The Divine Comedy Lounge by Simon Collison

I’m just hanging around this cramped room awaiting the dreaded words, “You're up next , kid”.

Pacing up and down like a caged animal, looking up at the unsmiling photos of comics like Robin Williams, Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor. They’d taken down the one of Bob Hope years ago. Guess there was no room for Hope in a place like this.

Everyone here had left hope outside.

I’d abandoned hope a long time ago. It feels like an eternity some days.

I gulp down the insipid liquid in my glass, glancing at my trembling, stained and clammy hands. I don’t smell nice either, probably the sweat. It's always hot in this place, damn hot.

As usual, my nails are chewed to the skin. My mind is constantly going over my set, the jokes that I think will work in this place tonight. The same jokes I’ve used since I could remember. I should remember them. But I’m always worried I’ll forget bits or mix them up.

Always worrying.

So I drink some more of that disgusting liquid that says “Gin” on the label, but it tastes nothing like any Gin on earth, more like bleach and dishwater. But I swallow it anyway and immediately regret it.

Got to be word perfect.

Make sure I get the words out clearly, this time. But I know I won’t.

What if I get heckled again? But then I know I will get heckled. I’m always heckled. Always.

Got to keep my nerves in check. These places can smell fear. The audiences are like piranhas out there and every night they dine on anxiety and I’m the main course.

The shakes are getting worse, returning with the nerves. My right hand jerks like it has a life of its own. Grip it tight with the other hand. I’m feeling sick, my pulse is racing and my mouth feels dry.

The throat feels like there is something trying to get out.

I try to clear my throat a few times. It's too hot and smoky in this hole. The heat’s oppressive and hangs around like the dog days.

I swallow some more of the foul liquid in front of me, wincing as it passes down my throat.

You can see  wisps of twisted rings of smoke rise from the tables, shrouding the whole place, concealing people’s faces.

It's always sweltering and stifling in this pit, sweat pouring down my face, running down my throat.

The usual agonies, torments and ordeals are on display 'round here.

I pour another large gin and force it down like I’m swallowing cleaning fluid.

I used to drink whiskey, but that made me worse.

And not very funny. I can’t touch the stuff now; the very smell makes me want to throw up and vomit.

Just waiting for those dreaded words from the manager of the Divine Comedy Lounge. Divine, don’t make me laugh. There is nothing divine about it. Vile and rotten would be better words for this place.

Good job the whole joint is permanently bathed in lurid crimson light. It hides a lot of sins, a hell of a lot.

Any second now. I can hear the applause for the last comic, the sizzling and talented Lisa Lomax.

She always gets rapt applause.

Always.

And I‘m always on after her.

Always.

They never applaud like that for me.

Never.

They never applaud at all. I’m left up there to soak up the silence, like my shirt soaks up my sweat.

I’m suddenly aware that the waiting room is filled by the minatory presence of the manager hovering over me.

“You're up next, kid”, he growls at me. I finish off the dregs of stale gin with a gulp and a grimace.

Time to go and face the audience again.

It's always the same audience sitting on those plush red velvet seats.

The same people with the same bored and indifferent expressions on their faces.

There’s no applause, there never is.

No one seems to notice I’m on the stage.

I go through my set quickly.

Too quickly. My voice is quivering. That right hand is still shaking.

My nerves have got the better of me again.

I rush four or five jokes and forget the other two

There is no reaction.

No laughter. No applause, till from the shadows someone shouts out, “You Stink!”, followed up by someone yelling, “Get off yer bum!”

The rest of the club are just yawning, coughing, shuffling, talking, playing cards and shouting out orders to the scantily-clad waitresses. Or just busy stuffing their plump faces.

Every pleasure, every sordid sin accounted for within. Getting on with their business as if I never existed.

It's like this all the time.

I don’t know what torments me the most: the waiting, the entrance, the performance or the reaction. Maybe the whole damn thing. And I know I'll be doing it again in exactly forty five minutes.

I feel beaten, smaller and shattered.

The manager gets me off the stage with a snarl.

There is still no applause or any recognition I was there.

Time to rejoin Robin, Lenny and Richard again.

I stagger back to the dingy waiting room and sit down on my own at the bare table, pouring another large measure of bland gin into a large glass.

Just hanging around this cramped room awaiting the dreaded words,

“You’re up next, kid.”

Simon is a ND writer from England. He is a member of the All Seasons writing group. He will be publishing a collection of contemporary Gothic poetry later this year. He still seeks stillness and solitude.