wl_fanfiction | Ficlet: "Learn To Fly"

From super long, to super short.

Title: Learn To Fly
Author: Me: hazey_jane_i/newbiepoet
Characters: Greg, with a hint of Jen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 884
Disclaimer: Greg said it, not me
Notes: Written at 4am, unedited. Coherency may blow.

“Do not tell me, ‘Oh, comedy is hard’. Do not come to me after 10 times onstage and complain because you died on your ass out there, because you know what? We’ve all done it. And you know what I’d say? Go back and do not return until you’ve been onstage 1000 times. And when you show me that? Go and do it 100,000 times. Because by then no matter what happens around you onstage, no matter if you are dying and failing, if someone vomits, if someone is knifed…You will deal. Because you can.”[1]

The bar is dark and smoky, the atmosphere lively, but the shadow of warmth does not travel so far as to reach the man backstage, who writes frantically on a wad of napkins with a leaky biro. He swallows hard, ignoring the persistent lump of nerves that presides there. He’d lost his job that afternoon, one of them at least. Maybe it was something to do with telling the manager of the law firm to shove it? Probably. There is still comedy, there will always be comedy. “This is what I want. This, here and now.” And he nods determinedly, heading out onstage for the first opener of the night. One day, maybe, he’d be headlining here.

Heart of gold, but I’ve lost my path. Slowly it’s turning to lead.

Greg mops at his forehead, gulping down his pride which rests uneasily in the pit of his stomach, climbing onstage once more to be beaten and bruised by the drunken audience’s calls and jeers. Ducking his head he plows on with his material, valiant martyr for the cause. Bravery is an attribute, or is it simply stubbornness? Digging his heels, stiffening his lip and seeking new resolve he reminds himself; nothing is free these days, one day the pay off will be great; not monetary terms, stage time, more precious than gold in any comedian’s books.

"I hold the world but as the world,
A stage where every man must play a part,”[2]

Lighting a cigarette he sighs, leaning back against the wall, his moment of grace in the calm and quiet after the roar of the audience. He sighs, watching the dull embers of ash flutter to the floor, the smoke coiling upwards to join the haze of the room. Is someone getting the best of you? Asks a voice in his head, are they going to win? “I swore I’d never give in…” Nobody said dreams were easy to achieve, there would be no value in something without the struggle. Tossing his cigarette to the floor Greg crushes it under his scuffed heel, heading out of the club into the sharp Franciscan night air.

The repetition never gets old, the challenges renew,

There’s always another round for you.

Head spinning and heart pounding he clutches at his side, sure his internal organs are trying to exit his body by way of his oesophagus, gasping for air. Heart sterilized by alcohol, a lot of it. “Nothing to see here….” He mutters, slurring his words, retching slightly. The show had not gone well, he’d lost his booking. Always be comedy? Sure. Never again, never. Closing his eyes Greg can almost taste defeat, vile and acidic. Slowly the world fades to black as Greg loses all grip. A beginning coming to an end, desperate and meaningless.

It’s real, the pain you feel.

“It wasn’t easy; I had to fight to be a comedian. People never seemed to want to book you. I had to do hundreds of shitty, what we’d call, ‘joe jobs’. And, you know, I’d starve for years. But I couldn’t give up.”[3]

Something missing suddenly found.

That self belief, instilled by another.

A slender hand entwines in his.

“Show me how…” he blurts blindly, throwing all caution to the wind. What other option does he have? An echo of a wish for something worth losing, the dying promise of something better.

“It’s like learning to fly.” she replies. “All you can do is pick yourself up and try again.”

Trust, you must.

Everyone’s got their chains to break.

Sure enough, another round,

Back again to face the fight.

“I promised I’d never give in” he breathes, his new comedy mantra. Greg slides his handkerchief out of his pocket, steadily polishing his Buddy Holly frames, calm and collected like never before. He swallows, for the first time not an effort to do, and pushes his glasses up his nose. This time would be his break, he is sure of it. Greg knows what to do; knows his jokes, his new ones, knows his audience and how to handle them. Again that small hand pushes into his just before he heads onstage, and a feeling of assurance falls over him. A quiet voice whispers its belief in him, sealed with a brush of lips on his. He nods and smiles softly, now ready to spread his comedic wings.

The audience’s applause is fresh and meaningful; the lights are bright but not dazzling. Greg’s speech flows naturally, no faults or halts. The elements fall together, everything clicks. Greg smiles to himself; he’s got his hands on a miracle.

“You wished for something to lose” she says in her gentle voice by his side. “Looks like you made it. You flew.”

[1] Greg Proops, Kevin Pollak’s Chat Show, 27 May 2010

[2] Antonio, Merchant of Venice, Act 1, Scene 1. William Shakespeare

[3] Greg Proops, Kevin Pollak’s Chat Show, 27 May 2010