid comic on the planet.
But there are four more comics to go in the second half of the show, including yours truly.
I’ll be the last one up.
You know that old saying “They saved the best for last”? Well, whoever said it wasn’t talking about this show.
I’m going to bomb.
Unless I choke.
Or die.
Maybe all three.
Chapter 36
COUNTING DOWN THE COMICS
Antony Guerrero, the Southwest Regionals winner from Albuquerque, New Mexico, is the fifth comic to step up to the microphone.
Guerrero is extremely hip and edgy. Does a whole bit about the Pilgrims being the original “illegal immigrants.”
“They were basically boat people with funny hats,” he says. “And none of them could speak the language. The Native Americans, the ones who had all the food that first winter, couldn’t understand a word these illegals were saying. The Pilgrims were all ‘good morrow’ and ‘prithee’ and the locals, like Squanto, the real Americans, they were like, ‘Hey, Buckle Hat. You come to this country, learn how to speak Pawtuxet, for crying out loud! And why do you keep stuffing bread crumbs up inside that turkey? Bread crumbs are for the birds. And, puh-leeze, will you people please quit carving faces into all the pumpkins? Seriously. I prithee.’ ”
He’s pushing the edge of the envelope. Refusing to be politically correct.
Which, come to think of it, is something I used to do.
The sixth comic, representing the Mountain States, is a fat, almost bald, schlumpy eleven-year-old who looks a lot like the famous fat, bald, schlumpy adult comedian Louis C.K., one of our judges. The kid even wears a sloppy, food-stained sweatshirt. His name is Samuel Bromley Oravetz. It takes Ray Romano about three minutes to pronounce all that.
Second to last, we have the Klein sisters, Rebecca and Rachel. They do a very funny back-and-forth bit that reminds me of the Marx Brothers’ classic “Why a Duck” routine.
When they’re done, Rebecca holds up five fingers, and Rachel holds up two. “Because,” says Rebecca, “five plus two is fifty-two!”
“Uh, hello? Earth to Rebecca. It’s not fifty-two. It’s twenty-five.”
“What-ever.”
Next up, number eight, is me.
My heart is in my throat, which, if you check out a biology book, is a very bad location for it.
Ray Romano does my intro.
I roll onstage.
I can’t remember a single joke. Just a line from every gladiator movie ever made: “We who are about to die salute you!”
Chapter 37
WAS I EVEN ON THE SHOW?
I’m pretty sure I bombed.
Yes, now I not only forget my jokes, I also forget how I did when I told them. If I told them. My mind is a blank. My performance? A gaping black hole from which nothing funny could possibly escape.
This will be my last show in the competition. I’m sure of it.
Compared to the sensational seven who went up to the microphone before me, I am, definitely, the planet’s most forgettable kid comic.
You know that fifty-fifty chance Judy and I had of moving on to the next round? She still has it. Me? I’m feeling fifty-fifty the other way.
But I won’t know how bad I was for sure until tomorrow.
The results show, or, as I’m calling it, Bye Bye Jamie.
The rest of the pages in this book? I guess those are filled with pictures of me being a loser.
In a wheelchair.
I’ll always have the wheelchair.
Chapter 38
AND THE LOSERS ARE…
I don’t eat or sleep or do much of anything for twenty-four hours.
Then the eight of us troop back to the same studio for the results show. Millions of texts and phone calls and online votes have been tabulated. All we have to do is endure one very long, drawn-out hour until Ray Romano, at the last possible moment, tells America who is moving on to the finals and who is heading home.
Sweat is dribbling down my brow and my back.
“Eight comedians performed,” says Romano, “but only four will move on to the finals. That means…” He takes a big, dramatic pause. “Four kid comics are going home to do homework and wash dishes and mow the lawn and do all the stuff kids are supposed to do but mine never do.”
Then he asks the judges what they think of all of us. They tell some jokes.
Then they show some clips.
Then they tell some more jokes. Special guest star Jeff Foxworthy comes on and tells some jokes, too.
The suspense is killing me. Literally. I think I just aged, like, twenty years in ten minutes. And my heart has migrated up to behind my eyeballs.
I work on my non-victory speech in my head.
“I’m sorry I lost, Long Beach. I’m sorry I lost, Uncle Frankie. I’m sorry I lost, Uncle and Aunt Smiley.” Then I get a lump in my throat wondering if there’s a TV up in heaven. “I’m sorry I lost, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry, Jenny. At least you three didn’t have to be here to see me lose.”
“Judy Nazemetz and Ben Baccaro, please step forward.”
Finally. Ray Romano has the results envelopes in his hands. He tears open the first one.
“Judy. You are…”
Big pause.
“… going…”
Bigger pause.
After Ray Romano stretches it out longer than a hot strand of chewing gum stuck to your shoe in the summer, he fina
lly fills in the blanks:
“… to the finals!” The crowd goes wild. Cocky Ben winks because he figures he’s moving on, too.
He isn’t.
“Sorry, Ben,” says Ray. “You’re going home.”
Chapter 39
AMERICA HAS SPOKEN!
The eliminations continue.
Grafton Maddox Bacardi and Antony Guerrero are told to step forward next.
Grafton Maddox Bacardi is going home. Antony, the edgy comic, is safe.
Next up to the chopping block, it’s the Klein sisters and Chatty Patty.
The Valley Girls are heading back to the Valley.
Patty is moving on.
“Samuel Bromley Oravetz?” says Ray Romano. “Please step forward. All three of you.”
Oravetz slumps into the spotlight and scratches the seat of his pants with one hand, his belly button with the other.
“Jamie Grimm? Please, uh, roll forward.”
I do as instructed. In my head, I’m still apologizing to everybody who was counting on me to win this thing.
Ray Romano tears open the envelope with his finger. In slow motion.
He sloooowly pulls the card out.
He takes for-ev-er to read what is written on it. My whole world has turned into the Los Angeles freeway system. Nothing is moving. I’m going nowhere.
Except back to Long Beach.
“Samuel Bromley Oravetz?” says Romano in super-slo-mo. “You… are… going…”
My heart stops beating. I close my eyes.
“… home.”
My eyes pop open. I blink a couple of times.