Getting Roasted by Professionals

My 2002 Toyota Camry was my new home, and I was proud of it. I had an inflatable mattress in the back seat, a propane camping stove, my skateboard, and 8,000 dollars saved up from working the Harvest season at a winery in Sebastopol CA. Now, I was on the road. Free. I dumped my girlfriend and headed south on Highway 1 with the windows down and a smile pin on my face. I had just replaced the drivers side window motor myself, which made the breeze of the ocean air feel much more rewarding. I had no responsibilities, no obligations, and no plans. I felt as good as I ever have that first night. The sun was setting over the Pacific and I was cruising at fifty miles per hour just south of Big Sur, taking the winding highway as fast as the Camry would allow. On each ascent I’d have the gas pedal on the floor, wondering if I’d reach the crest. I always did, but always with the tan Camry begging for mercy.

I found a hidden dirt pullout and popped open a can of tuna for dinner as the full moon rose over the hills. It was warm and oddly not-windy. Life was good. I woke up the next morning to a sheriff knocking on the window that my cheek was smooshed against. To sleep in the Camry I would alternate stretching my legs out and cranking my neck to ninety degrees until my neck hurt, then I’d switch to a straight neck position with my legs bent until my knees hurt.

‘Wakey wakey, step outside the vehicle.’ said the Sheriff.

Bastard, I thought. ‘Yes, sir, hold on…’

‘You know the fine is 500 dollars for sleeping here, son?’

‘Oh, no sir, I didn’t sleep here overnight. I just pulled over about an hour ago. I was too tired to drive.’ I said confidently. This was not my first run in with the pigs waking me up in my Camry.

The sheriff eyed me. ‘License and registration, son. Hand em over.’

As I did he said, ‘I’m taking you information down. If I see you back here sleeping on the side of the road, you'll pay 1000. Got it?’

Cops are all the same. They need to win. I nodded at him, avoiding eye contact. As I slowly got the Camry ready for takeoff, the sheriff sat in his truck and watched.

I filled up the tank once I made it to San Luis Obispo and googled: Things to do in LA tonight. The first thing that popped up was a comedy show at The Comedy Store. I bought a ticket for forty-five bucks without thinking too much. I had 8,000 dollars in the bank, no plans and no obligations, baby.

When I handed my ticket to the man at the door of the Comedy Store that night, he looked at me confused. ‘Uh, you're here alone, haha?’

‘Ya, it’s just me’ I tried to say confidently, but my voice came out weak and quiet.

‘Want to sit up front?’ The fat guy said with a smirk.

It seemed like a challenge. ‘Hell ya.’ I responded

Oh, man. What a mistake that was. I was in the very front and the very center. Right in front of the mic stand. To my left and right were happy couples all dressed up for the night, talking and laughing. The tables were small and organized so each person could sit on either side at a forty-five degree angle to the stage. As the room filled up, I could feel eyes staring at the lonely guy with no date to the show. I couldn’t get comfortable. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Or where to put my feet. Or how to look casual, and confident. By the time the first comic took the stage I was sweating profusely and visibly through my gray shirt.

‘Wow, great crowd we got tonight!’ Said the first comic as he scanned the room. ‘I just want to warn everyone that there is a serial killer sitting in the front row.’ he said with his eyes locked on me. The crowd roared with laughter. ‘Seriously, who comes to a comedy show alone?’ What the hell are you doing here, did you get dumped today?’

There was no way out of the room. Not with everyone sat down. It would’ve caused an embarrassing commotion for me to leave, but good lord I sure wanted to. I wish I had. For the next three hours, I was the butt of jokes from nearly every comic that went on stage.

‘Hey, who let the school shooter in here?’ One comic said

The worst was when a Black comic took the stage and said, ‘Anyone notice the sweaty white supremacist sitting up here?’ The crowd was loving these jokes. I was having a harder time faking my laughter by this point. ‘What’s wrong kid, too many black people in here? Are you feeling uncomfortable?’ Then, to my horror, he said, ‘how many black friends do you have, be honest,’ as he put the mic up to my face.’ ‘Uh,’ I hesitated. I was in full panic mode now. My throat seemed to have locked up. Beads of sweat were now rolling down my face. I wanted to say something witty back. Something to save my pride after the purgatory of the last two and half hours. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say back and the comic seized the moment of my hesitation. ‘I knew it! We got a clansman everyone,’ he said as he held his finger above my head pointing down for the crowd to see precisely the loner he was talking about.

The final comic, Whitney Cummings, took the stage. ‘The final comic….’ as I heard that I coached myself into keeping composure for 10 more minutes of hell. Whitney took the stage and looked straight at me. ‘Boy rough night for you. I want to feel bad for you but I just can’t with you wearing that stupid hat.’ Cummings said. Bring it on, I thought. I was already sitting as slouched as possible in my seat. My ego shattered. She made a few more jokes at me before the set was over. As the room lights turned on I stood up aggressively and walked straight out in a near sprint, with my head down.

At 80 miles an hour on I5 I felt okay. Driving has always calmed me down. I put the radio on loud to drown out the images burned into my brain. I kept going south until I reached the country limits. Then, on a whim I decided to leave the country. Hell with these awful people, I I thought. I needed to get as far from LA as possible. I wanted the probability of seeing someone who'd been at that dreadful show to be zero. And in fact I made it zero, because in Mexico I volunteered on a boat restoration project. I spent eight hours a day in the engine room of the ancient cruise ship, hardly seeing daylight or speaking to anyone. I grinded the rust off old engine pipes for hours each day. At night I listened to the Croatian captains stories of adventure from a life on the high seas. Life was good. I still had the open road ahead of me.