This group, Metal Spacerat, really stood out tonight. One of their scenes really wasn’t hitting, and they had to continue it three more times—that’s how an improv Gerald works. It was failing, no one was laughing, but they doubled down, kept on it, and toward the end of the second iteration of the scene, they found a groove, and it got good. They worked together, found the funny, and saved the beat.

I know how to do this. I’ve been in loads of failing scenes. I’ve doubled down a million times over: but I do it knowing my team is up there with me to back me up, and offer whatever support I need in the moment.

It’s so different being up there alone with a microphone, with no one but yourself to count on.

Zarar’s point about being able to utilize feedback, good or bad, irrelevant or relevant, to enhance the set was … a really good one. And his comment about feedback in general was annoyingly accurate.

I’ve been so worried about how people will perceive me personally, as someone who’s trying to pursue stand-up, that I haven’t been gauging the idea of feedback … logically.

What would Dawn have thought if she saw me bomb at the Laugh Drop? Would she really have left thinking Jamie is an unfunny loser who should never perform again?

What would it have been like if I had her there in the audience? Would it feel like I was there with my team? Like my support was just in a different area of the room?

Have I wasted a shitload of time thinking about this the wrong way?

Dawn has great taste. If any portion of the set wasn’t working, she’d probably help me find my footing with it just like she does when she’s on stage with me.

I pull out Siri’s cell and dial Dawn. It goes straight to voicemail after one ring.

A horrible gutless feeling washes through me. That kind you get when you’re a kid and you lose track of your parent in a public place. How do I fix this if she won’t talk to me? This doesn’t happen with us!

I tap through some missed texts from my mother. She checked in around two to tell me she’ll be home around eleven. I never responded so there’s a string of follow-up texts throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening.

It’s 11:16 when Mara opens the door from the garage to the kitchen and flips on the light.

I’m sitting at the table, staring at her with my hands folded.

“Ah!” Mara falls sideways into the wall with a hand to her chest.

I keep my features neutral. Somber. Still. I beat her home, and I’ve been prepped here to scare her for forty-five minutes.