text: “Whenever I cut my hair, my daughter asks me. ‘Dad did you get a haircut?’ And I tell her ‘no I cut them all!’” I excitedly shoot my fist in the air, but to no avail. Crickets. The audience has long since given up on their polite chuckles. I almost wish someone would heckle me. Even boos would be better than this silence. My face is radiating so much heat, I’m surprised I haven’t burned the whole venue down. The growing impatience of the crowd feels like a million needles prickling on my skin. They demand entertainment, which I cannot provide. I lock eyes with the old lady sitting in the corner. She looks ghastly. Her skin is as pale as the snow outside, differing greatly with the tomato sitting on my shoulders. Anyone can tell she doesn’t have much time left. Yet even with drool hanging from her mouth, it’s clear that she’s the one pitying me. “Whenever I ask my daughter what she wants for dinner she says: ‘I kinda feel like a pizza Dad’ and I say: ‘Oh really, well you don’t look like one!’” Most people have their phones up by now. From the corner of my eye, I catch a group of snickering teenagers recording. At least they’re enjoying my performance, in some way. Five minutes left now. This is always the hardest part of a show, the final few minutes. The audience is anxiously watching the clock. Counting down the seconds. This is probably as painful for them as it is for me. “Whenever I hang up the phone my daughter always says: ‘I’ll call you later, Dad’ and I say: ‘Don’t call me later, call me Dad.’” No matter how many times I do this, it never gets easier. The false confidence I managed to project at the start is beginning to dwindle. I’ve never particularly liked speaking in front of crowds, and making a fool of myself is definitely not any easier. “Whenever my daughter is sick, she always complains to me that her nose is running so I tell her: “Well you better go catch it.” I finish my routine to a bit of forced applause. Trying to go unnoticed, I sneak around and find myself a table all the way in the back. A few people on the neighboring tables throw me pitying glances. I almost can’t recognize the venue anymore. The atmosphere is completely different from just a few minutes ago. The room is filled with laughter and chatter. It’s hard to imagine we’re still in the same place as my great catastrophe. When the next comedian gets on stage, she is met by thunderous cheering. The room is clearly exited about the change of performer. She is obviously nervous. With shaking hands, she fumbles with the mike, dropping it to the floor. She staggers through her first sentences, eventually stopping to catch her breath. “Don’t be nervous kid, you can’t possibly be as bad as that last guy.” A rugged looking man shouts up at her. “Yea, anyone is hilarious compared to that guy.” Another person follows up. I catch her eye, and try to give her an encouraging smile. The rest of her performance goes great. Her jokes are met by heavy laughter. The mood is certainly lighter now. Everyone is relived to laugh again. As she finishes her routine, and is showered with applause, she looks me directly in the eyes. Whenever my daughter finishes a performance, she always mouths to me: “Thank you Dad.” And I know it’s all worth it.