I turn this disruption into a teachable moment.
“Stevie here is what we comedians call a heckler. That’s a person in the audience who thinks he’s funnier than the person on the stage. If you are going to be a stand-up comic, you need to be armed with snappy replies for any heckling situation. For instance, I could say to my heckler, ‘Hey, I bet your brain feels good as new, seeing how you’ve never used it.’”
A few brave students laugh.
Stevie fakes a great big yawn.
“I heard you’re the most boring teacher in the world,” he says. “Now I know it’s true. You’re better than a sleeping pill!”
“You can also attempt to out-heckle the heckler,” I explain to the class. I clear my throat and address Stevie directly.
“Oh, having trouble sleeping? What’s the matter?” I switch into a funny goo-goo baby voice. “Did Mommy forget to pack your blankie, Binky, and baby bottle in your itty-bitty lunch box today?”
That earns me a little snicker, so I keep going.
“Can someone show Stevie where the library keeps the coloring books and crayons?”
Stevie stands up. No one is laughing anymore.
In fact, the way he’s glaring at the crowd—he’s daring them even to think about laughing again. Everyone looks terrified.
Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for in my comedy class.
Chapter 35
GIVING IN TO THE DARK SIDE
Stevie is not done heckling me.
“Your jokes are so lame,” he says, “they’re crippled. So they’re just like you, Lamie Jamie.”
He moves forward two steps. I start to seethe.
“You think you’re funny?” Stevie says. “I do, too. Funny looking. Funny smelling. Funny as in not normal and never will be.”
I have no more snappy comebacks. I am mad.
“You know what else?” Stevie sneers. “I bet your parents and little sister are super glad they’re not here to see just how lame you turned out to be.”
Forget the lesson plan. Forget everything.
Stevie knows I lost both my parents and my baby sister in a horrible car crash. The same horrible car crash that put me in my wheelchair. He knows I’d do anything to have them back.
“Jamie?” Gilda pleads. “Just ignore him.”
I think that’s what she says. All I hear is whoosh-whoosh-whoosh and whump-whump-whump.
Have you ever been so mad, so hurt, that the whole world slows down, and everything sounds sluggish and slurred, the way it does when you dunk your head underwater in the bathtub?
That’s where I am. In a red zone of total rage.
Back when I was a rookie comic, I made a mistake making fun of my friends and family for a few cheap and easy laughs. After that, I made a vow: I would never do it again. I would never, ever be funny at the expense of people I cared about.
Back then I realized that if I lost my compassion, if I didn’t care whom my comedy hurt, then I’d be no better than all the people who’ve ever hurt me.
But when Stevie made that crack about my mother and father and baby sister?
That whole vow flew right out the window.
In fact, I make a new vow: I will do whatever it takes, no matter the cost, to once and for all verbally rip Stevie Kosgrov to shreds.
I can’t believe I’m becoming that guy. The insult comedian. The put-down comic. It’s terrible. But I can’t stop.
“These guys are so dumb, they need to study for a blood test. They couldn’t pour water out of a bottle even if the instructions were on the bottom.”
No one in the library is laughing. I think Gilda might actually be sobbing. Ms. Denning is calling someone on her phone. Everybody else looks extremely nervous.
Probably because they know what’s coming next.
I figure I have time to hit Stevie with one last put-down before he puts me down on the floor.
“The other day, Stevie had to write a paper for school and asked me how to spell TV.”
He socks me in the gut.
I topple backward and end up sprawled on my butt.
All I can see are stars. And stampeding feet.
Even though my sole purpose for teaching was to bring kids into the library, all my students are running out. They want to leave before Stevie turns on them.
“Class dismissed,” I whisper.
But everyone is already gone.
Chapter 36
HAVING A FRANKIE DISCUSSION
Gaynor and Pierce help me back into my chair.
They do that a lot.
“You okay?” asks Pierce.
I force a smile and pat down my arms and chest. “Just fine. Nothing’s broken that wasn’t broken before.”
“Dude,” says Gaynor, “you went totally ballistic on Stevie’s butt.”
“I guess.”
“You had the last punch line,” Gilda says sadly. “But he got the last punch.”
“He usually does,” I remind her.
“Which is why you should just avoid him, Jamie.”
“I do. I did! He’s the one who came barging into the library like he owned the place.”
“Everyone is welcome in the library,” says Ms. Denning, sliding her phone into her back pocket.
“Even big fat jerks and bullies?”
“They’re our favorites,” she says with a smile. “Because if bullies start reading about other people’s experiences, they might lose some of their jerkiness. Reading—especially fiction—helps us walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.”
“I’d be happy to walk ten feet in my own sneakers,” I mutter, because, yes, I am still feeling super sorry for myself. It happens.
“Hey, why don’t you go see Uncle Frankie,” suggests Ms. Denning. “I just gave him a call. He’s expecting you.”
“That’s a great idea,” says Gilda. “Let’s all go grab a burger.”
“It might be best if Jamie went alone,” says the librarian.
“Oh,” says Gaynor. “It’s one of those ‘go see Uncle Frankies.’…”
Pierce actually takes off his porkpie hat. “Good luck, Jamie,” he says somberly.
“What is this?” I ask. “My funeral?”
“Maybe,” says Gilda. “If so, what kind of flowers do you like?”
“The kind that squirt lemon juice in everybody’s eyes.”
Gilda cringes.
I roll out of the school building and take my time wheeling my way down the boardwalk to what I’m sure is going to be a major-league lecture from Uncle Frankie.
When I hit the diner, Uncle Frankie’s waiting for me at the front door.
“Hiya, kiddo,” he says. “How’s your day been?”
“What? Didn’t your girlfriend tell you when she called to rat me out?”
Uncle Frankie motions for me to join him at a booth.
“Flora did call me,” he explained, “but only because she’s worried about you. To tell you the truth, Jamie, I am, too. Why’d you lose your cool like that?”
“Because Stevie started saying incredibly nasty stuff about Mom and Dad and little Jenny.”
“And you let it get to you?”
“Yes. I’m not made out of a nonstick surface like one of your frying pans.”
“You know, Jamie, there’s always a reason people like Stevie act the way they do.”
“Because they’re big fat jerks and that’s just what big fat jerks do?”
Uncle Frankie smiles gently and places a hand on my shoulder.
“I talked to Stevie’s mother the other day.”
“Aunt Smiley?”
Frankie nods. “She came in for a bowl of clam chowder. Told me how hard it is for Stevie, you being famous and all. So now he’s hooked up with your principal, this Coach Ball character. Stevie’s trying to become a big-shot wrestler. Guzzling those horrible Meathead protein shakes to bulk up. Why? So he can be famous like you. Trouble is Coach Ball keeps riding Stevie’s butt. Pushing him to do stuff he really
doesn’t want to do.”
“You mean exercise? Run laps?”
“Worse,” says Uncle Frankie. “He’s making Stevie become meaner and angrier and more hateful than he’s ever been before. A lot of it is aimed at you and Flora because the coach wants to get his grubby mitts on that library space. So all I’m saying, Jamie, is what some wise man said many moons ago: Be kind, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle you know nothing about.”
“Even Stevie?”
Frankie nods. “Even Stevie.”
“Oh, great. So now you’re on his side?”
“No, Jamie. I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying, because you just said it!” I snap. “Thanks for the great advice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and figure out some way to save your stupid girlfriend’s job.”
Yeah.
Stevie isn’t the only one who can be a ginormous jerk.
Chapter 37
BATTLE TALK
Whenever I act lousy, I also feel lousy.
Which, of course, reminds me of a corny old Henny Youngman joke.
A man’s not feeling good, so he goes to see his doctor. The doctor says, “Take your clothes off and stick your tongue out the window.”
“What will that do to make me feel better?” asks the patient.
“Nothing,” says the doctor, “but I’m mad at my neighbor!”
BA-DUM-CHING!
Anyway, instead of heading home to Smileyville, I retreat to the boardwalk and my bench. The sun is just starting to set. So it’s not exactly nighttime, but I’m hoping that maybe Cool Girl will, once again, sense that I’m in trouble and she’ll be there a little earlier than usual to help me cool down.
She isn’t.
But Gilda is. Funny how that’s been happening lately.
“What took you so long to get here?” she cracks.
“Sorry. Uncle Frankie had to chew me out first.”
“Seriously? He chewed you out?”
“No. Not really. He just told me I should be kind to Stevie Kosgrov because he’s fighting some kind of a battle I know nothing about. According to Uncle Frankie, we all are.”
“Huh,” says Gilda. “Never thought about it that way.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me neither.”
“I guess he’s right.”
“He usually is. That’s what makes him so Uncle Frankie–ish.”
“So that means you’re battling something, too.”
“Well, duh.” I gesture at my chair.
“I meant something deeper, Jamie. Something I can’t see.”
“Maybe. I guess. One of the doctors up at the Hope Trust Rehabilitation Center told me that I might have to wrestle with what they call survivor’s guilt. I lived, the rest of my family died. And now, when I’m happy, I sometimes feel horrible.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a chance to be happy. Mom, Dad, and Jenny lost that chance in the wreck. Forever.”
“Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay to be glad you’re alive. A lot of us are very, very happy you’re here. Think of all the people you make smile on a daily basis. If, like you always say, laughter is the best medicine, then you’re the most incredible doctor in America, healing people all over the country. So wrestle that guilt to the ground. Maybe Stevie will let you borrow his foam rubber earmuffs and wrestling uniform.”
“Just as long as I don’t have to guzzle that Meathead protein shake stuff. It looks like diarrhea medicine mixed with chocolate.
“So,” I say, “what’s your battle, Gilda Gold?”
“You mean other than being a kid directing episodes of a hit sitcom in an adult world, having to come up with brilliant ideas for new shows, and putting up with Vincent O’Neil’s bad jokes?”
“Those are just minor, everyday skirmishes,” I joke. “What’s your big battle? The one nobody knows about?”
She looks at me.
Thinks about saying something.
Almost does.
Turns away.
“What?” I ask.
She turns back to face me.
“This,” she says.
Then she grabs the back of my head, pulls me close, and kisses me on the lips.
For a really, really, really long time.
Chapter 38
BREAKFAST OF COMEDIANS
Early the next morning (after smearing my lips with a ton of ChapStick), I go for breakfast at the diner, where I plan on eating crow and apologizing to Uncle Frankie.
“You were right!” I tell him. “Everybody’s got something going on that nobody else knows about. Even people who probably should’ve known about it or seen it coming or realized how lucky they were.”
Uncle Frankie takes a slow sip of coffee out of his mug.
Then he says, “Huh?”
“Never mind. It’s not important. Well, it is, but hey—you have your own romantic issues to deal with.”
His mug stalls in midlift again.
“Huh?”
“Gilda and me. Me and Gilda. Guess we’re always the last to know. Probably because we’re guys. Not Gilda. I mean you and me. We’re the guys,” I babble. “Anyway, like the broken elevator said to the lady on the top floor, I won’t let you down, Uncle Frankie. I’m going to save Ms. Denning’s library if it’s the last thing I do, which I hope it isn’t, because I was kind of thinking about asking Gilda to go see a movie with me this weekend. And not like that time she went with me and Gaynor and Pierce. No, sir. This time, it’ll just be the two of us. Fifty-gallon drum of soda, popcorn, Junior Mints, Junior Mints in the popcorn—the works! But first, we need to save a library and a librarian from the barbarians in the wrestling tights and their coach. If any of those kids ever come to a class of mine again, that is. I know I wouldn’t.”
“Hey, Jamie?” says Uncle Frankie when I take a break to breathe. “Remember what you said when I was, you know, putting on airs to woo Ms. Denning?”
“Um, I said, ‘Put on something else, because everybody can see through air’?”
Frankie shakes his head and laughs. “No, kiddo. You told me to be myself instead of some version of who I thought other people wanted me to be. Well, that’s all you need to do when you teach your class. Be Jamie Grimm. You funny, remember?”
“Sometimes.”
“So stop psyching yourself out. Don’t try to be a professor and tell ’em how it’s done. Show ’em how it’s done.”
“But how?” I ask. “How do I show them how?”
“When Lou Diamante, the Yo-Yo King of Queens—may he rest in peace—taught me the Breakaway Flying-Doughnut Rock-the-Kitty Cannonball, he didn’t give me a lecture. He gave me a demonstration.”
“But all the kids know my stand-up act,” I say. “They’ve seen my routines on TV and YouTube. I have to show them something new.”
“So why not compose material on the fly? Don’t tell them how to come up with a joke, show them. Improvise like you did at the Stand Up for Books benefit last week.”
“Show, don’t tell,” I repeat.
“Exactly. Because this is important. You gotta save the library, Jamie, otherwise you kids will be reading history books so old the Revolutionary War will still be a current event.”
“Oh, good one-liner.”
Uncle Frankie smiles. “Thanks. I was improvising.”
“Well, that’s what I’m going to do after school today. I’m going to take nothing and turn it into something funny.”
“That’s the spirit. And remember: Flora—I mean Ms. Denning—is counting on you.”
“Like the busted elevator said…,” I start.
“You won’t let us down,” Uncle Frankie finishes with a laugh.
Hey, I might’ve blown two classes.
But you know what they say: The third time’s the charm!
Chapter 39
ROUND THREE!
I start my school day in the library.
&nbs
p; “I’m back!” I say to Ms. Denning. “I know the last two classes weren’t great, but you gotta roll with the punches. I’m pretty good at rolling, if you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re sure, Jamie? I know you’re under a lot of pressure with the TV show and—”
“Not to worry. We are going to have such an awesome class this afternoon, I guarantee the library will be packed.”
“I don’t know. Stevie Kosgrov scared off a lot of kids.”
“He’s fighting an inner battle, that’s all. Stevie doesn’t scare me. Although, I guess he should. At home, I’ve seen him crush an orange juice carton. And it was still full. But I digress.”
That’s when Gilda bops into the library.
She’s bubblier than usual.
“Hiya, Jamie!”
“Hey!”
“I printed up flyers with ‘Something Wonderful Right Away’ as the headline. Sort of reminded me of the other night… on the boardwalk…”
I clear my throat. Loudly. “Ix-nay on the oardwalk-bay. There are grown-ups in the room.”
“Where?” says Ms. Denning. “What are you kids cooking up now?”
“We’re going to pass around these flyers today,” Gilda explains. “To tell kids about today’s master class with Jamie Grimm being an ‘Improvisational Comedy Workshop.’”
“We’ll be making up scenes, stories, and songs right on the spot,” I add, “from audience suggestions. We’ll be like a human makerspace, only funnier!”
“Something Wonderful Right Away is also the title of a book by Jeffrey Sweet,” explains Gilda. “It’s an oral history of improvisational comedy in Chicago. You know, Second City and the Compass Players. They’re basically the granddaddies of all comedy troupes, like the Groundlings in LA and the Upright Citizens Brigade in New York!”
“I do know,” says Ms. Denning. “Ta-da! We have the book.”
“No way!”
“Way. Books—they’re what libraries do best.”