Tears of a Class Clown

by Alterman, Sara Faith

• ISBN13: 9780060755928
• ISBN10: 006075592X
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2006-08-16
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publications

Summary

Just when you thought you'd put the past behind you- the forlorn crushes, the awkward fashions, the cliques, the pigeonholes, those rampant, raging hormones-it sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and suddenly you're invited to turn back the clock ten years. Your high-school class is reuniting, and it feels so . . . bad. What happens when you're forced to choose between dwelling in the past and living for the future? Nina Kurtz is every guy's gal. A bartender at Boston's Bellyaches Comedy Den, Nina's got the swiftest wit and a truckload of zingers, a combo that makes everyone from her Cockney sleazeball boss to her ruddy, good-natured regulars wonder what's keeping Nina behind the bar instead of up on stage. Nina's more concerned with her status as the Funny Girl-she seems resigned to a lifelong role of the girl "friend." When that fateful piece of calligraphied mail arrives, that invitation to relive the high-school glory days, Nina's conflicted and somewhat mortified by the cards fate has dealt her. After all, though she was voted the Most Likely to Work in a Comedy Club, slinging cheap beer at a dingy dive probably wasn't what her classmates had in mind. Still, the only successful relationship Nina's had to date was with her high-school boyfriend, Jacob Ryan. Maybe slinking down memory lane isn't such a bad idea, if it means figuring out what the heck she did right romantically, all those years ago. . .

Excerpts

Tears of a Class Clown

Chapter One

He was squinty, the man flapping his yapper, with a Dippity Do and nostrils that twitched in time with his desperate lips.

"Hey, hey, how about some of my spicy tuna roll, huh, baby?"

Oh come on.

"So I says, 'Easy lady, that's my elbow!' Ba-da-BOOM!"

It had been going on like this all night; pathetic lines tossed out halfheartedly, like Frisbees on the beach in August.

"Sure, honey, feel free to use my dipstick to check your levels!"

Someone should slug this yahoo. Anyone? Anyone? Help a lady out.

All men, too. Honest to God. I'm not too surprised; it isn't often that we get chicks with balls enough to brave this crowd.

It's a tricky business, stand-up comedy.

I wished more of these morons figured that out before they got their paws on a microphone.

The moron du jour, sporting khaki pants, was nearly bursting out of a coral-colored shirt printed with birds of paradise—typical comic wear. His shoulders were broader than a Buick, and his strongman handlebar mustache glistened with sweat.

I've worked at Bellyaches Comedy Den for years now, and believe me I've heard it all. Mother jokes, sister jokes, jaded jilted-lover jokes, chick jokes, dick jokes, smart jokes, fart jokes, fat jokes. Boozers, losers, politics, pimps and hookers, bitches, tricks. Nobody's safe, no ethnicity ignored: honky, cracker, nigga, kike, wops and dagos, fags and dykes, jappy guidos, spics and chinks, the motherfucking kitchen sink.

My boss, Hal, actually wanted to use that rant as the club's motto, but City Council got a little nervous. I think some selectman had a problem with "cracker."

Bellyaches is small and dank, choreographed around a precarious platform that barely passes for a stage. Mismatched chairs accessorize two dozen tiny cocktail tables, which are packed together awkwardly to fill most of a shallow audience pit. The bar runs along the back of the room. I've spent the better part of my adult life stuffed back there like a helpless pimiento, yanking sticky taps and rolling my eyes at the sad excuse for entertainment. Make no mistake about my use of "better part." I'm talking majority. Believe me, I don't count my beer-bitch duties among the finest moments of my twenties.

The place defines "dive," but it's actually fairly popular; gross is apparently the new chic with Boston-area hipsters. It's gone far beyond thrift-store threads and pizza grease bedhead: I sell enough Pabst Blue Ribbon in a week to build a Tijuanan shanty village with the aluminum from the discarded cans. All that cheap beer is a beacon for amateur comics. Honestly, they flock like raccoons to shiny objects, likely comforting themselves as they leave with the notion that if their jokes bombed, the audience must have been, too.

You'd never catch me onstage in a million years.

Most of my friends are aspiring stand-up comedians, and I've seen more than enough rejection to stave off any limelight cravings. Time and time again I've watched grown men sniffle about jokes that failed or bits that bombed, while nursing Cuervos and dejected faces speckled with coin-shaped bruises. I don't need a crowd to make me feel bad about myself; superhuman celebrities and trendy department stores do a fine enough job of that, thank you very much. Watch any Lindsay Lohan movie and then shuffle into Express to try and stuff your ass into a pair of stretchy, sparkly pants. You'll leave the mall with a cinnamon roll and a pudge complex every single time.

So, I try to keep myself safe from heckling. It's much safer behind the bar, anyway, unless some wino gets fresh about my rack.

Though I man the booze, I wouldn't call myself a "bartender" per se. I wish. Bellyaches only serves wine and beer, so all I do is pull and uncork. (That's what she said. Ba-dum . . . bum. Ha.) Cocktail it's not. Hal has owned this place for twenty years, bought it when he was fresh off the boat from East London. He's a pervy sort of Cockney, with lumps of doughy limbs and gravel in his throat. Saved his quid for nearly a decade so he could move across the pond and live out his dream of owning a moldy comedy dive. Not much stand-up in the UK, apparently. I guess they don't laugh too much over there. Ashamed to show their teeth, I'd imagine.

In his spare time, Hal fancies himself an amateur photographer, capturing weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs, headshots, the occasional catalog campaign. His favorite shoots are portfolio jobs for aspiring models. He likes to dress the oblivious gigglers in thongs and drape them over machinery for "artistic effect." If you ask me, it's for his spank bank. For extra cash I help him out sometimes, loading his cameras, holding the light meter, and sponging the sweat from the back of his pasty neck. I keep that last part a secret.

Bellyaches was a butcher shop before Hal got his mitts on it; there are still bloodstains visible in the cracks in the cheap tile floor. There's a rumor that before that it was a Mob den, Tommy guns and all, but Hal waves that off.

Whatever its former purpose, the club still sports questionable ambiance. The walls are dingy, half the lights are blown out. Hal's even had the same Bud Light neon crackling behind the bar since 1985. Abe likes to remind me of that; he's an ageless Irish perch who started coming here five nights a week the very first night Hal was open for business. Retired from the force for twelve years, Abe stays home with his wife on Saturday nights, not out of dedication to his family, but rather to Jesus. Doesn't want to be hung over on Sunday morning; afraid he'll sleep through church and get tossed in the back of a one-way wagon to the fiery cell below. He's holding out for the big doughnut shop in the sky. And boy, does he love me.

Tears of a Class Clown. Copyright © by Sara Alterman. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

---

Excerpted from Tears of a Class Clown by Sara Faith Alterman
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.