Brenda Monk Is Funny (3 page)

Pause.

‘Four hundred miles away.’

Fourth laugh.

Brenda swallowed hard and steeled herself for the hour ahead. The roller-coaster ride had begun and she was trapped behind a metal bar of her own making. She couldn’t leave without attracting his attention, and in any case she knew she wouldn’t even if she could. She was in it now.

‘Anyone here in a relationship?’ A world-weary tone. ‘Isn’t it
wonderful
? So, my girlfriend is amazing, but she’s an arsehole. No, no, she’d love hearing me say that, she agrees with me. In fact, she told me she was an arsehole on our first date. It’s one of the reasons I went back for a second…’

Fifth laugh.

‘But I could never leave her. She makes the best “come noise” I’ve ever heard. No, seriously, listen…’

Brenda and Lloyd stood in the bar waiting for Jonathan to join them.

‘It’s a great show,’ Brenda said, then sipped her drink carefully. ‘Really great – the best I’ve seen him, really.’

Lloyd smiled warmly. ‘Well, he’s got you to thank for the material,’ he joked with some small but well concealed discomfort.

Brenda nodded and smiled, although the nausea had not yet subsided. She had just sat through exactly fifty-five minutes of hellishly detailed, comedically brilliant observations on her relationship with Jonathan; her own relationship with her parents and how it affected her relationship with Jonathan; a run-down of her sexual preferences with notes on each by Jonathan; a compendium of her personal body neuroses and an eloquent and at times actually quite moving speech from Jonathan on how he didn’t mind any of them; a story about the first time she farted in front of him and how it made him feel, and, by way of a finale, an extended fantasy set piece about their future together which brought the house down. It was a lot to take in and the fact that Lloyd was standing less than a foot away from her, furnished with the knowledge that she liked to stand naked facing the wall with her arms outstretched, hands on the plaster, legs slightly apart and be felt up by Jonathan from behind before sliding to the floor, did not fill her with joy.

Of course Jonathan had used her as material in the past, but this was beyond anything he’d done before. She was the whole show, for god’s sake. It now seemed perfectly clear why he had kept her away from his previews and tried to prevent her from coming to Edinburgh. The overall impression was of a man delightfully and desperately in love with a needy, neurotic, nymphomaniac lunatic, whilst still conveying a sense of being very much on the market for any extra-curricular female attention that may come his way. He had pulled this difficult balancing act off perfectly and Brenda’s feelings were complicated by the fact that she was profoundly impressed at the sheer level of skill he had displayed. If she had not been the subject of the show, she would have given it five stars. Hell, she’d probably give it five stars anyway. It was a bona fide five star show and they didn’t come along too often.

‘Ah, here he is,’ Lloyd announced, looking up from his Blackberry.

And for the second time that day, Brenda was able to observe her boyfriend unobserved. He had the swagger of a man who had tasted triumph. People thrust themselves forward, offering to buy him drinks or just wanting to shake his hand or take a picture. He accepted all with good grace. He was in no hurry to get to the bar, he was already a little drunk from the drinks he had consumed backstage before, during and after the show, and high from the large joint he usually smoked out of the window of his small, shared dressing room whilst making small talk with the comedian who would inherit his venue for the hour that followed. Brenda knew Jonathan’s habits well.

Brenda felt a surge of pride. She should squash down these bourgeois feelings of having had her honour compromised in some way. There could be no betrayal in art, she thought. She was the muse; her place was surely unassailable, even as she watched a plain young woman with enormous breasts make unexpectedly appealing eyes at her man. Jonathan smiled down at the woman, clearly planning to engage her in conversation, but Lloyd whistled to get his attention.

Jonathan looked up, saw Brenda, was momentarily stunned and then grinned from ear to ear. The plain woman with the enormous breasts was brushed aside and he took large, confident strides to the other side of the packed bar area.

‘Here you are,’ he whispered in Brenda’s ear as he wrapped her in a hug. ‘You came – I hoped you would but I didn’t want to pressure you.’

He pushed her away from him gently and stared deep into her eyes.

‘Did you like the show? Are you upset?’

Brenda, legs jellied and head fuzzed by primal desire, shook her head.

‘It’s brilliant. It’s a brilliant show. You’ll definitely win this year.’ Jonathan permitted himself a small smile and then shrugged.

‘Awards don’t mean anything. It’s about the comedy, the comedy is what’s important. So you really liked it. God, you are a sight for sore eyes. I love this.’ He fingered her hair. ‘It’s very subversive.’

Brenda was warm from head to toe and she was approaching giddiness when ‘Julia’ the dumpy American joined them.

‘Jonathan, that was just… ahhh. That was just great. Really great.’

‘Thanks Joan, really appreciate it. This is “the girlfriend” Brenda.’

Joan gave Brenda a cursory look and pushed out a ‘Hi’ before turning back to Jonathan.

‘I cannot wait to get back to LA so I can start selling you. In the meantime, let me buy you dinner and tell you how fucking great you are.’

Jonathan smiled his version of bashful.

‘Sounds like my kind of evening. Is that OK, Bren? I’ll catch up with you later.’

Joan took Jonathan by the arm and led him off, speaking in confidential tones. Lloyd and Brenda looked at each other, only the merest hint in Lloyd’s eyes that he was thinking about Brenda in his newly acquired knowledge of her favourite sexual position. ‘Drink?’ asked Lloyd.

Brenda was sure he was taking in her breasts, which he now knew, thanks to Jonathan, that Brenda was worried were slightly lopsided when cut loose from lace and elastic.

‘Thanks, but I said I’d go to a friend’s show. I’ll see you later.’

Lloyd nodded and smiled, turning away as she left, forgetting her already.

Alone in Edinburgh, then. Still better than being alone in London. Brenda descended the Pleasance and tacked over to the collection of venues known as the Underbelly, where Jim John’s show was due to start in less than half an hour. Passing a row of men pissing in the dark up against the mossy wall of the viaduct that towered above, Brenda had a moment to process her day. It was certainly not as she had imagined when she awoke that morning, full of heaviness at the inevitable boredom and loneliness that lay ahead. She had taken action. She touched her hair. Had it started with that chop, chop, chop? She felt exhilarated. She had taken charge, nothing less than that. And Jonathan was pleased to see her. And she was pleased to see Jonathan. Or if not pleased, then relieved. When she saw him she could stop thinking about seeing him, and that gave her a break. She knew this was not how relationships were supposed to work, but for now she didn’t care.

Feeling a light drizzle start to descend around her, she quickened her pace. The dank caves that made up part of the Underbelly’s network were before her and she stepped inside just as the rain really began to pour. Pinned to a wall ten feet high to the right of the entrance were dozens of photocopied and printed reviews of acts appearing within. Only the good reviews of course, anything less than a three star was not included. Brenda scanned it briefly, picking out names she knew. In one small area she found Jim John’s write ups, three in total thus far, including the one from
The List
. They were fine, good even for someone who had only been in the game for a couple of years. They were nothing compared to what Jonathan would receive in due course and Brenda felt that familiar rise of ego by proxy she enjoyed whenever she consciously acknowledged that she was going out with the current king of stand-up. There were comedians above him in the pecking order, of course: TV names who flew in for a short run in a massive ‘super venue’ and then flew out again. But in terms of the clubbing comics who enjoyed niche celebrity among genuine comedy fans, Jonathan was at the top of the tree. And there was a certain romance to that, a ‘just before-ness’ that gave him a glow, his potential still ‘shimmering on the horizon’ as Peter Cook had once put it. Brenda smiled to herself – it made the exposing nature of his show worth it. And in spite of herself, she was flattered that he had devoted a whole hour to talking about her. She couldn’t even pretend to be cross. It gave her kudos, and she didn’t mind that at all.

Moving deeper inside, she bought a drink at the pink lit bar, tried to get used to the smell of damp, checked her reflection in the mirror – her hair did look kind of cool – and found her way to Jim’s tiny venue. Exchanging her name for a ticket, she moved into the auditorium. Just fifty seats and less than half full. The ceiling was low and craggy, an old cellar of some sort or possible ex-torture chamber. The room was hot and airless. This being a late show in a venue that had turned over every hour since 12pm, the moisture caused by sweating bodies moving in and out rocking with laughter had hit the ceiling, condensed and now fell onto Jim’s audience as a fine, misty rain. Even inside you could not escape Edinburgh’s weather. Brenda took her seat, the lights dimmed and she heard Jim’s voice announce himself into an offstage microphone. The twenty-two members of the audience applauded as he bounced out from behind the curtain with his trusty guitar and commenced his hour.

‘That was great. I loved it. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m no Jonathan Cape, am I?’

‘You’re different, that’s all. It’s a completely different style. It’s great, though.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘A blue WKD. And a shot of Aftershock.’

Brenda hesitated. An odd order, but Jim sometimes did have the predilections of a teenage girl.

‘OK.’

She walked away from him, glad to have a moment to rearrange her face. The show was fine, but not amazing, and
The List
was right, he did still need to ‘find his voice’. It was too timid, too polite, and yes, despite the difference in style and genre, it suffered greatly by comparison with Jonathan. It was a different league. But she had enjoyed it and it was a relief to hear a load of material about women other than herself. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find Jim.

‘Let’s not stay here. Let’s go to the Attic Bar. It’s better and everyone will be there. I’ll say you’re my agent.’

Brenda nodded and checked her phone. There was a text from Jonathan.

‘Attic Bar. Then home. Then you and me…’

Brenda smiled to herself and linked arms with Jim.

The gate-keeper to the Attic Bar was a medium sized security guard who clearly expected trouble at some point, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Anyone who ate real food regularly and attended the gym more than twice a year could more than control a malnourished, drug-infused comedian who couldn’t bear to fall out with anyone anyway. Jim flashed his performers pass and Brenda entered with him with no comment from the guard – women were always welcome. Down a narrow corridor which bent and then opened into a large bar with an even larger roof terrace, the place was heaving. It was close to midnight by now but in Edinburgh time this was the equivalent of around 9pm. This was one of the three main bars in the city available exclusively to performers and their hangers on. Comedians hardly ever went drinking in the pubs and clubs open to the public. These bars were an excellent place to talk shop, and the late licences didn’t hurt either. Brenda scanned the room and the terrace outside – where was Jonathan?

‘What do you want?’

‘To find Jonathan.’

‘No, to drink.’

‘Oh a Jack Daniel’s and coke, please.’

Jim nodded and walked away. Brenda caught sight of Jonathan outside, lounging on a chair under a large umbrella, flanked by Joan and Lloyd and with a small gang of comedians and their various people sat around. Brenda approached the group.

‘Hey babe,’ said Jonathan with a casual tone, ‘you got my text.’ ‘Yeah.’

‘Hey, move over Lloyd, I want my girl next to me.’

Lloyd dutifully moved and Brenda sat down next Jonathan who kissed her full and long on the lips.

‘Mmm… it is very good to see you. Did I mention that?’ He leaned in to whisper, ‘Hey, we’ve all done some MDMA, want a bit?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK, good.’

Jonathan turned his body towards hers in some parody of discretion, deftly took a small crystal out of his pocket, wrapped it in a Rizla paper and handed it to her. Brenda swallowed it down with a gulp of his beer and grinned. Jonathan beamed back.

‘You look so great tonight, B. I’m so glad you came.’ He leant in again. ‘I’m gonna suck you dry later.’

Everyone heard, but who cared? They were as far from the grip of respectable suburban values as you could get, and surely this was just the life they wanted. They prided themselves on being unshockable. Brenda snuggled down into Jonathan’s armpit as Jim arrived with the drinks.

‘Ah, Jim James, very nice to meet you at last,’ said Jonathan, with less mockery than he had obviously intended.

‘Jim John, actually, and we’ve met before.’

‘Jim John, Jim John. I’m sorry, why can’t I ever remember that?’ ‘I don’t know. Brenda, here’s your drink. Ruth’s over there so I’m going to catch up with her, OK?’

Brenda nodded and sipped her Jack Daniel’s and coke. Jonathan shook his head as he watched Jim retreat.

‘Odd guy.’

‘He’s OK.’

‘Brenda likes him, so I like him,’ Jonathan announced to the group.

Brenda looked around at the faces in front of her: three men and two women. All three men were comedians, and of the women, one was a junior TV development researcher who would pretty much sleep with anyone who had ever thought of a joke. The second was the wife of one of the comedians. She looked tired. The oldest of the male comedians, an American named Linus, was approaching his fifties. Already a legend in some respects, he had gained true notoriety five years previously by piercing his foreskin live on stage with the earring of an audience member during a late night show and since then his once legendary promiscuity had dropped off even if his dick hadn’t. He had once performed with Bill Hicks, a fact he never tired of referencing, and at one stage in his career it looked as if he would go all the way. He could have been George Carlin, he liked to say, if he’d worked a little harder. Jonathan considered him a kind of mentor, even though he mostly pitied him now. Linus’s commitment to stand-up as ‘art’ gave him an almost mystical aura and even though he was more interested in the theory rather than the practice of stand-up comedy these days, his taste was impeccable and he was always engaging. Right now, though, he was engaged in rolling a joint on his lap using some of the finest medical marijuana money could buy, which he quietly explained he’d managed to bring all the way from LA in a very expensive designer candle he had carefully melted and reformed around the packet of green buds.

Brenda watched him lick the cigarette paper shut and twist the end, remembering how he had once propositioned her outside a disabled toilet while Jonathan was onstage. He couldn’t promise full intercourse, he had cautioned, but he could promise everything else. She had declined and he had smiled – their friendship was sealed. In the land of the amoral, the man (or woman) with one scruple is king.

Linus sparked the end of the joint, took three deep drags and passed it straight to Brenda. She took it and pulled once before passing it to Jonathan. Then came the whoosh of the MDMA high, pushing up through her body and breaking a warm wave over her brain. She felt perfect, she felt that this was the only right place on earth to be. She felt her tongue push against the back of her front teeth and tried not to clench her jaw.

‘Brenda is fucked,’ said Linus, grinning, ‘her pupils are like fuckin’ dinner plates.’

Brenda giggled and Jonathan’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

‘So, Linus, I’m working on this bit about the new censorship,’ started Matt, an eager, ambitious comedian in his mid-twenties who clearly couldn’t believe who he was hanging out with.

‘You referencing Carlin’s seven words you can never say on TV?’

‘Yeah, I guess, I mean, that’s the thing, the words have changed now so…’

‘Sure, the words have changed, but the ideas haven’t. You got anything new to say? Anything original to add?’

‘Well, I was going to start in with some stuff about how women can say some words, but men can’t…’

‘So it’s a “differences between men and women” bit?’

Linus didn’t bother to hide his contempt. Jonathan smirked and Matt blushed. Brenda watched on as the tired wife discreetly tugged on the sleeve of her husband, Mike.

Brenda knew, as everyone knew, that this forty-four-year-old comic had settled into a nice, quiet stand-up career consisting of a solid twenty-minute set he performed for decent money around the country. He wasn’t at the Festival to perform an hour long show, although every year he said he would, if he could just find the time to write one. She also knew, as everyone knew, that somewhere deep down, as much as he loved his wife and kids, Mike clearly felt that they had ruined his once promising career. The pressure to make money had led him onto the relentless B-list club treadmill, driving around the country performing the same twenty minutes, collecting his money and going home. He was just up for a long weekend to ‘see what’s happening’ and do a few late night gigs in the compilation shows that hoovered up time and audiences from midnight to around 3 or 4am. Hannah, his wife, looked exhausted and Brenda sympathised. It took a while for a person’s body-clock to adjust to the nocturnal Edinburgh time zone, and it was not helped by the fact that she was clearly bored out of her mind. Brenda let her mind wander, imagining the decade over which Hannah had heard these same conversations happening around her, and although she sat quietly, patiently, pleasantly, she had also grown used to being entirely ignored for hours at a time.

The TV girl, whose name no-one seemed to know, was draped around Matt, her chosen target for the night – a fact that had not gone unnoticed by Linus who was trying to conceal how painfully aware he was that there would have been a time when she would have been draped over him. Joan stifled a yawn and stood up.

‘Well guys and gals, it’s been emotional but I can’t do it like you kids anymore. Linus, good to see you again. I have to say, I honestly thought you were dead.’

Linus smiled thinly.

‘And Jonathan, I will call you in the morning, we have much to discuss. Lloyd, we’ll talk, yes?’

Lloyd nodded and Joan left, walking through the crowd and out of view.

‘She’s such a bitch,’ Linus murmured reverentially, watching the space her departing back had just occupied.

‘Actually, that’s one of the words I wanted to talk about in my new bit,’ Matt started again, ‘how come women can say bitch, but men can’t?’

‘Well, I’m a man and I just said it, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but it’s OK for you to say it here, around comedians. We’re not going to get offended, but if you said it to normal people, I bet all the women would call you a misogynist.’

‘Young Matt, I am a misogynist. My mother taught me everything I know.’

Brenda laughed and Linus turned his eyes to her, full of warmth. Hannah tugged at Mike’s sleeve again and he turned to her, irritably.

‘What?’ he hissed.

‘I’m tired. It’s nearly one in the morning.’

‘Well, this is when things start to happen. Do you want to just go back to the hotel and I’ll join you later?’

Hannah shook her head miserably. She doesn’t trust him, thought Brenda, with a burst of MDMA fuelled clarity, and then recalled Jonathan telling her that Mike had been unfaithful once many years ago and though they had stayed together, it haunted their marriage. So, for now and forever, Hannah would rather be here with him, exhausted, than sat in the cheap, depressing hotel where she wouldn’t sleep anyway until he returned.

Brenda watched this interaction with interest. Somewhere in her drug-addled mind a connection fired, but it wasn’t one she wanted to look at directly, so she allowed the MDMA to push it to one side – a useful drug indeed. She hadn’t come all this way to feel depressed. She decided to concentrate instead on Matt and the TV girl who were now kissing, oblivious to everything. His hand was already inside her skirt. Brenda watched them as if through a fish-eye lens, the rest of the world falling away at the edges. Lloyd was now snoozing lightly, his head tipped back on a cushion. She could dimly register voices but they were fuzzy.