Chapter 2
The stage felt smaller, the room seemed bigger, and attendance appeared to multiply with all eyes focused on him. How did all these people get here so quick? Isaac’s imagination created the exaggerated debate. Though African-Americans composed the prominent ethnicity, a strong contingency of whites and Hispanics also sat sipping cocktails and wiping barbeque sauce from mouths and fingertips. Two waitresses with short black dresses utilized the friendliest of service to ensure tip money from the crowd. The bar had only about seven seating spaces, but each low-backed stool’s occupant faced him with a look of high expectation. Isaac continued surveying the rest of the room and finally recognized a familiar face, almost a mirrored reflection. His twenty-two year-old brother Joey was sitting in the front row, motioning for him to get the act started. Next to him, clapping halfheartedly was his Mexican neighbor, Diana. Her long black hair and flawless makeup put her on a pedestal, albeit self-appointed. At the table with her was a beautiful, fair-skinned, African-American woman with the brightest, warmest grin in the building. Isaac couldn’t help but smile back. She always had a way of making him feel confident.
When he finally opened his mouth to speak, the most sudden attack of cottonmouth overcame him. His throat was so dry it felt welded shut. Isaac looked around in a panic. Damn it! Back where he had originally been sitting, a small glass frosted with condensation teased him. How did I forget my water?
His eyes widened from the dilemma. It’s gonna be impossible to talk for more than ten seconds like this, he quickly rationalized. There was only one option. Isaac held up his index finger in conventional church etiquette and ran back down the stairs to where the chilled H-Two-Oh-yeah was calling him. Most of the spectators looked toward one another in confusion. One heckler booed.
Isaac was already so rattled; it took full concentration to ignore the negativity. He grabbed the thirst quenching drink, and took a large gulp as he closed his eyes to calm his nerves. He walked back up onto the stage—without tripping this time. Isaac took a deep breath; he hadn’t waited all this time to fail.
“Ahhhh!” He held his mouth open wide for emphasis. “Excuse me, excuse me, rude, but so necessary! Sorry about that,” he apologized as he stepped in front of the microphone.
A few people joined the original heckler in booing.
“Boo, you, too,” Isaac retaliated to the group with a smile. “How you gonna get mad at me for gettin’ a lil’ sip of this fine, algae-filled, chemically-laced, rusted pipe–tasting tap water when you got all kinds of exotic, refreshing beverages at your table already? Man, a brotha’ can’t get a little parched every now an’ again? Y’all know that cottonmouth is a symptom of weed, and that’s a side effect I’m always willing to risk.”
A few people laughed as Isaac imitated smoking a joint with his index finger and thumb.
“Anyway,” he continued, “for all the non-haters here tonight, what’s up, Rib Splitters? How y’all doin’ this wonderful evening?” he asked joyfully, as if he had never tripped on the stairs or called a hydration timeout.
There were a few hesitant claps, but most of the ovation was generated from the people who knew him. Lazarus Laurence shook his head in disappointment from the back of the room.
“C’mon now, y’all can do better than that. Ain’t it Friday?!”
The applause increased moderately as weekend thoughts of relaxing, partying, or a nice combination of both elicited some excitement from the crowd.
“Okay, now we’re soundin’ good. Soundin’ real good and I see some of y’all are lookin’ real good, too. Ladies just lovely all around here.” He pointed out a few women. “Y’all lookin’ beautiful over there. Yeah, you right there, definitely. Real gorgeous, real gorgeous! So let me guess . . . it only took y’all like half the week to get ready, right?”
He took a quick sip of water while the audience’s laughter died down.
“That about right, though. Y’all start gettin’ ready a week in advance so we might be just barely late. And as fellas, we just deal with it because we’d rather have you fine and fashionably late than punctual and everybody asking were we the only survivors of the train wreck. You ain’t the only one balancing on them stilettos; our reputations depend on them too! Yep, I learned a long time ago, fine women will only mess around with a broke brotha like me if I got a fine woman already. Then they assume I either got money, or I am money when it comes to, ahem, other necessities.” Isaac rotated his hips like he was working an invisible Hula hoop. “But for real, that’s what I love about California. We got some beautiful people here. Everybody takes pride in their looks, their fashion, their swag. You know none of our babies are contributin’ to the ugly crisis plaguing the globe, right? In fact, we see an ugly baby in Cali and we don’t even know what to say. We start reachin’ for scientific compliments. ‘Yes, sir, what you got there is a lovely little development of zygote and ejaculate, no doubt about that!’ Then you automatically know to ask the parents, ‘So, what made you move to L.A.?’ See, y’all laughin’ ’cause you know it’s true. We don’t breed nothin’ but Hollywood beauty here.”
A reactive laugh from the audience assisted his confidence, and he winked at the caramel-skinned woman who had welcomed him with the adoring smile.
“Uh-oh, wait . . . looks like I spoke too soon.” Isaac took the microphone off the stand and walked to the right side of the stage. “What’s up, buddy? You, uh, ain’t from around here, huh?”
Everyone laughed as they turned their attention to the chubby Caucasian stranger Isaac was referring to. It was the same man who had orchestrated the booing earlier.
“You’s a heavy dude, man!” Isaac continued. “How many admissions did they charge you to get in? I’m just sayin’, mathematically, if you only paid for one, it’s only fair that everybody else should get half off!”
As the chuckling grew louder, Isaac’s nerves continued to settle. He began trusting that his performance fears were overrated. “What? Why y’all laughin’? I’m just sayin’ that homey is a big boy. Dude is so big that his moms couldn’t even fit his wallet-size photos in a eight-by-ten frame! Photo so big you gotta swivel your head to see the whole thing. Hey, his driver’s license picture is probably just a shot of his neck, and it was so wide that they couldn’t fit his birthday on there. So now when he gets carded for alcohol, they just count the folds on his neck to check his age, like the rings on a tree trunk.”
By now the room was hysterical with laughs. The heavy-set man even had to laugh at himself. Isaac paused to scan the room. They’re diggin’ it, he thought. They are really diggin’ it! He had to laugh a little. Not so much at the humor and wit that was keeping the audience entertained, but that his dream was really becoming a reality.
It had taken nearly a year of practicing and patience, tolerating dead-end jobs just to scrape by, routinely garnering support from friends and family, and an unmatched persistence in waiting for anyone in the industry to give him a chance—just one chance. But here he finally stood. He could see opportunity knocking through the peephole. His first show ever and Isaac Golden already had the crowd deeper in his pocket than Scrooge’s selfishness. From childhood comedy at family get-togethers to the class clown at Dorsey High, he had always been labeled a jokester. This was an official coronation.
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