The man took a long swig of his drink and eyed Mac warily, as if trying to determine if he posed a threat. When things go wrong, there’s nothing like a few beers to cheer you up.” “What?” The man looked up, surprised that someone was talking to him. “Late night comfort?” Mac said, pointing at the man’s drink.
Emboldened by the alcohol he had consumed, Mac slid off his stool and approached. The man gripped a beer bottle, and Mac noticed it was the same brand he was drinking. A man about his own age, also rubbing his eyes. He lifted his eyes and saw someone sitting at the far end of the counter. Why waste his time trying to develop a career that wasn’t meant to be? He would not become the stand-up comedian he envisioned all his life. He rubbed his eyes, not because he was tired-which he was, actually-but because he was depressed. His audience didn’t appreciate any of it. Husband-wife relationships, ridiculous situations in the workplace, the lighter side of being overweight, growing up with overbearing parents-the ordinariness of daily life was fodder for his humor. While other comedians joked freely on controversial topics-race, religion, politics, and sex-Mac stuck to less raunchy material. The main reason he was failing, apparently, was because his act was too clean.
His jokes were simple and short, delivered in as few words as possible, but none of this was working. What was he doing wrong? He was doing his best, he thought, with serious set ups leading to unexpected punchlines. Mac took a seat at the counter and ordered a beer. Later that night, a stand-up comedian walked into a bar, the one down the street from the comedy club. Admittedly, few of his jokes were original and his delivery was far from professional, but shouldn’t they draw a few laughs? He attempted to improvise, but how could one interact with an audience that didn’t pay attention? His performances were heckle-free, but that was only because the crowd barely noticed him on stage. “A priest, a rabbi, and a bishop walk into a bar…” Nothing. “A dog walks into a bar…” The late-night clubgoers didn’t look up from their alcohol and snacks. When there was no reaction from the audience, he would try another approach. He maintained his excessive weight, he continued, with regular Big Mac takeaways and super-sized portions of Mac and Cheese. His parents had named him Mac in recognition of their favourite foods, he declared. He started each act by making fun of his name. Why didn’t audiences appreciate his sense of humor? He was convinced that he was funny, that he had a talent, even though it had not yet been discovered by anyone. He would moonlight as a comedian, he vowed, until he achieved the recognition he felt he deserved.įor Mac, comedy was a calling. “Stand-up doesn’t pay the bills,” she complained. He could make a career of it, he imagined, but his wife was not supportive of the idea. Mac had dreamed of becoming a stand-up comedian his entire life.
“I need new material.” When he realized that he was talking to himself, he brushed off his clothes and left. Upon hearing the roar of laughter greeting the next comedian performing on Open Mic night, he rubbed his eyes. Mac picked up a bottle of water and guzzled half of it before coming up for air. “You can’t win them all,” Mac said, slumping into a chair at the side of the club.
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