I'll Be Here All Week (16 page)

“Fuck that noise,” she says, and it makes him laugh. Every once in a while she talks like a truck driver. It just doesn't fit. She looks like a porcelain doll and talks like a sailor.

“So I'm not too old,” he says, “and I'm not too bitter.”

“Not yet,” she says.

Right now, if he could spend forever in this little bedroom, he would. Everything seems just fine right in this moment. But he knows that, for it to always be perfect, he'd have to freeze time. No matter how great things are with Sam today, he'll always be steps away from walking down the same road he did with Beth.

He knew things were over with Beth long before she finally served him with papers. She simply couldn't take him being gone all the time and couldn't wait around to see if his career was ever going to lead to something bigger and better. He didn't blame her when she left him. He didn't fight her or scream at her or argue or cry. When she told him she was dating Evan, he just nodded and said “okay.” She was surprised. She either thought she had done a great job of hiding it or that he somehow should have given her a different reaction. She wanted him to be more upset. She wanted him to be angry, but he never was. He just took the papers and signed his name. The best thing he ever did for her was walk away.

To be with Sam, he knows he'll eventually face the exact same questions he did before. This time around it'll be worse because he doesn't even live in Canada. He doesn't live anywhere. That should make everything easier, but it just leaves him clueless. He has no idea what he is going to do with his life in his own country. What the hell is he going to do in one he's barely visited?

“I know this much,” he says as he gets up off the bed and walks over to her. “I don't like the fact that I have to leave you in a few days.”

“Me neither,” she says. “I don't like the fact that when I say good night to you it's on the phone every night.”

Déjà vu sucks,
he thinks.

“That's the job,” he says. He says it a lot, for various reasons. And he's beginning to wonder who he is actually saying it to.

“I really do love this,” she says, “but don't think that I can do this forever.”

There it is. He's been waiting for it, and she finally threw it out there. He nods slowly. “I understand.”

“I don't want months or years to go by, never knowing when I'll see you next. Or for how long. I would never ask you to quit what you do, but I don't think I could live like that. Not for long, anyway. It's like being a military wife.”

A comedy bride,
he thinks and almost smiles.

“I'm just thinking right now, right now,” he says. “It's as far in the future as I can go. It's all I can promise.”

“One day at a time,” she says.

Beth gave him plenty of warning signs. He noticed them right away and pretended that he was oblivious to each one that was dropped right into his lap. Whether she realizes it or not, Sam just gave him her first one. He caught it, but he smiles, puts his arms around her waist, and kisses her. Then he gives her a raspberry on her neck and tickles her. Laughing, they both fall onto the bed together.

After driving for the better part of two days, his legs feel as if they are bent backward. He hears his knees pop as he gets out of his car. He slept in the backseat last night, and his back still hasn't recovered. At the time it seemed silly to pay for a motel since he was only planning on sleeping for a few hours anyway. But now, hobbled over like an old man, he kind of regrets spending the night in a rest area.

He stands in the parking lot at Doane College in Nebraska. He parked as far away from the main building as possible so that no one would see him stumble out of his car. Making sure no one is looking, he reaches down into the floorboard and grabs the urine-filled Diet Coke bottle. He quickly throws it in a nearby trash can. He really doesn't like to pull over any more than he has to, and that bottle came in handy along the way.

Doane College is always a good gig. He has to drive to the middle of nowhere in Nebraska to get to it, but it pays him for one show what he normally makes in a week. It's one of the few college gigs he still likes to do. He doesn't relate to the kids the way he used to; he knows that some of his material just doesn't fly with them. In his early thirties, back when he could still pass for being in his late twenties, he used to do a lot of college gigs and was making very good money doing them. Now he only does a few every year. The money is still good, but the gigs aren't nearly as much fun.

He's done this gig so many times he can probably just do the same show he did last year. Every summer, the Doane College Student Activities Division brings him there as part of their “End of Final Exam Week” celebration, just as the school year is ending. Each year the gig is the same, but the money gets better. The first time he did it, he got paid six hundred bucks. Then it went up to eight hundred, then a grand. This time around, he asked for twelve hundred and they went for it. Twelve hundred bucks for one gig, he must be doing something right. If only it were always that simple.

He's surprised every time he comes here how the halls of this building remind him not of college life, but high school instead. Banners and signs made with Magic Marker advertising the comedy show or the next baseball game. Silly posters that are obviously handmade proclaim the Doane Tigers as the “Bestest Ever.” He doesn't know if college kids are maturing slower or if he's just getting older faster than he realizes. He looks at the faces of some of the students he passes. They're supposed to be adults, but they look like children. Eighteen now looks twelve.

He walks through two sets of double doors at the main building and makes his way up the first staircase. He has walked this way enough times now that he doesn't need to ask anyone where to go. At the top of the stairs, he turns right and goes immediately toward a set of administrative offices. Sitting at her desk, with the door open, is Emma Simpson. Her face buried in her computer screen, she doesn't notice him when he steps into her doorway.

“You look like you're trying to figure out calculus,” he says as he softly raps on her open door with his knuckles.

“No, Facebook,” she says and laughs. Her laugh is so loud, it fills the room and the hallway. A large, fiftysomething black woman, Emma has been at Doane for almost fifteen years. She has stayed in the student activities department that entire time. She must not make much money, but she obviously loves her job to have been there so long. That and it's probably the most interesting thing to do there. Her size does not slow her down, and she's on her feet shaking his hand in less than three seconds.

“How are you, Spence?” she says as she grips his hand warmly.

“Can't complain,” he lies and smiles like an idiot. He almost wants to hug her. He likes her better than ninety percent of the club managers and bookers he normally deals with. She pays him better than all of them do, and still manages to treat him great. “How are things here?”

“The same,” she says. “How has your career been going?”

“Great,” he lies again. If his career were any different, he probably wouldn't be in the middle of Nebraska in the first place. “Still touring. Working new places all the time.”

“That's wonderful,” she says. “You must absolutely love it.”

“How can I not?”

“You are living the dream,” she says. Spence nods and remembers that he was just pissing in a bottle an hour ago. “We're all set for tonight,” she says. “You ready to roll?”

“Of course,” he says. “Ready to do my thing like I always do.”

She laughs even though it wasn't remotely funny or intended to be. She's good like that. “I bet you are,” she says and walks over to her desk. It's the most organized desk Spence has ever seen. There's an in-box and an out-box, and the wires on her computer are all clamped down and tucked neatly away. Even the pens on her desk are color-coordinated in separate jars. He should fire Rodney and hire her to be his personal manager. She'd probably make him rich.

She picks up a manila envelope and hands it to him. “There's everything you need. Directions to the hotel are on top. But you probably don't need them at this point, do you?”

“Nah, I think I can find my way,” he says. The Starlight Motel is the only hotel within five miles of the school and straight down the road. It isn't hard to find. The hand-drawn directions in the envelope seem silly—one arrow pointing straight from point A to point B.

He looks at the other contents in the envelope. As usual, this includes a sheet detailing the history of the college, a list of cafeterias on campus where he's allowed to eat for free, and the standard warning to not incite “hate speech” on campus. Every college has these rules. Apparently every school is afraid that every comedian might incite a race war or political riot. Luckily, he just tells dick jokes. He remembers back when he went to college. He saw Dennis Miller once, George Carlin another time. He wonders if they got the same waivers back then.

“Showtime is at eight,” Emma says, “but if you can be here by seven forty-five, that'd be great.”

“No problem,” he says, remembering the tiny cafeteria where he always performs. “Same place, right? The Tiger Inn?”

“Look at you. Good memory.”

“Sometimes. It's slipping as I get older.”

She scoffs at him. “Old? Honey, I'm old. You don't have to worry about a thing. What are you? Twenty-nine?”

He knew there was a reason he liked her so much. “Yep,” he says, “just turned twenty-nine again this year.”

She laughs again. He wishes he could clone her.

“Oh,” she says as she turns back to her desk and he starts to make his way out of the office, “did you talk to your agent? What's his name? Ricky?”

“Rodney.”

“Oh, yes, Rodney,” she says. “Did you speak with him about the pay?”

He raises his hand and shakes his head. He likes her too much to talk with her about money. That always ruins everything. Besides, that's what Rodney gets paid to deal with.

“I'm not worried about it,” he says. “I'm sure it's fine.”

“I'm sure. Just wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”

“I'm always okay. I get to come here every year and entertain you guys. What's not to like?”

Emma laughs again, and he gives her a salute as he walks out the door. If every single club booker acted the way she does, The Boom never would have ended. And if he got paid as much for every gig as what she was giving him, he wouldn't have slept in his car in Iowa.

He's at the Starlight Motel five minutes later and ready to collapse on the bed for a while. As he walks up to the front desk, an old man steps out from a room in the back. Looking like the love interest from an old episode of
The Golden Girls,
the old-timer walks over and, without saying a word or even nodding hello, places a piece of paper and room key on the counter.

“Name and vehicle info,” the old man says while apparently still chewing something he was eating. He smells like peanut butter and pain cream. His plaid button-up shirt has a frayed alligator that has seen better days sewn over the left breast. His pants are pulled up right below his armpits. If he were wearing a hooded cloak, he could easily pass for Death.

“Alrighty,” Spence says as he writes his name and info about his Camry into the blanks on the page.

The old man takes the sheet and puts it behind the counter. “Checkout is eleven,” he says. Tiny motels always have checkout at eleven. Most national chains moved it to noon years ago. The smaller and cheaper the hotel, the earlier the checkout. Spence remembers once staying in a run-down motel that had a ten a.m. checkout time.

“Can I get a wake-up call for seven?” Spence asks.

“In the morning?” the old man asks.

“Tonight,” Spence says. The old man looks at him like no one ever takes naps.

“I'll come knock on your door around then,” the old man says.

“Thanks.” Spence smiles at him and turns to leave the lobby.

“Welcome back,” the old man says. “Always good to have you.”

Five minutes later, Spence puts his luggage down and realizes immediately that he's in the same room he's always in and is once again the only person in the entire motel. He thinks that's why the old man recognized him: He's apparently the only guest they ever get. He wonders how it stays in business the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year.

In the room, he falls down on the bed and waits for sleep to hit him. He always tells himself that he's going to pass right out when he gets to the hotel, but it never happens. Some song is in his head and he can't seem to let it go enough to relax. This time is no exception, and the beat rages on in his skull. He tries to remember if it's a Canadian song. This makes him think of Sam, and he fires off a quick text message to her.

 

Just thinking about you, lady.

 

When there's no response ten minutes later, he figures she's at work and doesn't have her cell phone on her. He tries getting to sleep again. His mind wanders to his material. The new stuff did so well in Toledo. He's going to try it again tonight. It's more universal than what he's been doing; the college kids will like that. They never go with his stuff about divorce, so he might as well just forget even trying it. What do eighteen-year-olds know about losing their favorite chair? It only makes him look even older.

He feels his eyelids getting heavier and his foot stops tapping whatever song by Finger Eleven popped into his head. Lying fully clothed in the middle of the hotel bed with his arms folded across his chest, he must look like a corpse. If he died in this position, it would be very easy to just toss him in a coffin and throw him into the ground. As he drifts to sleep, he wonders what his tombstone would read. He'd like maybe “I'll be here all week.”

 

His cell phone rings and pulls him back from a dream he was having that he has already forgotten. Sometimes he dreams he is onstage and unprepared. He never dreams he is naked, although he does often dream he's in his underwear or whatever he fell asleep wearing. That's when he usually wakes up the middle of the room, standing in front of the mirror and holding an imaginary microphone. This time he's still lying in coffin position on the bed. His phone is to his ear before he's even awake.

“Sam?” he says.

“Who?” Rodney is on the other end.

Damn it,
Spence thinks.

“Nothing,” he says. “What's up?”

“You in Nebraska?” Rodney asks.

“Key West, remember?” Spence says and puts his feet on the floor. He looks at the clock. He's been asleep for only forty-five minutes. It feels like days.

“Very funny, asshole,” Rodney says. “You in the hotel or what?”

“Yeah”—Spence rubs his eyes—“I'm all checked in at the lovely Starlight Motel, truck stop, and delicatessen.”

“Sounds scenic.”

“Come visit. You'll never leave.”

“I'm sure.”

“What's the bad news?”

“Why do you always say that?” Rodney asks.

“Because that's the only time you call me.”

“That's not true.”

Spence scratches the back of his head and sighs. “Then what's the good news?”

“Actually, it is kinda bad news,” Rodney says.

“See?”

“It's not that bad.”

“What is it?”

“The college won't do twelve hundred,” Rodney says.

“Aw, cripes,” Spence says, and puts his feet on the floor, “are you kidding me?”

“Sorry,” Rodney says, “I tried.”

“You're telling me this now?”

“I just found out about it myself,” Rodney says, which is most likely a lie. This is probably what Emma was alluding to earlier. Rodney probably knew weeks ago. Spence knows what happened. Waiting until this late to tell him assures Rodney that he takes the gig and that Rodney gets his cut.

“So how much am I getting?” he asks Rodney.

“A grand.”

“Is that before or after your commission?”

“Before,” Rodney says. “So you'll net eight hundred total.”

“What? That's twenty percent. You get fifteen percent.”

“For clubs. I get twenty for colleges, remember?”

He doesn't remember, but he says yes anyway. It's an argument that'd he'd lose, and he doesn't have the patience to deal with it right now.

“I thought the twelve hundred was a done deal,” he says.

“I thought so, too,” Rodney says. “It's still good money.”

“Whatever.”

“It is.”

“It was
great
money.”

“It's still not bad.”

“If you say so.”

“You gonna take it or not?”

“You know I'm going to take it,” Spence says. “I'm already here. You knew I was going to take it weeks ago when you first found this out.”