text: “Please welcome our sixth performer, Eric!” The show was on. There was applause. Anderson, the MC, stepped offstage. Eric stepped up to the microphone. He wasn’t holding a guitar or sitting at the piano, and the folks in the audience seemed a tad confused. “I haven’t told you what I’m going to do yet,” Eric said into the mic, marveling at the amplification of his voice. The audience was silent. They’d quietly chattered through the other performances-- lousy emo folk singers and one choir girl who'd sat at the piano and banged out an obscure Ruth B cover. Now they’d gone quiet to the point of discomfort. It was like they were actually expecting something. “Calm down,” said Eric. “Everyone just calm down.” A few dry laughs came from the back. Air forced out of throats in polite puffs. *Heh heh heh* The coffee shop was called Bomber’s, a strip mall joint, about 400 square feet of drywall and scuffed floor tile. The open mic was held on Tuesdays at 8. People signed up on a little list snapped to Anderson’s clipboard. Up to ten performers were allowed, each doing three songs or about five to eight minutes of material. Mike, the owner, served coffee and other beverages from behind the counter. There were tables and chairs set haphazardly about the place. Seated were older folks and younger folks, college kids and high school students, grampas and aunts. Eric cleared his throat. “Everybody just calm down,” he said again. This time he got only one dry laugh. It was time to start his act. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s weird when you’re doing stand up at an open mic,” Eric said. “No one seems to understand you.” Complete silence engulfed the space like a giant inflatable pillow. Everyone stared. A few people smiled without knowing why. Suddenly anxious, Eric clutched the mic with both hands. “I met a guy on a plane the other day,” he said. “Good thing he didn’t know about my schizophrenia.” A few people chortled at that, but Eric had a feeling it was for the wrong reasons. “I like to talk to pants,” he said, shifting gears into another joke, perhaps too quickly. “All they want to talk about is their waist size, though.” This got no reaction at all. “Hello, my good man,” Eric said, turning to address an invisible companion. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, acting out the invisible companion’s reaction. “Size 30... 28 length...” The PA gave a quick whistle of feedback that shot over everyone’s heads like a runaway bird. All of Bomber’s was either looking at Eric with abject pity or looking at their phones or looking out the window or the wall or the floor. A few were trying to stifle laughter. Eric thought of the giant mural behind him on the wall -- a war plane dropping bombs on unseen targets. *Subtle.* His father was the reason he'd tried out this cockamamie idea. Earlier that day, Eric had offhandedly mentioned an interest in trying stand up comedy. His father had suggested the open mic night. “That’s how they start,” he’d said. “Who?” “The pros. Bill Burr. Patrice O'Neal. Dave Chappelle. They started at open mic nights.” “But I’ve never done it. What if I suck?” “You never know until you try,” his father had said, attention focused on his business laptop. The stage was raised a few inches, a dusty old rug thrown on it. Eric stared at the rug as he told his jokes. “Everyone just calm down,” he said again. No response. Sweat erupted from his forehead pores, beading his brow. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” There was a soft reply, people murmuring things like, “Fine,” and “All right,” and “Okay.” It was like talking to a dentist’s waiting room. “Everyone say HEY!” Eric barked, noting several patrons gave startled jerks at his sudden change in volume. “Hey,” said about twenty percent of the audience. “More people than that say, ‘HEY.’” “Hey,” said about thirty-five percent. Eric cleared his throat. “That’s what a horse eats,” he said. “That and oats.” Nothing. Eric exhaled loudly into the mic, trying to fill time. He decided he liked how his exhalations sounded through the PA, how they gave him a second to clear his head. He did it again. And again. And again. The PA started squealing feedback. Eric huffed lungful after lungful of air directly into the mic. Anderson dashed over to the PA board and started turning knobs. Eric looked up through the sweat in his eyebrows and cleared his throat again. He wasn’t sure about this next joke. “I... love you people,” he said. “You’re such a nice room.” One person in the back gave a little, “Whoo!” “Will you... fuck me tonight?” This brought a burst of startled guffaws and snorts of laughter. “I’m serious,” said Eric. He looked at the floor. “I want you to... fuck me.” More guffaws and snorts, barely suppressed. Eric squeezed his eyes shut. When he’d practiced it in his room earlier, he’d imagined everyone falling over themselves laughing and getting out their phones to film him so he could go viral. It was too late now. He had to finish it. “...I’d fuck me.” Almost everyone was laughing now, but not how Eric wanted. They laughed in short, fat little bursts quickly cut off or coughed into palms. Snorts and glottal expulsions. Incredulous glances covertly exchanged. *Can you believe this shit?* Most of the older woman were looking at Eric like they would a three-legged kitten. Eric felt a hand on his shoulder. Anderson leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Eric, this is a Christian establishment," he said, the mic picking everything up. "You know that.” “I’m sorry,” said Eric. “I didn’t mean to offend Jesus.” “You’re at six minutes,” said Anderson, patting Eric on the shoulder. “You're doing great." “Praise God,” said Eric. He cleared his throat for what felt like the twentieth time. “Let me tell you about the car accident I caused the other day. I walked out in the freeway cause I thought I saw a dime. Then there was a pile up.” No response. Eric could hear all the freezers and fridges humming on the back wall. Mike watched from behind the counter, brow knitted in either intense concentration or severe concern. “I’m glad you didn’t laugh,” Eric told the room. “Twenty-eight people died in that joke.” No laughs. No reaction. The room seemed to be getting even quieter, somehow. Eric paused. He exhaled into the mic one more time. “K, that’s it,” he said. “Number six, number six...” His stiff fingers released the mic as Eric scurried out of the spotlight back to his table. He sat his fat ass down in his seat and slouched. The embarrassment was so total it felt as if Eric wasn’t even physically present. He couldn’t even leave yet because getting to the front door would require walking in front of everyone, something Eric did not want to do. He’d have to wait until the next person was on and everyone’s attention was focused away. *You never know until you try,* Eric thought of his Dad saying. *Well, I know now.* Bomber’s Cafe remained completely silent as Anderson took the stage to introduce the next performer. “Give it up for Eric,” he said, clapping. “That was really fun, although the language was a bit much.” There was a scatter of applause. Eric sipped his can of root beer. No one looked at him and he was thankful for that.