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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
Devon was twenty-three years old when he began working for a major-network TV channel. He was the youngest writer on the staff. It was an accolade for someone his age to get a seat on a comedy show working with established writers. At first, Devon was intimidated by the experience of the other writers he was working with. A couple of them had once been writers on shows he’d watched when he was in grade school. He’d get very nervous during their group sessions. Anxious to the point of muteness. But he crafted hilarious ideas and skits when he worked in the solitude of his writing sanctuary—a fourth-floor apartment in Brooklyn. With one exception, Devon was welcomed by all of the elder writers. His remarkable talent was evident to them after a few sessions. With one exception, the staff was unique in their ability to admit whose bits worked. And whose didn’t. The show, called Hour Class, was composed of mostly political sketches. The first season scored exceptional in its target market. Devon was asked to stay on for the second season.
The one exception among the writers, was Lorrie Mailen. She had a very important uncle in the industry. He was the CFO of their sister network. Lorrie was a talented writer but among this crew she paled in comparison. Without fail, she always felt her material was stronger, and said things like,
“You know, let’s look at my line for that. Let’s rethink my lines.” At first, Devon was dumbfounded by her behavior during their sessions. As time went on he grew accustomed, like the rest. Lorrie’s talent was mild but she was ultra perceptive. She could sense the other writers, whom she greatly admired herself, were impressed by Devon’s writing. Her animosity toward Devon grew over time.
Halfway through the second season, Hour Class, along with a few other shows were put on hold by the network. Six months later, they returned and were informed that there would be network-wide layoffs. Pre- and post-production staff were the first targets. During the first writing session spirits were high, initially, but by the end it was clear Lorrie had become much more aggressive. She was growing hostile toward all the writers, not just Devon. It was such a drastic change of energy that occurred during the meeting from good vibes to venomous air. So bad that all of the writers, Lorrie excepted, gathered to commiserate at a bar a few days later. The only other male writer, Dave, made an announcement as soon as all were present,
“Hey guys, I’ve got to tell you something. I’m really, really bummed.
Lorrie caught me in the break room and told me that Devon was getting laid off.” The other writers didn’t respond except to all look sullenly at the ground. Dave kind of laughed and said,
“Yeah, and then she sort of threatened me. I think that’s the only reason she
mentioned it.” Devon interjected with a joke for relief,
“Ah it’s better anyways. Now that Bush is leaving office, I got no material.” There was some truth to his joke. By the second season, all of the controversial lines and bits got cut from the show. There was nothing offensive or insightful about the sketches. Just the same safe diss-the-president gags. Devon was happy to be released from a network that was more controversial than he could ever have imagined when he began at twenty-three years old.
Ultimately, of all five writers, Devon and Dave were chosen to be laid off. During his years at the network, Dave encouraged Devon to pursue stand-up. Dave knew the industry well and claimed Devon should try it. Devon was able to land a spot one night and did well enough. He performed at least once a month. He figured he was getting gigs because of clout from major network experience. This assumption was aggravated by the complete apathy of his audiences, and always one or two persistent hecklers. He was placed on bills that were a step above amateur nights which was better in some respects, but the hecklers were brutal. Especially in Boston. A few comics at the clubs who’d been in the business longer were surprisingly encouraging. One old guy told him the shitty audience was part of the whole evolution of growing into a comic.
Ultimately, of all five writers, Devon and Dave were chosen to be laid off. During his years at the network, Dave encouraged Devon to pursue stand-up. Dave knew the industry well and claimed Devon should try it. Devon was able to land a spot one night and did well enough. He performed at least once a month. He figured he was getting gigs because of clout from major network experience. This assumption was aggravated by the complete apathy of his audiences, and always one or two persistent hecklers. He was placed on bills that were a step above amateur nights which was better in some respects, but the hecklers were brutal. Especially in Boston. A few comics at the clubs who’d been in the business longer were surprisingly encouraging. One old guy told him the shitty audience was part of the whole evolution of growing into a comic.
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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
In his excessive free time, Devon had begun to explore different modes in his writing. Over the years he’d worked at the network he had very little motivation toward his own writing. He’d spattered out a few things. They were experimental and ironically dark. Beyond dark comedy. Devon, while still at the network, bounced a few of the pieces off of his older colleagues. They were never critical or phased by the content, in fact, across the boards they said, It feels like you’re holding back. Devon was waiting for the moment that freedom would take a hold of him in a way that he couldn’t control. Pure unabated truth. Pure Devon. It was hard for him to not feel the eyes on him. Not to read the words through their eyes. Not to feel the performance through a yokel who’d strolled in the comedy club after a few drinks on a Friday night in midtown. The yokel looking for relief at the club, not doom. His writing didn’t feel like his own, before it could even exit his head to make his hands move and type the words. He was particularly struggling with his latest project.
A couple months before the Obama/McCain election, Devon got a call from his ex-colleague, Dave. Devon had been selected to perform at a Go Vote event downtown. Devon was hesitant,
“I don’t know Dave, I really-- I’m really not on board with this election--” Dave interrupted him,
“Hey that’s okay, Devon, the organizer saw you perform and she felt you’d be perfect for the event.”
“Oh,” Devon was surprised, “I haven’t performed much.”
“Well you were on the right ticket one night, friend.”
“Look, Dave, I’m not gonna have much good to--”
“Devon, that’s comedy! She knows that. It’s no big deal. It’s just some dive in Alphabet City. It’s a pretty good gig. I’m not sure who the sponsors are but you’re up for getting $500, and they want the set to be short, only twenty minutes or so.”
“Wow, that’s weird,” Devon was usually just getting warmed and primed twenty minutes in, “I’m pretty broke though. I’ll do it.”
As the event grew nearer, Devon struggled more and more with his act. He couldn’t think of what bits to do and how to fit it all in that time frame. He contacted Dave telling him the act was bordering on too dark. Dave forwarded him an email from the organizer’s personal email address stating, “Anything goes.”
In order to prepare his act, Devon was watching all major news networks. He was incensed by the ridiculous campaign. He didn’t like either party. At first he’d liked Obama, but something about all his promises seemed outlandish. The debates had the pace of a reality TV show starring stupid high-school kids. Questions were never answered. In theory, he agreed with all Obama was saying, but he knew that theory and reality are far from the same. He wanted a practical politician in office. He was tired of rhetoric. By the day Go Vote event, the bits he’d written were a jumbled angry mess.
The event took place on the eve of election day. Devon met with Dave at a different bar just down the block before going to the club. Dave was there already, seated at the bar.
“Hey, man. Good to see you.” Devon saw three empty shot glasses sitting at the bar. Dave saw his reaction and explained,
“Man, I just saw Lorrie Mailen in the street near the venue.” Devon cringed.
“Do you think she’s going to the same event?”
“I know she is. She stopped to talk to me in the street.” Devon laughed.
“Was she bobble-heading?” Devon and Dave shared this inside joke about Lorrie who was so neurotic that she often shook with anxiety.
“Oh yeah. It was bad. I don’t think she expected to see me and she wasn’t the one who informed me that I was fired. It was HR. And they do that humiliating thing where you have to exit immediately because you’re a threat.” Devon nodded his head. They’d sent a security guard to clear out Devon’s desk and sent the contents to his apartment by courier.
“That spoiled brat wouldn’t know a thing about it. She’ll always have a job. Do you know what she said to me? She said, the show isn’t the same without us,” Dave paused to laugh, “She got super nervous and starting asking me all these questions about whether I still watch the show, and I probably know the show has changed a lot.
She’s nuts! I’m so glad we don’t have to be around her everyday.
Sorry I had no idea she was coming.”
“Whatever. She can’t put the ax on my bits now.”
Dave and Devon arrived late, just as Devon’s set was to begin. Devon was rushed backstage. The stage producer was reticent,
“You’re gonna have to bare with the sound, since you didn’t show for check.” He scowled and said,
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Okay, just get out there,” she said giving him a firm push on stage.
Devon stepped out and the crowd began clapping.
“Thanks, thanks guys. Hope you’re doin’ well tonight,” the crowd was cheering and clapping.
“Awesome. Well, we’re all out here for the same reason tonight,” the crowd clapped mildly. “Yeah, I guess most of you have made up your minds at this point,” he took a deep breath in and out, for effect into the mic, “I’ll tell ya what, I’m having a really hard time. Did you ever notice how the entire campaign is a bunch of ideas. Shit that has nothing to do with most people’s daily lives. I heard the candidates arguing the other day. It went on and on, I’m sitting there listening for the two longest minutes of my life,” there was a ripple of laughter.
“Come to find out they were fighting over dissecting animals in public schools, you know Biology class or whatever. The last thing I give a crap about is those guinea pigs. But every newscast that day,” he mimicked a new-fangled extroverted newscaster, “ ‘McCain says no on guinea pigs in schools! Get the exclusive here tonight!’ ” Another ripple of laughter went through. Devon was feeling good.
“Yeah, they don’t talk about anything legitimate. Except Obama. Phew. That is one ambitious list of promises. Every time I watch him speak I feel like I’ve been taken on a lyrical journey, by the end I always forget what the topic of origin was, ‘Oh right, right, healthcare yeah, uh huh’ and by the end, I’m standing with my hand on my heart saying, ‘Yes we can make the world a better place.’
I’ll tell you what’s weird is that chanting? Isn’t it? A bit cultish, I think. Yes we can. Yes we can,” there were a few chuckles. Devon could see pretty clearly into the small crowd. He continued,
I’ll tell you what’s weird is that chanting? Isn’t it? A bit cultish, I think. Yes we can. Yes we can,” there were a few chuckles. Devon could see pretty clearly into the small crowd. He continued,
“I thought we were a secular society. Imagine if Jim Jones was in the running,” he whispered into the mic, “Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid.” This joke drew large laughs from the crowd. “But hey if I’ve got free healthcare in four years and we’re really out of these wars I’ll be on my knees like a little bitch chanting with the rest of ‘em. Yes we can. Yes we can.” Devon chuckled along with the audience. “It’s not a very clever slogan. I mean we know that we can. It’ll be that much more disappointing when we don’t and we know that we can.” The crowd overall seemed pretty offended by this bit. Devon heard a hint of a woman’s gasp.
“Uh oh, it’s getting heated. Doesn’t it always when it comes to politics? Believe me I get it. Last week I watched the vice-presidential debates and I nearly had a panic attack.
Fuck, what are we getting ourselves into, right. We got a freakin’ beauty queen who thinks Bagdad is in Afghanistan,” this drew the biggest laughs yet. “Yeah, right?? I was sitting there sweating, heart palpitating.” The crowd was rolling now. Devon spoke in a valley-girl accent,
“My neighbors in Russia. Hee hee hee.” These were the largest laughs. Obviously the crowd was super pro-Obama. Devon’s veins were ripe from the vodka he’d been drinking. He finally felt some kind of connection with his audience, even if it was tense.
“I really don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow. I’m torn. What can any of us do outside of vote, right?” The crowd clapped and cheered. “I’m not necessarily saying that’s a good thing,” he said laughing. “Everyone loves Obama. I think he’ll take it. I do,” this gained applause for some time. “I mean this guy is the Kennedys and FDR all-in-one, and,” he stopped and looked around him as if he was going to tell a secret, “He hasn’t done anything yet. You know what I mean, Kennedy and FDR had to actually do stuff before they became super epic, and here’s this guy strolling in. Everybody loves Obama.” This bit was met with no response. He paused to take a swig of his drink and segued into his next topic.
“Have you guys noticed all these Martin Luther King specials on cable lately?” Again nothing from the crowd. “Oh guess not. Well for some reason there’s been a bunch of documentaries about him. Martin Luther King is someone I respect tremendously,” the crowd clapped. “So I’m watching all these specials about him. Then I notice one of the news networks kept running this super ultra-motivational commercial. You know what I mean, with the woman singing in a deep and powerful voice and it all crescendos with violins and they’re showing happy America images with families and dogs. Then they start streaming the important people images. So there’s Lincoln, then FDR and then MLK and then Obama.” Devon sighed for effect.
“And then this panel discussion began. And this annoying young girl kept saying, ‘You know the reverend would be proud.’ They kept saying ‘the reverend.’ Whose to say MLK would even like Obama? The man promoted peace and non-violence! And I’m pretty sure the American president is getting down to some good ole fashioned violence. Let’s face it. Then they cut to a commercial break and, I’m not kidding, they played that commercial I mentioned, three times in a row! Just bang it over our heads. MLK, Obama, MLK, Obama. How is MLK being compared to a rich kid turned lawyer-” The crowd now booed him so loud that he couldn’t talk over it. He looked in the crowd and saw Lorrie Mailen. She had on a ridiculous amount of Obama gear. She wasn’t even listening to the act. She was busy handing out pink cupcakes with Obama’s face superimposed in the icing. Suddenly he felt hotter.
“All I’m saying is that comparisons are really stupid. Come on lighten up. If MLK was running for office I’d be handing out baby blue cupcakes stamped with peace signs.” This got some laughs.
“ But to be honest, I think if Martin Luther King were alive today he’d break down crying, sorrowful tears. This is far from the United Americans he believed in.” This received some mild applause.
“Right?” Devon said toward those applauding it, “That’s all I’m saying is none of these people,” he said pointing to a the Republican and Democratic party posters,
“None of them are heroes.
They’re politicians.” Devon could see from his periphery that the stage producer was waving her arms maniacally to get him off. The audience was silent, shocked by his audacity.
“None of them are heroes.
They’re politicians.” Devon could see from his periphery that the stage producer was waving her arms maniacally to get him off. The audience was silent, shocked by his audacity.
“All right, I won't torture you any more. Have a good night folks,” he said and exited fast as the audience clapped mild and confused. Once off, the stage producer ballasted him,
“What the fuck?! Devon! You didn’t even mention our sponsor!” The sponsor was the very network Devon had once worked for. He’d seen the logos tastelessly covering the bar for the event when he arrived and immediately felt deflated. His act was far from his dream of going up to the mic and freestyling a whole act, but halfway through it he’d gone completely free. The problem being, it was so free that it wasn’t funny anymore. The stage producer continued,
“Did you know how much your former generous employer donated to Obama’s campaign?! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hey, I was told it was no holds bars-”
“It is!” she said defiantly.
“Okay,” he said his composure became sinister, “well my definition of No Holds Bars is that I can say whatever the fuck I want to.”
“Everyone at this event,” she sounded as if she were reciting libel laws, “is free to speak their mind about anything they like, it's just certain subj--”
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| Photo Courtesy of John Bolt |
"Oh god, get over yourself," she and scurried off.
Devon spotted Dave waving him over to the bar where two shots were lined up.
Devon spotted Dave waving him over to the bar where two shots were lined up.
