Looking back, I have to give him some credit. It couldn’t have been easy being a single dad with a little girl. My mom took off when I was three. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen her since then. From what I understand she was a free-spirited dreamer, always chasing something. Something that wasn’t us.

  Since the circumstances with her were such a mess, I tried to make my dad’s life a tad easier. Jokes brought him joy, so I learned to tell a few. They were no more clever than run-of-the-mill knock-knock jokes but he always laughed like they were really funny. I could tell because his nose would crinkle the way it would when he laughed at John Leguizamo’s Super Latin Dad bit. It’s the same way mine does when I watch Bo Burnham do his Kanye West–Chipotle bit in autotune.

  And then there was that one moment. I must’ve been eight or so. We were sitting on the floor, sorting through a bag of Canel’s chicles from Mexico. Each colorful wrapper printed with the name of their flavor in teeny-tiny letters. I didn’t speak Spanish. Still don’t, but I’d try to guess how to say each one and he’d inevitably correct my pronunciation. I picked up one called anís, flashed him the label, and said proudly in my innocence, “Anus!”

  He lost it. Laughed like crazy. Nose crinkling. Wheezy laughter. Slapping his thigh. I had no idea what I had done but somehow I’d made my dad laugh the way Eddie Murphy did. When he finally got ahold of himself, he gently explained the meaning of the word anus—which I thought was totally gross. My expression became very serious, trying to make sense of it all. I held the gum between my fingers. “Are you telling me this chicle tastes like butt?”

  Another belly laugh barreled out of him. This time he had tears coming out of his eyes. I wasn’t sure I understood the joke but his laugh was so infectious I couldn’t help but join in too.

  “You’re hilarious, Livy. You should be a comedian,” he said.

  I remember thinking that there was no way I could ever be a comedian since it seemed like a boy’s job, but I liked that he thought I was funny enough. And so the seed was planted. Of course, no parent really dreams of their child growing up to use foul language in a punchline, performing for a bunch of strangers like little laugh whores. At least, I’ve never met any.

  He never actually encouraged stand-up. Instead it was all—Get good grades, Livy. Go to college, Livy. Get a good job, Livy. All so I could have more luxuries than we could afford on his modest, manual-labor salary. So I did what I was told because Livy’s a good little girl. And now every day, I vow never to let someone else dictate the terms of my life ever again. Not even him.

  I slide my thumb inside the lower corner opening, pulling out a faded photo of my dad. Taken sometime in the early ’80s, it’s older than I am. He’s standing on a small stage in front of that quintessential brick wall, holding a mic in his hands. There’s a sign behind him of a white speech bubble that says the hoot in bold red lettering. The spotlight shines on his feathery dark hair and big, charismatic smile. He’s rockin’ brown corduroy bell-bottoms too.

  Probably from the Vinnie Barbarino collection.

  To think he played this album over and over, and I had no idea this vintage photo was hiding here the whole time. Not until I discovered it two years ago. Right after he kicked the bucket.

  That’s what he called it—kick the bucket. Said it sounded like something Charlie Chaplin would do.

  It’s sad, I know. The guy who taught me how to ride a bike and eat with chopsticks is gone. Poof! Show’s over. But the thing is, I can’t reconcile the man I knew with the one in this photograph. Yes, he loved comedy, but to think he actually performed stand-up. Didn’t he think that was valuable information when I started performing in college while maintaining my GPA? Instead, he scolded me and said I was wasting my time, that I should focus on school, and that stand-up is nothing more than a pipe dream.

  And you know what? I convinced myself that if he, a comedian lover, was talking shit about stand-up then maybe he was right. And so I stopped. Well, I stopped performing as much and I never said a word about doing it again. Not about the first time I got a laugh that seemed to raise the roof or the time before that when I bombed harder than a dive-bomber at Pearl Harbor.

  Bad joke, I know. But now you know how epic it was.

  I collected my degrees and piles of student debt and went on with my life. And while I was just beginning my life, his was about to end. That has to be the saddest part about losing a parent so young. Especially when you don’t see it coming. You don’t realize there won’t be time to ask them the questions that really matter. And you never really get your answers. Let’s face it, I got shortchanged. And now I’ll never know the whole story—why did he stop performing? Did he perform once or was he a regular? Where’s The Hoot? Why did he keep his stand-up days from me? And the question that haunts me the most: Why would he want to keep me from stand-up?

  Nine

  Less than two hours from now, Nick Leto and I will leave New York, heading south for our first stop. I’m still not packed. What’s a woman like myself supposed to bring on a two-week cross-country comedy road tour anyway? The answer? Everything.

  So I threw in most of my clothes, including several pairs of shoes, my leather jacket, hair dryer, flat iron, full bottles of shampoo and conditioner, everything on the bathroom sink, just-in-case tampons, laundry pods, my legal pad, laptop, and the tangled mess that is all of my chargers. But I couldn’t close the damn suitcase. Now I’m down to the essentials and it’s still stuffed. Let’s see if the zipper and I are up for the challenge.

  But before that, a sip of coffee.

  Imani pops into my room. “You’re really going through with this?”

  “Yep.” I flip the suitcase closed for emphasis.

  Nick needed a replacement. If I hadn’t said yes, someone else would’ve snatched it up fast as greased lightning. Was I hoping Nick had a tour bus all gassed up with a crew ready to head west? Yes. Too bad a midlevel headliner doesn’t get rock star perks. Let’s be real, being stuck in a car with a man who’s managed to make a full-time living as a comedian, and is easy on the eyes, can’t be a mistake. No matter how you slice it.

  “But you don’t even know this Nick guy,” she says.

  I know. I get that to her this is like the opening plot to an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Imani’s probably imagining Robert Stack walking a dark alleyway in his trench coat saying, Olivia Vincent left New York on what was supposed to be a hilarious comedy tour. But when she didn’t make it onstage that night, it turned out to be . . . no joke.

  “I know him enough,” I say. Besides, Bernie wouldn’t stick me with a psycho. How can she make money off my appearances if I don’t make them, huh? This is essentially the argument I used with Imani when I came home the other night and told her all about it. She wasn’t keen on it then and, with a hand on her hip like a mama itching to ground her teenage daughter, she’s not keen on it now either.

  Of course, this isn’t about her approval. It’s about landing the Late Night Show audition and changing the trajectory of my career. Correction: correcting the trajectory of my life. “Plus, look what I got yesterday.” I whip out a fresh can of pepper spray and take a defensive stance. “Locked and loaded, baby! Even tested it in an alley. It’s got a sharp spritz to it.”

  She looks more alarmed than relieved. “May want to keep that on you at all times.”

  “I will.” I stick it in my backpack’s side pocket.

  “Fourth of July won’t be the same without you.” Every summer, our friends host a big party on their roof, where we can catch the fireworks over the East River. It’s definitely a highlight.

  “I know but I’ll be in New Orleans. Hey, why don’t you fly down for the day? Could be fun.”

  “That’s a great idea in theory but I’m not sure I can make it happen.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Speaking of visiting. Any chance you’ll stop in Midland?”

  The sound of the word Midland makes my stomach clench. Great idea in theory but I’m not sure I want to make that happen. With my dad gone, along with my grandparents, and my mother MIA, my connections back in Texas have been whittled down to a minuscule group. So I’ll just pass through like a tumbleweed. I know Imani thinks a visit would do me good so I say, “Not sure yet. Depends if we have time.”

  “Are you positive you can’t book shows here and fly to L.A. for the audition instead?” she asks for the second time in two days.

  “I could but, to your practicality point, it would take away from what money I have left.” The phrase what little money I have left is more accurate as a post–law school graduate millennial living in Manhattan. She already knows this. She’s in the same boat. Still, it’s better I don’t supply her more ammo by emphasizing this aspect. So I steer away. “Plus, this tour is a great opportunity for me to get my name out there in a much bigger way. This is what pros do and I’m going pro.” I can’t wait to be a heavy hitter so I never have to endure this kind of scrutiny again.

  Imani steps into my tiny room as I stuff my college hoodie in my luggage. “Well, I took the liberty of making some calls, and I think I found the perfect position for you.”

  I can’t go back to law, which is exactly what she’s been begging me to do. My messages are full of texts from her—links to job openings around the city with little comments like—this one has great benefits and this one is within walking distance. I know what she really wants to say is, this one will pay our bills so I don’t get stuck with the whole rent. I zip up one side of my suitcase, wishing she would shut the employment hunting case.

  “No more jobs, Imani—”

  “Just hear me out. I have a contact at another firm. Simple contract review and it’s part-time. It’ll give you some cushion and you’ll have more time for gigs.”

  “Speaking of cushion, would it be weird if I brought my pillow on tour?” I ask.

  Take a hint, girl!

  “So that’s how you want to play it? Dumb?” Now here comes the sass, which is awesome when it’s directed at anyone else but me.

  “Yeah, maybe I do.” With my tongue sticking out the side of my mouth, I use my body weight to drag the zipper around the corner.

  Zip. Stop. Zip. Stop. Zip.

  Almost there.

  “Fine, but it feels like you’re running away again.”

  “What do you mean, again?” I ask, wiping sweat from my upper lip.

  “I know losing your dad was pretty sudden, but you just dropped your entire life to come here. And I get it. I’m sure I’d want to do the same thing. But you don’t even really talk about it.”

  “Is this about going to therapy again? Because I’m good. Don’t I seem good?”

  She lets out an exasperated breath. “I just want to make sure you’re being honest with yourself.”

  “Well, honestly, I came here to do comedy. A dream that was suffocating in Texas. And I’m not running away. I’m running toward my future success. And Imani”—I grunt, pulling the tiny zipper with all my might—“you’re my best friend in the world. I really don’t want to fight with you about this, especially when I’m leaving for two weeks.” With one last heave-ho, the suitcase shuts and the momentum thunks me on my ass. I tumble back like a roly-poly, catching myself before my head hits the floor. “Ouch!”

  “See, this is already a disaster.”

  My hair clings to my sweaty brow so I mop it away and rebalance my glasses. “No, it’s not. I’m gonna be on The Late Night Show. You’ll see.” I get that she’s trying to look out for me and as annoying as it is, I really do appreciate it. But she’s wrong. My dad was wrong. And I’ll be damned if I don’t come back to this city as a winner.

  “Lots of stand-ups audition for late-night TV. What are you gonna do if you don’t get it the first time?”

  I grab on to my bedsheets and pull myself up. “Why can’t you just be my penguin and support me?”

  “I am supporting you. I’m the voice of reason, protecting you from yourself.”

  I fill my lungs to capacity knowing I might need to put what little money I have where my mouth is. “I’ll tell you what. If I don’t land this audition, then the moment I get back to New York, I’ll call the headhunter. Or anyone you want. And I’ll get back on the Jim Gaffigan plan.” There. That oughta pacify her.

  “See! Now you’re using your head.” She taps her temple.

  “But it’s not nearly as fun as using my heart. Or my sense of humor.” My nightstand clock signals me to go (as far away from this conversation as possible). So I slide the overstuffed suitcase off the bed and it slams down to the ground like an anchor on the sea floor. I hope Nick has a big trunk.

  Boom, boom!

  “Hey! Keep it down!” our downstairs neighbor yells, poking the ceiling, presumably with a broom handle. Okay . . . maybe I went a little overboard on the packing.

  Imani winces. “You just had to go and wake the bear. Now I’m gonna have to tiptoe the rest of the day.” I wish she were exaggerating but she’s not.

  “Sorry,” I say, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and tucking my pillow beneath my arm. “I have to go.”

  “Okay.” She throws her hands up. “If this is really what you want to do, I won’t stand in your way.”

  “Is that why you’re blocking the doorway?”

  She shoots me a look and moves aside, making space for my luggage and me to pass by. I grab a clean garbage bag from under the sink and stick my pillow inside.

  “Don’t get too comfortable carrying your stuff in trash bags.”

  “Watch me make this the next hot trend,” I say, piling it on top of my suitcase.

  Imani rolls her eyes, then closes in on me with her arms open. “Just please keep your GPS locator on and text me when you get to D.C.”

  As much as she’s been a pain in the ass, she’s my penguin . . . in the ass. No, that doesn’t really work, but you get it. I hold on to her tightly, feeling like this is goodbye. But it’s not, it’s just the beginning. “Don’t get hit by a bus, okay?”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  Ten

  Brooklyn, where I’m meeting Nick, is two subway trains away. But, you know, I have to get some coffee for the road. I swing by my favorite local café, Roast ’N Grind. And by swing I mean make an enemy of the door after it crushes my suitcase and knocks my garbage bag to the ground. How the hell am I gonna get all this underground then back up again? Eh, I’ll figure it out over a fresh brew.

  “What’s with all the commotion, Olivia?” Brenda, one of the baristas, asks, looking over the counter from behind her black frames. I’m pretty sure they’re not prescription.

  “I’m going on a cross-country tour and I need to fuel up. Can I have my regular over ice?”

  “What? You’re headlining now?” she asks, filling a cup with crushed cubes.

  “I wish but this is one step closer.”

  “That’s exciting! I’m surprised your boss let you off.” I may gripe to Brenda about Whitley on occasion. Don’t we all?

  “He didn’t. I left my job.”

  She makes one of those yikes faces and my chest tenses for a moment. “You got guts. I’ll give you that.” With the chilled coffee in my hands, my anticipation cools slightly.

  “I’m auditioning for The Late Night Show too,” I add, swiping my credit card.

  “Well, good luck. Send Anderson Vanderson a wink for me.”

  “I will.” I wave goodbye and head out, itching to get off the island where my usual allies are now looking at me like I’m off to join a nudist compound in the Everglades.

  Of course there are no elevators at the nearest subway station. And since I have zero time to work out, I don’t have the upper-body strength to carry the damn suitcase down the steep steps. So I drag it behind me and hope for the best. It smacks on each step. Clunk-clunk-clunk. A man shoots me a look so I smile and say, “I’m going on tour.” He rolls his eyes and hurries ahead. Ta-ta, chivalry!

  It’s a good hour before I make it to my final stop. And despite my hundred-pound baggage, I’m feeling light and free. Goose bumps prickle my skin, though I’m not sure if it’s from the cool morning breeze or the anticipation of this adventure. Finally, the headliner comes into view as I approach his building.

  There he is. My road buddy.

  Just a road buddy. Which is too bad because even from this distance, he looks good in the daylight. The bright morning sun reflects off his dark Wayfarer sunglasses. He stands coolly on the sidewalk, dressed in the same black leather jacket and jeans, sipping from a blue bodega coffee cup. His nearly black hair is tucked behind his ears. My stomach somersaults and I want to scream out with excitement—This is really happening!

  I push my frames up with my index finger and squint in the light. “So we meet again.”

  Nick holds his stance for a moment, seeming to do a once-over behind his shades. Then, his mouth curls up in a cordial smile. “Well, if it isn’t the winning comedienne.” Just so you know, the term comedienne is antiquated. I’m sure he’s saying it now only to break the ice. (Us comedians love to razz each other.)He shakes my hand with a palm that feels slightly worn—the way his tires will be when this is all over.

  “So it’s just you and me for two weeks, huh? I had a feeling you’d want to see me again.” Oh, no. I’m flirting. Breaking the rules and we haven’t even buckled up yet. I take a sip of what’s left of my iced coffee, pretending it’s a cold shower.