Road Work

My RAZR flip-phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a blistering cold February day in New York. The wind whipped through me, and I could barely hear the voice on the other end.

“Tarun, it’s Linda. I have a job for you.”

I had been doing stand-up comedy for almost two years and had just finished reading Jay Leno’s book “Leading with my Chin.” It was a collection of personal stories about being a road comedian, which meant traveling and performing from town to town. Other famous comedians like Brian Regan, Paula Poundstone and many more did the road coming up. I believed that this was the only way to become a real comedian. I fantasized about living the glamorous road life and honing my craft in front of sold-out comedy club audiences.

Unfortunately, I was a broke college student and didn’t have a car. Somebody referred me to a road booker named Linda Rowe who booked a comedy club in the city but also a number of comedy rooms in upstate Pennsylvania. I could feasibly take a Greyhound bus on Friday morning and be back by Sunday night, just in time for my morning classes. I left a series of desperate voicemails for Linda over a two month span.

“Hi Linda, my name is Tarun. I’m a comedian and would love to do the road for you. I have about thirty-seven minutes of material, but only fifteen minutes is actually good. OK, Bye.”

I couldn’t understand why she didn’t respond to my electric sales pitch. I was starting to lose hope when she finally returned my call.

“Where and when?!” I asked.

“I have a fallout this weekend and need a host in Scranton, Pennsylvania. One show Friday. Two shows Saturday. Are you available?”

“YES!”

You have to be delusional to start a comedy career. It’s incredibly tough mentally and any slight glimmer of hope can fuel you through the month. To me, this was a big break, like booking SNL or a big movie role. I felt like my hard work toiling in B-comedy rooms had paid off. I was now on a path toward greatness. I didn’t even ask about money and would have accepted getting paid in seashells.

A few days later, I was dropped off at an outdoor bus station in Scranton. The town was devoid of human life. Everything was covered in a blanket of snow, and my numb cheeks turned blue after only a few minutes outside. I took a cab to my motel where the front desk lady curiously examined me, and my small duffel bag. Even though I was twenty, I looked like I was fifteen-years-old.

“Are you lost?” She said.

“I’m tonight’s comedian!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, how far away is the comedy club?”

“Ten feet.”

She pointed at a door behind me. The comedy club was built into the motel. A small black and white poster was plastered on the wall with a picture of the headliner, a smaller picture of the feature (the middle act), and my name was scrawled at the bottom. “With your host Toron Sheddy.”

The show turnout was small. Each night, I sat patiently in the back of the room next to the headliner, and we looked out into a sea of empty chairs. He wore all black and a long black trench coat draped over his boots. Sometimes comedians create personas and memorable comedy characters. I guess he was going for the hilarious Columbine school-shooter schtick. He grumbled to himself and rattled off a series of excuses of why the room was almost empty.

“I usually draw a crowd. I think the State of the Union is on tonight.”

Maybe. But it also could be that WE WERE IN SCRANTON, PENNSYLVANIA.

He then gave me a laundry list of television credits to announce before bringing him on stage. One of them was a “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” appearance, a nightly talk show that I used to watch religiously while in school.

“You did stand-up on Conan?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

I pressed further.

“Who were the other guests? I’ve seen all the episodes.”

“For fucks sake. Is this a deposition? Just say it!”

It was my first realization that comedians sometimes make up credits. If he was on the Conan O’Brien show, he was most likely in the audience.

The weekend went by fast. Saturday night was our big night and twenty people showed up, which might have been the entire town of Scranton. I remember the audience being nice. As a host, you want to warm up the crowd and get them going. I, however, was terrible. I was baffled that nobody in Scranton related to my college-student story about stealing my roommates’ cafeteria meal card.

I didn’t get ANY laughs, though they smiled politely. Afterwards, a drunk guy told me that he’s going to “keep a close eye on me for the rest of my career.” (I wonder if he’s reading this?) The feature act did all crowd work, and the headliner used his forty-five minutes to complain that the show sucked. Stand-up comedy at its best!

I couldn’t wait for our last show to end. As I trudged out, the hotel manager shook my hand and slipped me seventy-five dollars.

“Good job Toron.”

After bus fare and food expenses, I almost made ten bucks.

I was living my dream.