It’s actually really hard to pinpoint where things start to drop off joke-wise in any given performance. What I take away from each imperfect gig is the silent moments. The absence of laughter. I don’t remember what came before or after, but I vividly recall the stretching bouts of crippling loneliness that filled each elongated silence. Silence feels like failure. Failure turns me into mindless Jamie zombie spewing random nothing jokes in a desperate attempt to find my way to the end of the set.

There was so much silence during that Laugh Drop performance. Stomach-eviscerating silence.

I rap my pen back and forth against the page. Thirty minutes have passed and all I’ve written is NEW SET. I’ve been underlining it over and over again. I fling the notebook closed.

iPhone Siri proves surprisingly helpful in locating the New York QCZ (Quality Comedy Zealots) theater. I follow her robot directions to the nearest subway. I haven’t been down in a subway station since I was a kid. All the weird smells, the metallic-ness of it all: It used to make me feel like I was boarding an alien spaceship. I loved it.

The subway car that pulls up is packed. Human asses and backs are pressed up against the windows, but the packed-ness is all part of the public transport experience, so I squeeze myself in, and attempt to cling to a pole at the center of the tram. A guy with his back pressed up against it is making it fairly impossible to get a decent grip.

“Excuse me, dude,” I say as the doors close. “Kindest regards. Can you get off the pole?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Pole Hog Guy hastily rotates toward me as the train jerks forward. I grasp at the precious open metal while he’s mid–position change, and he seizes a spot millimeters above my fingers. I maneuver my head so I can properly look up and assess his face.

Shock stabs through me as I see that he’s Zarar.

Pole Hog Guy is Zarar.

Zarar is standing inches away from me, looking off into the crowd.

As I’m having this darling revelation I do a double take, let go of the pole, and stumble into the people behind me as I’m thrown by the momentum of the train.

“Get off!” Someone shoves me right back. I fall into the metal post, inches from Zarar’s neck. He finally glances down, and I watch in a weird panic as his eyes register my presence.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” I squawk.

Yeah, I don’t say hello. Not hey. Not Zarar question mark? No. I screech out an accusatory statement like a dying chicken.

Zarar’s face screws up in confusion. “Siri?”

Crap, I forgot. There’s a lot going on right now.

“What am I doing … I live in New York,” he says plainly. “I flew back from Colorado last night.”