Chapter 29
BACKSTAGE HORROR SHOW
I roll into the kitchen, which we’ve sort of turned into a greenroom (the place where performers wait before going onstage).
It’s a good place to focus on getting ready to do my improv routine. It’s also an excellent location for hiding from Stevie and Lars.
Or so I thought.
“Whatcha doin’ back here, funny boy?” snarls Lars as he and Stevie stride into the kitchen.
“What a coincidence,” says Stevie. “This is where his uncle Frankie stores all the dead meat.”
“No,” I say. “Actually, the meat goes into the walk-in refrigerator.”
“Great,” says Lars. “That’s where Coach says we should put you. In deep freeze.”
“Coach said that?” I gasp. “He’s the school principal!”
Stevie and Lars just grin and grab my armrests.
“The freezer is this way,” says Stevie. “I sneak in here and steal frozen hot dogs all the time. I love me a meaty Popsicle.”
“Is that so?” says a voice I’m very glad to hear. Uncle Frankie. “I thought that was some other giant rat. What are you two boys doing back here?”
“Nothin’,” grunts Lars.
“We just came to see the show,” adds Stevie. “It’s a free country.”
“Not tonight,” says Uncle Frankie. “This is a benefit show. Tickets start at fifty bucks. If you want to be this close to the talent, it’ll cost you five hundred.” He holds out his hand.
“Um, we gotta go,” says Stevie.
“Yeah,” says Lars. “I hear my mother calling me.”
“Is that what that is?” I say, holding my hand to my ear. “I thought it was a moose.”
Lars balls up his fist. Uncle Frankie steps forward.
“You don’t want to keep your mommy waiting,” he tells Lars.
Stevie and Lars leave—but not without trying to get in the last word: “This isn’t over, Gimp!”
“They’re right,” says Uncle Frankie. “It’s not over until you go on! Come on, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For everything.”
He gives me a smile, a wink, and a head rub. “Right back at ya! Flora was so excited by the big turnout, she gave me a kiss on the cheek!”
We head out just in time to catch the end of Gaffigan’s set.
He wraps up his foodie routine by saying, “I wish every comedy club were a diner. That way, when I tell jokes about bacon, I could eat it at the same time! Thank you, everybody. Support the library. Help my pal Jamie Grimm help his school. And send me all your bacon! And now, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the one and only Jamie Grimm!”
Yep. It’s my turn.
I freeze for a second. I can’t remember any of my jokes.
Then I remember: I’m not doing any jokes! I’m improvising. Making stuff up on the fly.
It sounded like such a good idea when Gilda suggested it.
But that was back before I actually had to do it.
What was I thinking?
Chapter 30
BOOKING IT!
I roll into the spotlight.
Jim Gaffigan hands me the mic.
“Have fun,” he says. “I’m going into the kitchen to make a bacon, lettuce, and bacon sandwich, hold the lettuce.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Jim Gaffigan!” I say, reaching a hand in his direction.
Everyone applauds.
Then I ask for another round of applause for “all the terrific comedians who volunteered their time to be here tonight to help us raise funds for the Long Beach Middle School library. None of them are getting paid—”
“We’re not?” cracks Ben Baccaro, the comic who calls himself the Italian Scallion. He always wears a tight white tee that shows off his bulging chest muscles, and wiggles them every time he cracks a joke.
“How am I going to pay for this meatball sub?” he jokes.
“It’s on me!” says Uncle Frankie.
“I know. I’ve seen your apron! Bada bing!”
The crowd cracks up. Everybody’s having such a great time, their energy gets my comedy juices flowing.
“So,” I say, “since this is a benefit for the library, I thought I’d book-talk a few titles.”
Gilda pushes a library cart into my spotlight. It’s loaded with books I haven’t seen yet.
Yep. I’m going to do this crazy trapeze act without a net.
“What do we have here? Ah, yes. Charlotte’s Web. All about the terrible Internet service in a city in North Carolina. Don’t know why there’s a pig on the cover.”
“Bacon!” shouts Jim Gaffigan from off stage.
Another wave of laughter washes over me. I dive in!
The bit works so well, I have to give Gilda a huge hug when I’m done.
“You were fantastic!” she tells me.
“If I was,” I say, “it was all thanks to you!”
She grabs the microphone out of my lap. “Hey, you guys?” she says to the crowd. “Major announcement. Starting next week, right after school, Jamie Grimm, this funny guy right here, will be in the library teaching a class on how to become a comedian. And at the end of the course, in two weeks, the best comics in the class will put on a show, just like this one, in the library. If you’re interested, there’s a sign-up sheet over there on that table. See you on Monday in the library!”
All the kids in the crowd rush the table.
“Um, how many slots do we have for students?” I ask Gilda.
“As many as sign up! Maybe the whole school!”
Mrs. Smiley, who works at a bank, volunteered to handle all the money for the benefit. When she comes over and tells us how much we’ve raised from tickets and all the silent auction items, Ms. Denning nearly faints.
“That’s enough to do everything we dreamed about doing!” She gives me a hug.
Uncle Frankie? He gets another kiss!
“Congrats, Jamie,” says Jacky Hart, coming over to shake my hand. “You done good, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “But, well, I had the best do-gooding teacher!”
I gesture toward Uncle Frankie, who’s busy making goo-goo eyes at Ms. Denning.
“So, Flora,” I hear him say, “guess this means you’ll be sticking around a little longer, huh?”
“I sure hope so, Francis.”
I’m feeling pretty great. And then Coach Ball comes over to rain on my parade.
“Nice crowd,” he says, his face scrunched up like he has more gas than Vladimir Tootin guzzling British vinegar. “Too bad this doesn’t count. The crowd the school board is interested in has to be in the library, Grimm, not at a diner listening to smart-aleck celebrities crack jokes. We’ll see how many kids are using Ms. Denning’s book boneyard at the end of the month. Never forget, Grimm—it’s my school. I make all the rules.”
Chapter 31
FIRST-CLASS TREATMENT?
Monday morning at the middle school, almost the entire student body signs up for my first How to Do Stand-Up class.
Everybody had so much fun watching the show that they want to be in the next show! Gilda and Ms. Denning are taking names at a table they’ve set up in the hallway outside the library.
“Join us right after school,” announces Gilda during the shuffle between first and second periods. “A special library-only class taught by the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic and star of the hit TV series Jamie Funnie, Jamie Grimm himself!”
“This is going to be so awesome!” I hear one kid say as she writes her name on Ms. Denning’s yellow legal pad.
“I want my own TV show, too!” says another.
“I was born to be funny,” says a third. “And make money from it!”
“Sign on up!” says Gilda, in full carnival-barker mode. “Learn how to do stand-up!”
“Maybe I should take this class,” I joke to Gilda. “I’d love to learn how to stand up again.”
She laughs it off, but I’m sweating b
ullets. It’s what I always do when the pressure is on. Which it is.
Constantly.
For me, life is one giant pressure cooker with the lid locked down tight.
I perspire my way through the rest of the day. I feel sorry for everybody who has to sit behind me. I would also like to publicly apologize to Gus, the janitor.
The final bell rings at 2:40.
I’m in the library by 2:48. I might’ve made it there sooner, but I had to fight my way through the mob of kids heading toward the library. To take my class!
It’s standing room only. About a dozen kids are out in the hallway because the vice principal, Ms. Bumgarten, says we’ve reached the fire marshal’s safe occupancy limit.
“Well done,” she says, looking around to make sure Coach Ball isn’t lurking in the shadows.
“Well, if we need more room, I could wait out in the hall, too,” I suggest.
Ms. Bumgarten grins. Ms. Denning laughs.
They both think I’m joking.
I’m not.
I’m panicking!
“Too bad the school board isn’t here today,” says Ms. Denning. “We’d save the library for sure.”
Save the library, I tell myself. For the school. For the other kids. For Uncle Frankie. For LOVE!
This is it. I’ve got to do this thing! I’m on.
“Um, good afternoon, everybody. I’m Jamie Grimm. Rhymes with fwschlimm.” Everyone chuckles. So I keep going, even though my voice is sort of shaky. “It also rhymes with him. And hymn. You know, the one that’s a song, not a person. ‘Amazing Grace’…”
O-kay.
No one’s laughing anymore. Now they’re just sort of staring. Bewilderment, I think they call it.
Meanwhile, I’m hearing crickets. The biology lab is right across the corridor, and we’re doing a unit on tracking cricket population growth. It’s much more interesting than my class!
“Um, thanks for coming here to the library, which, um, is where we are right now. But you probably knew that, since you came to the, uh, library to take this class. Soooo. I’m really excited to be here, in the library, to talk to you all about the art of comedy, in the library.”
Then my mind goes blank. It’s as blank as a… something. Something with nothing on it. Yes, my mind is so blank, I can’t even make a metaphor anymore.
I try to remember some of that research I did about the art of comedy.
“A wise person once said that comedy equals tragedy plus time.”
“What is this, Jamie?” hollers Vincent O’Neil, who, of course, has a front-row seat. “Math class?”
He gets a laugh.
I get a little wetter under my armpits.
“Ha, ha,” I say. “Very funny, Vincent. Yes, success as a stand-up comic is a goal desired by many and achieved by few. And yet, with the proper combination of determination, research, and practice, you, too, can fulfill your dreams.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned dreams. Maybe I shouldn’t talk and gesture like I’m a stiff in a late-night TV commercial for the Acme Truck Driving School. I’m so boring, people are starting to nod off. My after-school class is turning into pre-K nap time.
“Some of the best comedy ever created deals with painful subjects,” I say, my voice squeaking. “A comedian named David Steinberg once said something like, if you don’t have problems, you’re going to be a lousy comedian. In other words, you have to suffer to be funny.”
“Well, I’m definitely suffering right now,” cracks Vincent.
So am I.
I not funny.
I the worst thing in the world.
I boring.
Chapter 32
CHICKEN FOR LUNCH
Tuesday, I make the smartest move of my entire teaching career: I postpone my class!
“Principal—I mean Coach Ball wants a big turnout in the gym after school for his first wrestling team exhibition match,” I explain to the gang over lunch in the cafeteria. “I think it’s very important that we all be there to show our school spirit and, you know, Fighting Minnow pride!”
“Bruck, bruck, bruuuck,” says Gaynor, tucking his thumbs under his pits and flapping his elbows.
“Are you implying that Jamie is chicken?” says Pierce. “That he is afraid to face his after-hours pupils again following yesterday’s fiasco?”
“No,” cracks Gilda. “Gaynor’s just doing his imitation of our delicious cafeteria food. Hey, Jamie, remember when you used to do jokes about our oh-so-tasty lunches?” She jiggles her plate. Her rubbery chicken nuggets bounce around and dance.
“No. Not really.”
“I do.”
“You sure you don’t want to teach my comedy class for me?” I ask her. “You do me better than I did me yesterday.”
“You had one bad afternoon,” Gilda replies with a shrug. “It happens. But I’ll tell you what I will do.”
“What?”
“Go with you to the wrestling dealio this afternoon!”
“It’s a date!” I say.
“Ooooh,” snigger Gaynor and Pierce. “A daaaaate.”
Gilda is beaming.
Me? I’m wishing I used a different word. I’m also sweating again. Profusely. Poor Gus. He’s going to need to mop up the cafeteria floor, too.
Chapter 33
I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND
After school, Gilda and I head to the gym together.
Since it’s a “date,” I’m wondering if I should hold her hand. Too bad I can’t. I need both my hands to pump my wheels—otherwise our whole date would just be me turning around in a circle.
We take our usual floor seats.
There’s a big wrestling mat done up in our school colors occupying half of the gym floor. Coach Ball is in the center with his microphone, standing on a big picture of our school mascot, the minnow. Except it’s a new version I haven’t seen before—now it’s a very angry fish. Next to it is a big ad for Meathead protein shakes, whatever those are.
On one side of the thick foam mat, I see Stevie and Lars decked out in snarling-minnow wrestling gear. On the other side are two kids, about half their size, from Valley Stream Middle School.
“Thank you all for coming out this afternoon to support our newest team,” says Coach Ball. “Our heavyweights are made even heavier by Meathead protein shakes. Prepare to be amazed!”
Well, I certainly am.
The whole exhibition lasts about three minutes.
Lars pins his guy in fifteen seconds. The crowd in the bleachers goes wild! The cheerleaders break into a very special cheer they must’ve just made up.
“Lars!” Clap-clap. “He is ours!” Clap-clap. “He’s so large.” Clap-clap. “Looks like a barge!” Clap-clap.
“I am triumphant!” declares Lars as he struts around the ring, both fists raised high above his head. “I am invincible!”
Stevie takes a little longer to defeat his opponent, but he puts on more of a show.
He uses some of his schoolyard bully techniques to give the kid from Valley Stream a wrestling-uniform wedgie, before doing the old behind-the-ankle trip to lay him out flat on his back. Then Stevie just sits on the poor guy’s chest while the ref does the two-count for the pin.
“There you have it!” booms Coach Ball through his microphone. “An early glimpse at what promises to be the first of many championship seasons for the Long Beach Middle School wrestling team.”
Then he turns to me and Gilda.
“Just think how much more awesome this school’s team would be if they had a real sweat room to work out in.”
Then he does that double-fingers-to-his-eyes-to-me-to-his-eyes bit again.
Oh, yeah.
He wants our library. He wants it bad.
Chapter 34
ROUND TWO
Realizing that Coach Ball is gunning for the library and that time is not exactly on our side, I come back to school on Wednesday with a renewed sense of purpose.
I also renew a book in the library becau
se I didn’t get a chance to finish it. I was too busy worrying about flopping, and watching Stevie sit on people, to read much more than the table of contents.
But on the way home from the wrestling match, Gilda gives me a good talking to.
“You need to snap out of your funk, Jamie,” she says. “We’re all counting on you. We have eight school days left to pack the library, or we’ll both be helping Ms. Denning pack up all the books!”
And so at 2:40, when that final bell rings, I grit my teeth and roll back to the library, ready to rock the school of laughs!
Unbelievably, about 90 percent of my students are back for round two. They must really want to be comics. Either that or they really enjoy watching me crash and burn.
“Hi, guys,” I say. “It’s great to be back and to see so many of you back, too. I promise you a great class today, because during study hall I whipped up an awesome lesson plan!”
They applaud.
I reach for my backpack, which should be hanging on the back of my chair.
But it isn’t.
Because I left it in my locker.
“Yo, loser!”
For the first time in my life, I am actually happy to see Stevie Kosgrov nearly knock a door off its hinges as he bursts it open and stomps into the library. Lars Johannsen isn’t with him, but Stevie’s brought his regular two minions, Zits and Useless. All three of them are chugging those Meathead protein shakes. And belching.
They’re a nice distraction from how unprepared I am to teach this class.
Stevie plops down into a chair. “I heard your class stinks worse than your breath, Cornball. Thought I’d drop by to watch you die.”
Dying is what comics call it when their jokes bomb and nobody in the audience is laughing.