Why Do I Do This?

 By Ryan Hallam

“Alright, five minutes, that’s it.”

“Huh?” I turned around and saw Dan, the owner of the Comedy Club. 

“Do you wanna do five minutes?” Dan maniacally laughs.

My heart stops for a second. “Yes I would. Thank you,” I said. 

I didn’t ask him to do a set, but he must have been able to tell by me awkwardly standing in the back of the room next to the sound system with all the other comics. I am really starting to regret my decision to say yes. Fifteen seconds ago I was desperate to go up. Now, I am wondering why I do this. I’m pretty sure I felt loved as a child. Right? That can’t be why I do this. 

            “This is the most people I have seen here since COVID started. One-hundred-fifteen reservations,” the host said. 

            “What is the biggest crowd you have ever seen here?” I asked.

            “A couple years ago there were over 200 people.” 

            “Wow. I don’t know how you could fit another 90 people in here.”

            “Yeah it was packed. There was only standing room for the comics. We had to all be shoulder to shoulder by the sound system.”

            By far the most people I have seen in this club, and now I had to perform for them in ten minutes. There is an energy I can feel. It seems to be radiating from the crowd. At least everybody else seemed to be having a good time.  A rush of nerves hits me like a sudden downpour.  I was just feeling ready, now I want to run to my car. I am usually quite shy and don’t like talking to people, unless it’s in front of 100 people with a microphone for some odd reason. Why do I do this? 

I look out to the stage from the back of the club. I see silhouettes of all the upper halves of the audience members. The stage lights are shining brightly on the microphone. When I first went on stage their brightness shocked me. I hadn’t been hit with such a light since birth. What a sensory overload that was. Looking out into the crowd to only see darkness. This made me forget all my material. My first time on stage was a disaster. I loved it. The rush is why I do it, but I forget this each time before I go up. 

            Now my nerves are turning to fear. I’m usually an optimist, but failure keeps popping up in my mind. 

            “What if I forgot everything I am going to say when I get on that stage?”

            “That won’t happen, hasn’t happened in over a year.”

            I say that but it sure would be a bad time for this to happen again. Maybe I’m a choker. Can’t take the pressure. I remember all the times in my life when I failed under pressure. Don’t strike out like that time at baseball tryouts.  How embarrassing it would be to bomb in front of all these people. There is nothing worse than someone who thinks they are funny when they really aren’t. Sure I can perform in front of 20 drunk people at an open mic. What about when it matters? When I bomb I will never be asked to do a weekend show again. These types of thoughts linger in the back of my mind, but I have to drown them out. The host is about halfway through his set. “Everything is going to be fine,” I say to myself not knowing if I fully believe it. 

I start to head to the bathroom. I have a pee game ritual. Of course someone is using the one urinal that isn’t out of order. What if he calls my name and I don’t hear him. A lot of pressure is on this restroom break now. After I use the restroom, I rush right back to the comedy room.

When I get to the room I see Jeff, a seasoned vet in the comedy game.  I call him a veteran because like other veterans he has seen his fair share of bombings.

“You going up?” Jeff asks.

“Yeah, I sure am.”

“Don’t fuck this up. This is a big night. Netflix is here.”

“I’ll try my best. Can’t make any promises.” 

We chuckle for a little bit.

“But seriously, just don’t fuck the show up.”

I walk back to the DJ booth. I can hear Jeff’s laugh from the comedy room still. 

 I ask the DJ how much time the host has left. She says one minute. Now there is definitely no backing out. One way to deal with nerves is to pace like a mad man. I start jumping up and down. All of a sudden I have to piss again. I just went a minute ago, but I feel like I might piss myself on stage. That would be a good way to make a name for myself. The kid that pissed himself during a set. I’m not the only comic pacing around at least. The two other openers are pacing back and forth. We all look like five year-olds who were given too much sugar. Ironically, some comedians are giddy from a substance that looks like sugar. Sadly, I have to go up stone sober.           

For the fiftieth time, I looked up at the stage. All of a sudden the lights look brighter than they ever have before. The comic before made them laugh, so that is good. Oh God, what if I become a vacuum and just suck the energy out of the room, or just suck in general? What if I have a punchable face? That would not be a good way to relate to the audience.

“Are you ready for your next comic?”

God no... The waiting is the worst part besides bombing. The bombing is definitely the worst part. Nothing is more depressing than watching a man or woman bomb. When someone bombs, the whole energy is drained out of the room. It’s weird; it's called bombing but bombs are usually loud. It’s weird to describe an awkward, deaf-like silence as an explosion. Okay, I need to stop thinking about bombing. I should probably stop saying the word. Hopefully, manifestation isn’t real because if it is, I am definitely going to bomb. My heart feels like a drum solo. Maybe I'll avoid going on stage by having a heart attack. 

I need to calm down. 

 I breathe in for 7 seconds and out for 5. I just keep repeating my set list over and over again. I have said these jokes at least 50 times, but what if I forget? Confidence, you're going to do it. I heard somewhere that faking being confident helps. This advice probably came from somebody who was already confident. Must have been pretty easy for him to say with all his confidence. I wish I could borrow some right now. 

            “Welcome to the stage of your next comedian Brian Mallam.”

            “Fuck.”

            While walking up to the stage I forget the fear and all the nerves. My mind is completely clear. I walk up the stairs to the stage and fist bump the host. I didn’t trip down the stairs. A good start.  I introduce myself with the generic hey how's everybody doing then set up my first joke. I surprisingly feel less terrified than usual. 

            “I go to a community college, but I am starting to think there is something wrong with going to community college. Because every time I tell someone I go to community college they say ‘listen there’s nothing wrong with going to community college.’”

            The audience exploded with laughter. Maybe this should be called bombing. I have never felt such instant relief and even better, I don’t have the sensation that I might piss my pants. 

The audience must not be as smart as those four-year-university folks because they related to the joke. I have to wait to say the next joke, not because I forgot, but because they are still laughing. I can’t help but smile. It is going better than I could have imagined. The audience isn’t just a hundred silhouettes but a group of friendly faces. I see the times up signal from the DJ booth. That was the fastest five minutes of my life. I survived. More than survived. The best set of my infantile career. 

            “Thank you everybody. Have a good night!”

            The audience claps and some scream wooo! I hand the mic to the host, and he gives me an impressed look. As I walk back, I feel more accomplished than ever before. I didn’t think people could react that way to something I wrote. 

            “Give up for Brian once again.”

 The audience claps. Usually this is just a formality, but this time it sounds like the audience is being sincere. As I walk to the back of the club, I can’t stop smiling. I hear lots of great going and good jobs.

            “Hey, what was that kid's name again?”

            “Brian Mallam.”

            “That sounds a lot like Ryan Hallam. What an asshole that guy is.” 

            I didn’t think I could feel this good. In the back of the room I see Jeff again. Usually after I go up comedians will give me a fist bump. Jeff puts out his arms and gives me a man hug. 

            “Killer job, man.”

            “I’m just glad I didn’t fuck this up.”

            It must have gone as well as I thought. Now I can’t stop pacing, but out of excitement. I’m starting to think stand up will make me become bipolar.

 I get a cup of water from the bar and can’t stop shaking the glass. After a while, I walked out in front of the club. Two other comedians are hanging out, while legally smoking a joint. One of the comics asks me if I want a hit. I decline. Maybe if I bombed, but I don’t think I could get much higher. 

The joyful jitters are starting to go away, but I still feel just as fulfilled. I couldn’t think anything bad about myself even if I tried. Is this what confidence is? If it is, I have to start telling other people to just be confident then. All that fear and doubt from six minutes ago seems so distant. 

This is why I do this. 

 

About the Author
Ryan Hallam is in his second year at ICC. Ryan currently lives in Washington, Illinois. Usually he is quite shy, but his stories allow him to be vocal on themes and aspects of life he wonders about. Besides school and work, Ryan spends most of his time attempting standup comedy at the Jukebox Comedy Club. Standup is a passion of his and helps him share his unique observations.