The Heckler
Photo credit: Michel Grolet | Unsplash
Abby believes it's funny to pratfall while pregnant. Holding a glass of Coke in maternity jeans, she moves into the living room. She walks only a few steps before she yells, “GRENADE!” and hurls herself onto the floor. She thinks it's funny to do this, and I grit my teeth every time. The couch plays an integral part as it blocks my view of the pillows she has placed on the ground. The rug is stained and hardened from liters of corn syrup. If I tell her to stop the slapstick routine, she’ll cry and I can’t listen to a pregnant lady cry anymore this year.
“There’s nothing funny about a normal non-pregnant woman falling,” she says to justify the act. I assume most people don’t find pregnant women falling funny, unless they’re psychopaths who intentionally push them down. I also don't believe the military would enlist a pregnant woman to handle explosives.
I've forgotten what it's like to have an upright wife. Her feet have become so swollen that she's usually belly up on the couch or a yoga mat. She laughs at the TV while shopping for baby decor on her phone. A nurse last week asked her about her favorite hobbies and without shame, she said “TV.”
I agree with my wife. I have no doubt we live in the best possible timeline. Access to one-click purchases and AI girlfriends has made existence worth living. I don't have an AI girlfriend, but Jacob has one and pays $50 a month for exclusive subscriber content. He and I stocked shelves at Gamestop and lived together in a one-bedroom apartment before I met Abby. He mentioned recently that he uses Tiffy, his AI girlfriend, more as an alarm clock ever since she broke his trust. He suspects the app abuses access to his photos and internet searches. Twice now, Tiffy has sent nudes with the same Texas-shaped birthmark as his ex-girlfriend. Jacob joked it looked like a belt buckle and followed with a perverse comment about reverse cowgirl.
I often worry that I don't have much to offer my child besides what's inside my living room. No inheritance, no college fund, only a stack of gaming consoles in storage that may triple in resell value in thirty years.
Abby and I had vastly different upbringings. She had a large family that she watched television with and the only thing I remember about growing up was the inconvenience of a microwave. Having to heat up a tortilla with cheese within the two-minute span of commercials. Trying to make it back up the stairs before my program started again. Dinner is now conveniently left at our doorstep and it’s nearly impossible to miss a minute of anything we watch.
Recently, we’ve been watching amateur stand-up specials we discover on YouTube. The lower the view count, the better. If I'm not watching stand-up at home, I'm at a club heckling the idiots on stage. I've always had a fascination for it. I went to an open mic once and did a tribute set. I memorized five minutes of a Mitch Hedberg routine and got lackluster feedback. I guess it's frowned upon to do tributes. The summer I turned ten, I watched a VHS copy of “Comedy Central Presents: Comedians of the 90s" every day until I could recite it word for word. One of the featured comedians was Mitch Hedberg. At the time I found his subject matter to be foreign, but I felt like I was peering into manhood. He didn't look like the other comedians; he looked like a rockstar. When he passed away, my parents managed to keep his death a secret from me for almost a full year. When I did find out, it was the first time I had to grapple with mortality. I went upstairs and watched his special again, trying to analyze where it went wrong.
A few months ago, Abby’s red toenails were in stirrups and Dr.Hahn told us it would be a girl. The boys from work had already started calling my baby “Son.” They were more disappointed in the gender than I was. I finally started reading the baby books last week, but only made it a few pages. The author didn’t think of the possibility of a non-pregnant reader, which made the work feel unrelatable.
The pages I did read, though, softened me up. I have taken a personal vow to stop saying vulgar words for the female anatomy. I haven't told anyone yet, especially the boys, because if I do, they would call me a pussy. It’s a personal journey, like walking to a convenience store before work for a beer. Another thing I’m working on is maintaining a sense of humor. It's a lot like a muscle, so it should be difficult. When Paul had his daughter it nearly turned him into a woman. His pants got tighter and he had a look on his face like he had been sniffing too many of his wife’s homemade candles.
I always wanted to be on stage telling jokes but I found more success as an audience member. The first time I was paid to be an audience plant was two years ago. I was sitting at the Laughtrack, a comedy club in Boise. I showed up because my friend from high school had an extra ticket. I got too drunk and sat at the bar eating mozzarella sticks until I felt more confident to drive drunk.
The man next to me, who I later learned owned the bar, asked me if I wanted to run up a tab for free. My immediate reaction was no thanks, worried that the man was hitting on me. “I'm not gay.” He told me he wasn’t gay either, but his audience plant for the night was sick. All I had to do was sit in the front row and when the comedian asked, "What do you do for a living?" say something sort of ordinary like, "IT." He said, “The comedian will call you a virgin or autistic or something, but hey you’ll drink for free tonight.” I agreed to do it and sat down in the front during the next set. The waitress kept replacing my beers without me waving her down. The act that night was a thin, gaunt man with a plastic jacket. About two-thirds into his set he looked at me sitting alone and asked, “What do you do for a living, sir?”
I tried to project my voice. “I work in IT.”
“IT, nice…so you never get laid.”
The room erupts in laughter. I nod my head, grinning like an absent-minded audience member would.
“He doesn't deny it!” the comic yells into the microphone with his arm spread out wide. More laughter from the audience. The waitress sets another beer in front of me. The show ends and before I leave the room, I see the owner of the club. He hands me $50 with his business card and tells me thank you. “You really know how to make the audience laugh,” he said to me. It was the first time in a while I was told I made someone laugh. "If you ever want to do it again let me know. "
On the drive home I couldn’t stop smiling.
Rick, the owner of the Laughtrack, hires me a few times a week. It’s become more than a side gig to me, sort of like my craft. I don't think it's possible for a newborn baby to provide me with the same feeling I get when I’m sitting in the audience. Plus, there’s a large chance my own baby doesn’t find me funny. There will always be a new comedian or an untapped market of road dogs that have yet to meet me. I believe I can be as captivating as the guy on stage, hell I may be the most interesting part of the audience’s night. I could take the show in any direction. I could hurl a slur or act mentally impaired. As long as my clips go viral, I will continue working.
The comedian’s management teams all use the same generic captions, “Calling out a bigot during my show!!!” or “Comedian EPICLY owns heckler.” I never took anything personally. Any good heel knows they are just as important as the baby face. The only support I need is Abby's. She scrolls all day, finds my material and screen-records it.
When my daughter’s older, in-between computer folders labeled, "First Birthday" and "Senior Prom," she'll find a folder called, “Rod’s best moments.” She'll click it and hear my voice yelling towards the stage, “Go back to Mexican Clown School!” I only hope she finds as much humor in it as the crowd of seventy-five people at the Laughtrack did on a Tuesday night. She's somehow already become my greatest critic and she’s not even a caricature on our minivan yet.
Abby wraps my grilled cheese in tin foil. I've lived with a fast-food addiction for almost twenty-five years. I combat it by having Abby place my food into paper bags to trick my brain into thinking I’m enjoying Arby's.
I kiss Abby goodbye and she reminds me she's pregnant. Which we’ve both known for eight months now. The more time I spend with comedians the more I realize Abby is the only funny person I will ever meet. She slips another grilled cheese into my back pocket.
Tonight’s show is a bunch of out-of-towners. Two comedians from Portland, Oregon whose stage names sound fake. Birdy Townes and Doug Furr. I can't believe people pay to see this shit. I order two beers and drink one before I reach my seat. I sit beside a pack of women, chatting loudly over music. It's so dark that my senses can only latch on to the smell of their perfume and vodka martinis. The group of men on the other side of me look through me to analyze the women. I crane my neck to see if there is anything to look at. I quickly look back at the stage in fear of starting a conversation.
“Sorry, did I bump you?”
I pull my beer closer and act unbothered.
“Oh shit–Rod? How've you been?"
I stare at her and I can't recall her name, but I recognize her as Jacob’s ex. All I see when I look at her is a Texas-shaped birthmark under her dress. A private part of this woman that I’ve thought about more often than I would like to admit.
“Oh right–yeah, how are you?”
“I’m getting married!”
The women all whoop together in a way that I’d imagine sirens would lure fishermen. She moves her hands violently while talking. I inch back to protect my beer.
“It's sort of my informal bachelorette party. I'm getting married next week to Davis Daniels, remember him?"
"The guy that sells dogs out of his truck at Albertson's?"
"Yep! We own a Dog Motel now. We converted our garage into little rooms with TVs so the dogs don't get all lonely and sick from kennel cough." She takes a full tequila shot and places the empty glass back on the table. "And oh my god, I haven't seen you since we all camped by the Snake River. How is Jacob?" She slides her glass toward one of her friends who is ordering more shots for them.
“Jacob's good–yeah. He's also dating someone. Her name is Tiffy, real sweet gal."
Her face kind of grimaces. "Well good for him. I'm glad we're both happy and we moved on!" She takes another shot. "Why didn't you and Abby ever call to hang–"
My phone buzzes and I look down at my lap to see Abby’s face on my home screen calling me. I walk outside the bar to answer it. The baby is coming. She claims she can drive. I tell her there is no way in hell she’s driving and that I'll be home in fifteen minutes.
I load the to-go bag into the back of the car. The car seat has been set up for over a month in the back of our van. I leave the stroller at home. I figure the stroller is for later, maybe when the baby opens its eyes? Not sure. I run back into the house and help Abby waddle to the passenger side. I hold onto her tightly to make sure she doesn’t pull one of her pranks. I walk around the vehicle and realize our Baby on Board sticker wasn’t applied to the rear window. I dart into the house and shuffle through the papers on the counter until I finally see it in the plastic wrap.
I was expecting more yelling. I lay my hand on the top of her head as she gets wheeled into the room. Her hair’s oil rubs off on my dry hands. Nine months of thinking about this moment. Mentally, I had already walked down this medical hall and swiped my card at this vending machine. I’ve researched the delivery pricing of Doordash near the hospital. My sense of humor got me into this situation. I don't recall the night we conceived, but I assume I made a joke that was so funny she couldn't keep her hands off me. Probably the reason why a majority of babies enter this world. One moment of humor and all of a sudden, your clothes are off, and nine months later a cross-eyed baby is in the backseat. She starts contracting more. The time between each one becomes less and less.
The final push. The nurses hail the bartender for more tequila shots. I sit in the audience and wait for my moment. The larger nurse has been calling us mom and dad ever since we rolled into the room. Abby lets out a long high-pitched noise that I had never heard before. The nurse tells her to push again and in two grunts out pops our daughter. There is no cry, but a noise that sounds like laughter and then our baby goes right into her new material.
“Congrats,” says the doctor. “She’s a comedian.”
Editor’s Note
I occasionally get emails asking what we mean by offbeat fiction. It’s kind of like that Supreme Court case about pornography: I know it when I see it. Aurora Bodenhamer’s “The Heckler” is it. Weird humor, a story that goes in multiple directions but somehow stays cohesive, odd characters saying and doing odd things. Rod’s voice itself is offbeat. He speaks in breathless non sequiturs–you never know what he’s going to do next. Which, in a way, makes him perfect for his role as an audience plant at a comedy club. I love this story for all its quirkiness and dark humor. From now on, when someone asks me to define offbeat, I will just send a link to this piece.
Josh Boldt, Editor
Story Track
“Money for Nothing” by Dire Straits is about a guy who figures out the secret to working life: get paid to do what you enjoy. I have a sense the band has taken some shit over the years, and this song is their answer to the critics. They’re heckling the working stiffs who doubted them. “That ain’t working, that’s the way you do it.” I can see that attitude in Aurora Bodenhamer’s character, Rod. He’s found something he likes that he’s good at. All he has to do is sit in the audience, drink beer, and make jokes. Money for nothing. Throw in the importance of television (“I want my MTV”) to both Abby and Rod, and we’ve got ourselves a Story Track.