I'll Be Here All Week (4 page)

“No—”

“I could have sworn you even got lucky last night, right?”

“Just next time tell me you've made that deal before I make an ass out of myself to the guy running the show.”

“You do that on your own,” Rodney says. “Did you tell him something about how much you love
Transformers
or something?”

Spence has to take a minute to figure out what Rodney is talking about. When it dawns on him, he almost laughs despite being so pissed off.

“No,” he says, “I was trying to make a point about popularity.”

“How'd that work out for you?” Rodney asks.

“That jackass wanted to sit there and tell me how it's bullshit I don't sell the place out like a hypnotist. Tell him to advertise his own show and they'll sell more tickets.”

“That's not the problem”

“Yeah? What's the problem, then?”

“The problem is you like to screw with people.”

“I do not.”

“Just do the shows and get paid,” Rodney says. “Stop whining about what they tell you to do. If they want you to be clean, be clean. It's always a fight with you.”

“If they want the show squeaky clean, they should hire a squeaky clean comic.”

“You would make more money if you worked clean, you know,” Rodney says.

This again?
Spence thinks but instead says, “I'd also make more money if I were a hypnotist.”

“Good idea.”

“You'd probably like that. Then you wouldn't have to worry about how spoiled I am.”

“You are your own worst enemy,” Rodney says. “You always have been.”

Spence winces when he hears that. It never feels good, mostly because it's true. He tries to count all the times he's been fired or banned from clubs simply because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. After he counts six in as many seconds, he shakes his head and kicks the ground. He used to be so good about just smiling and doing whatever he was told. Once he started working the saloon gigs and awful one-nighters he started talking back when he should have just learned to nod his head.

“I'm not wrong here, Rodney.”

“Being right never got anyone work,” Rodney says.

Spence kicks some more gravel and stares at his left shoe. He needs new shoes. He
wants
all kinds of stuff, but he
needs
new shoes. He can't remember how long he's had this pair, but he knows that it's only a matter of time before the sole comes off the left one.

“I had good shows,” he mumbles quietly, “so I don't know what they're complaining about.”

Rodney lets out a long sigh right into the phone. “Look you're not going to please everybody.”

“That's what I told them.”

“Next time, let me tell them. That's my job.”

“No shit.”

“Whatever,” Rodney says. “They're probably going to quit having comedians anyway. They say they aren't making any money at it.”

“Me neither,” Spence says. He should be annoyed, but he just doesn't care. The money in Enid wasn't enough that losing the gig should even matter. Still, it would have been nice to get some new clothes or maybe get his car detailed. His car has seen better days. It has two hundred thousand miles on it, and he's hoping it can last at least another hundred. Just like him, the car looks older than it is. Again he wonders when he started looking fortysomething instead of twentysomething.

“Where you headed now?” Rodney asks.

“Your backyard. I'll be there in a few days.”

“Alright. Bring me some headshots.”

“Sure,” Spence says.

“I told you Rockford is closed, right?”

“Yeah. Get me a date in Cleveland, okay?”

“I'll see what I can do,” Rodney says and hangs up.

Spence tosses his cell phone onto the front seat of his car and lets out a long sigh. He runs his hands through his already messy hair and slaps his hand on the roof of his car, feeling the slight sting on his palm and hearing the hollow
thunk
when his hand hits the metal.

“Damn it,”
he says to no one, but loud enough for anyone within a quarter mile to hear. A decade in, and the business never gets easier. Every shining moment onstage is met with a humbling dressing down offstage. Every standing ovation comes with a bar tab. Every night in the arms of a beautiful woman is rewarded with an angry wake-up call from his agent.

The only agent that will have me,
he thinks, and feels that familiar throbbing start on the side of his forehead.

It's true about Rodney. There was a time when Spence could have left him and signed on with someone else. Someone who might have gotten him slightly better pay in slightly worse venues. Too many burned bridges later, and it seems that Rodney is the wife he doesn't remember marrying. Like it or not, they're stuck with each other, come death or
The Tonight Show.

After a minute of staring at his worn-out shoes, the gravel on the ground, and his car with too many miles on it, he slips into the driver's seat and shuts the door. He tunes his satellite radio to some talk show. The host is talking about how high taxes are and how everyone without money is lazy and poor because they have no skills. Spence chuckles to himself, rolls down the window, and heads out.

Good-bye, Enid, Oklahoma,
he thinks. Another city checked off his map. Places he never thought he'd visit have now become footnotes on his résumé. On his way out of town, he pulls into the parking lot of the Electric Pony and empties the bottle of urine all over the front door.

New Jersey sucks. He's never liked it, doesn't like going back to it, and really tries to avoid it as much as possible. All of this makes it harder for him to believe that he lived here for over a decade. He doesn't like the people any more than he likes the traffic, but the traffic makes him hate the people even more. That vicious circle goes around in his head until he feels like driving his car into a tollbooth—of which Jersey has hundreds—just like the one he's sitting at right now.

Spence smiles at the toll collector who looks at him as if he just canceled Christmas. He remembers a time when
The Sopranos
was big on TV and people in New Jersey complained about it and protested the show. They said that it depicted people in New Jersey as rude and boorish and wasn't realistic. He still laughs when he thinks about this. The first time he saw
The Sopranos,
he thought it was a documentary.

He's stuck in gridlocked traffic on the Garden State Parkway and feels almost as if he never moved away. He just paid one toll and is now sitting in traffic simply waiting to pay another. It's raining slightly, which makes his day even worse. New Jersey drivers are bad enough on a sunny day. When it rains, they drive their cars as if the sky is falling and they're being chased by demons. It's the only state he's ever been in where the people drive a hundred miles per hour in the snow and yet twelve miles per hour in the rain.

This isn't his home, but this is where his stuff is. After the divorce from Beth, he put all of his things in storage about five miles from his old condo. That's the hardest part about his hatred for this state: He has to keep coming back to it. If he wants warmer clothes, he needs to come to Jersey. If he needs to pick up old files or tax returns, he has to come to Jersey. If he just wants to look at the TV he owns and hasn't used in years, he has to come to Jersey. Most importantly, if he wants his mail, he has to come to Jersey.

The mail is at Beth's condo, which is coincidentally his old condo and Beth is coincidentally his ex-wife. The good part of remaining friendly with his ex is that it has allowed him to keep a formal address while not actually having a home. He hasn't had a house or apartment for two years, but Beth still collects his mail for him. Most of it is junk. It's not like any bank is crazy enough to give him a credit card, and he doesn't own enough of anything to get any real bills.

He's not too far outside New York City, but he might as well be in Florida. The entire Princeton area looks more suburban than the rest of the state and is actually quite pretty. It's one of the few things he liked about the area. Pulling up to his old apartment complex, he sees Beth's blue PT Cruiser in the parking lot. Right next to it is a slick black Audi and he knows this means that Evan is home.

Spence grits his teeth a bit and sighs. Evan is Beth's husband and not remotely someone he would call his pal. Beth was friends with Evan before the divorce. About a month after the split, that friendship “suddenly” became something more serious and he moved into the condo. The ink wasn't even dry on the divorce papers before he settled in and married Beth. Spence thinks that Evan is a douche. As it turns out, the feeling is mutual.

Spence gets out of his car and looks closely at the PT Cruiser. Beth has been taking care of it, and it still looks almost new. Much better than his car. The Cruiser is in his name, even though it's Beth's car and always has been. The payments were cheaper and, after the divorce, it seemed easier just to keep it that way until the thing was paid off. Like the agreement with the mail, this arrangement pisses Evan off big-time.

Spence had hoped that neither Beth nor Evan would be home and that he could just slip in, grab his mail, and slip out again. No such luck. He prepares himself and knocks on the door. He still has a key, but he knows that using it will just piss Evan off even more than he already will by just being there.

Beth looks surprised to see him, although he knows he told her he was coming. He smells food and realizes he caught her about to have dinner. Garlic hits his nose, and he knows it's toasted French bread. There's probably fresh veggies, too. He loves both of those things, and Beth cooks them well. Now he really despises the Big Mac he had an hour ago, and he feels it churn painfully in his stomach.

“You meant today,” Beth says as she opens the door. “I thought you meant next week.”

“Nope,” Spence says. “Today.”

“Well, shit,” she says, more embarrassed than annoyed. “C'mon in.”

She looks great. She's only a few years younger than he is, but she's holding on to her youth very well. Her hair has grown out since he last saw her. It looks as if she's letting it grow dark. They used to get their hair highlighted together, which always made him feel a little bit gay. He imagines Evan would agree. Beth looks the part of upper-class wife and she wears it well. He hates admitting it, but she and Evan look good together. Like Ken and Barbie dolls that walked out of a toy store and into the real world.

Spence follows Beth into the living room and sees Evan on the back patio, standing over the barbecue grill. There are several plates lined up on the kitchen counter, along with four glasses and an open bottle of wine.

“Having company, I take it,” Spence says.

“Just grilling out some steaks,” Beth says and walks over to a side table in the front hallway. She picks up a stack of mail as thick as a dictionary and starts sifting through it. Outside, Evan is drinking a beer and wearing an apron with “Kiss This” written on it and an arrow pointing to his crotch. He looks good for the thirtysomething age he is and comes off a bit younger. He's never been too removed from whatever fraternity he was in and it shows.

Spence looks around the living room. The place looks about the same as when he lived there and Evan did not. During their last few years together, Beth made way more money than he did and paid the bulk of the bills. It's for that reason that she kept most of the belongings when they split. It made sense anyway since he had nowhere to put it. He's fine without the paintings and random other things, but he does miss his favorite recliner. It sits a few feet away from him, looking as comfortable as ever. He tries not to think about the fact that Beth and Evan have probably had sex in it numerous times.

“Mostly junk, you know,” Beth says, sorting the mail.

“I figured.”

“You going over to the storage place?”

“Yeah.”

“Think you could look and see if you have a box of my Christmas stuff in there? I can't find the stuff my grandmother left me. The glass ornaments from Italy.”

“You know it's almost March, right?” Spence asks.

“Yes, smart-ass,” she says. “I couldn't find them in December, and I don't want to wait until this Christmas and forget about them again.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Who's coming to dinner? Anyone I know?”

“Russ and Debbie,” she says. Russ and Debbie were the couple they hung out with when he and Beth were still married. He lost them in the divorce and, like his favorite recliner, they now belong to Evan.

“Tell them I said hello,” he says.

“They always ask how you're doing.”

He holds out his hands as if to say “ta-da.”

“Your hair is looking a little gray,” Beth says. “You should go back to highlighting it.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“Are you still using that wrinkle cream on your face?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You look tired, is all.”

“Thanks.”

“Try using it twice a day.”

“And with that, I'm outta here.” Spence rolls his eyes. Beth always has a way of making him feel old. Maybe because she looks so good.

“Look for the Christmas stuff, please?”

“Sure. I'm getting warmer clothes, so I'll look in the back while I'm there.”

“Warmer clothes?” she asks. “You know it's almost March, right?”

“Funny,” he says. “I'm going to Canada.”

“Canada? Moving up in the world, huh?”

“Yeah, literally.”

“Vancouver?”

“Montreal.”

“How'd you manage that?”

“Got a call from a guy there,” he says, “said he saw the clip from the Kilborn show.”

“See?” she says. “That show does still pay off.”

“Sometimes,” he says.

“Rodney get the gig for you?”

“Nope. Got it myself.”

“God forbid Rodney find you any real work,” she says. Beth has always hated Rodney. She thinks he's an idiot, not just a bad agent.

The sliding glass door opens and in walks Evan, a plateful of steaks in his hand. The smell of heavenly red meat fills the room and is a slap in the face to the one person who won't be having any. There is a low grumbling noise coming from a stomach that doesn't belong to Evan or Beth, but to someone who will wind up eating at McDonald's again later that day.

“Ooh, those look great, babe,” Beth says as her husband steps into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of wine.

Bloody hell
, Spence thinks as he watches Evan walk into the room. He was so close to getting out of there without talking to the guy at all. Evan raises his eyebrows in a way that's supposed to be a greeting as he walks over without saying a word and puts an arm around Beth. Spence chuckles to himself. Pulling out his penis and actually peeing on her would probably be taking it a bit far but, given the chance, Evan would probably do just that.

“Hi, Evan.” Spence raises a hand and waves. Evan just nods and half smiles. There is an uncomfortable pause that probably lasts three seconds but feels as if it's at least three minutes.

“Oh,” Beth blurts out, breaking the awkward silence, “I have something for you.”

She hurries out of the room, leaving Spence there to stare at Evan and for Evan to simply look straight through him. Gunfighters meeting at high noon were probably friendlier with each other.

Douche,
Spence thinks as he looks at Evan.

Deadbeat,
Evan probably thinks as he looks back.

Evan thinks that being a stand-up comedian is a stupid way to make a living. This despite the fact that they met when Beth brought Evan to one of his shows. Evan went on and on about how great the show was and how much he laughed, but now he calls it a childish career decision. Not enough money in it, so it's stupid. Evan thinks it's wrong when men make less money than their wives do. Spence just thinks Evan is an ass.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Evan says and puts his glass of wine down on the dining table.

“You want to just whip 'em out and compare right now?” Spence says. “ 'Cause I'm pretty sure you've got me beat.”

Evan ignores him. “We got a bill in the mail from the county. The registration and inspection fees are due on the PT Cruiser.”

“Beth's car.”

“Yes.”

“I mean that's your answer. It's Beth's car.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were just about to ask me to pay the fees on the PT Cruiser, and I'm telling you that it's Beth's car,” Spence says.

“No.” Evan rolls his eyes and places a hand on his hip. He's pouting, and it looks a little feminine, which is actually funny to see from a guy over six feet tall who tries as hard to be as masculine as Evan does. “I was going to ask you to pay half. We'll pay the other half.”

“Cool,” Spence says. “Same answer, though. It's Beth's car.”

“It's in your name.”

“Out of convenience. It's never been my car. I hardly even got to drive it. She makes the payments. She pays the insurance. It's always been hers.”

“But the car is in your name.”

“So?” Spence almost laughs. “My name is still on the mortgage to this condo. Doesn't mean I pay rent.”

“Maybe you should, since you still get your mail here.”

Spence rolls his eyes. “You want my random bills and envelopes to pay a portion of the rent, Evan? Really?”

“I'm just saying.”

“Is it really that big an inconvenience, Evan? You just toss it in a basket and hand it to me every few months.”

“It's not about whether or not it's inconvenient,” Evan says. “It's about responsibility. You're irresponsible, and we have to pick up the slack because of it. All the time.”

“How am I irresponsible?”

“Because you chose to be homeless,” Evan says. “Who
does
that?”

“Doesn't really make sense to pay rent on an apartment I'm never in, does it?”

“Especially not when you've got us to fall back on.”

“I fall back on you?”

“Well, we're sitting here giving you your mail,” Evan says.

“And you got to keep my favorite recliner,” Spence counters. “Everybody wins.”

“It's Beth's recliner.”

“No,” Spence says, “it's my recliner. I didn't have any room for it in storage so I let her keep it.”

“And now it belongs to us,” Evan says.

“Right. Just like Beth's car,” Spence says. “Checkmate.”

The look on Evan's face tells Spence that he's about two seconds away from a punch in the face. That wouldn't be good. For one thing, it would piss Beth off and ruin his already shaky friendship with her. For another, Evan is bigger than he is and would likely throttle him pretty good. As luck would have it, Beth walks in about five seconds later.

“Here you go.” She hands Spence a picture frame. It's his college diploma. Six months after getting a degree in communications, he was waiting tables at Joe's Crab Shack. He thinks of the irony that the frame is worth more than the paper inside it.

“Thanks,” he says. “Where was this?”

“In the bedroom closet,” Beth says. “We must've put it there when we moved in and never hung it up. It was way back in the back. I found it when I was looking for those missing decorations.”