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First Comedy Class

Silence stretches between the members of this new group of wannabe-comics, an unfamiliar state of being for most.  The scraping chairs, thrumming fingers, and tapping feet all make it clear that sitting still isn’t usual, either. Someone lets out a loud raspberry sigh and it echoes like a bad joke off the walls.  Monday nights for the next six weeks the plan is to meet here and learn to deliver the funny.  But right now, it’s just silent agony.  I have ample time to question the wisdom of signing up for stand-up comedy classes while in the middle of chemotherapy treatments. I had hoped to be laughing already.

Comedy coach Tim Ferrell ends the pain. He surveys the eleven of us, sprawled across a half-dozen of the Comedy Connection’s wobbly tables, and states with flat assurance, “That was five minutes. Five long minutes examining your navels, each other, the fly buzzing around the tables. Five minutes you wished to hell you could get out of.  Five minutes to question why you paid good money to be here. That’s the point. You just felt it. Five minutes is a fucking eternity when a comic’s material isn’t good.”

We nod with herd-like agreement. Five minutes had seemed so short when he first talked about developing our five-minute comedy “sets”.  Now it’s a lifetime.

Tim moves to the next lesson and gets interrupted mid-sentence. “So the first rule of comedy is -”

“Don’t talk about comedy?” quips the guy who lives in his parent’s basement.

“That’s another kind of club, kid.” Tim shoots back, fast and dry. “Nothing is a secret here. That’s why comedy works. No, my friends, the first rule of comedy is:  Don’t try to be funny.”

Keep their attention but don’t try to be funny.  I breathe through Tim’s explanation as my tummy rolls over. “Nothing turns an audience off faster than a hungry comic desperate for laughs. It’s your material that will be funny, the way you tell your story.”

He jerks his head toward the lighted stage, a low platform, one step up from the sticky-beery floor.  He knows all we see is the mike in the lights. He knows we carry rookie dreams of quick fame. “If you thought you could get up there and just wing it because all your friends pee their pants every time you open your mouth, you are wrong. You will fail.”

Tim pauses, the bill of his Yankees baseball cap lifts to almost reveal his eyes. He wants us to know this next part is important. “This is a writing class, and whether or not you write in a notebook, on a computer, on a napkin, or the back of your hand, I don’t care.  Whether or not you write in full sentences, bullets, or haiku, I don’t care.  But you will write.”

Half the group groans. I take out my Moleskine notebook and get ready. The fireman from Biddeford grabs a napkin from the nearest table and asks me for a pen. While the words fail and writing fight for top billing in my head, I distribute extra pens from my bag to classmates. The confidence I felt before the class puddles around my feet.  I can write foundation grants, a killer business memo, thank you cards when I remember to, but can I write five minutes of comedy?  And then stand on stage in front of a mike? This says fail already.

A hot-flash makes its way up my throat and a waterfall of sweat rolls off my head.  I yank a bandana from my bag and wipe my scalp, hoping no one else noticed. They didn’t. They are each as self-absorbed as I am right now, their eyes on Tim but their ears listening to their own internal versions of self-doubt.  Tim hears us, though.  Or he’s just done this routine a million times.  “By the end of seven weeks, you will each deliver a solid set.  I promise. I’m here to make sure you don’t fail. Nobody fails in my class.”

Nobody fails in my class, I write with relief.  With three of my six chemo treatments still to go, my lackluster consulting practice on hold, and my family in crisis, I need some success.

© 2011 Cathy Kidman