Unlucky Ulysses is so Unlucky

“Unlucky Ulysses was so unlucky...”

“How unlucky was he?”

“When he was born, the doctor gave him to the wrong parents.”

Nobody laughed anymore. The joke was dead. It had been my opener for over a year.

Moda, the owner, hostess, and booking manager at Bell’s Bottom, the comedy club in Downtown told me I needed new material.

The boilerplate advice is always ‘write what you know,’ and ‘joke about yourself.’ I’d done just that—the audience knew my life, every minute of it. They were the same ones who turned up each week, heckling and booing.

This week was different.

It was my birthday.

“Ulysses, you’re on in five,” Moda said, snapping her fingers. She wore a lime green pinstripe suit with a pink bob wig. “We’ve got a full crowd.”

“Yeah, they’re here for Patty,” I grumbled, looking up from my small black notebook.

Petty Patty was a household name on the comedy club circuit. She was also a joke thief. She stole my unused material a week after my first gig. The pages were pulled straight from my notebook.

Patricia ‘Patty’ Desmond lapped up the attention on the green room sofa. Surrounded by other comedians Juke Lames, Gertie, and Hilbo Haggins. They laughed their obnoxious laughs, and occasionally across at me.

Back to my black notebook, I flicked through to the ribbon. I prepared new material. I had been preparing for a while now. Today I turned thirty, and I was heading into the evening with a fresh start.

The light above the green room door flashed. It was my time.

“Break a leg,” Juke Lames said, smacking his lips to pop.

Petty Patty let out a hum, her eyes squinting. “Or a neck—also, isn’t today your—wait, never mind.” She waved a hand, chuckling to herself. Juke, Gertie, and Hilbo joined in.

Tonight, regardless of their efforts to kill my spirit, I was off-script. I planted my small black notebook on the counter, resting my palm on the smooth cover.

Low vibrations hummed through the walls of the hallway outside the green room.

Waiting in the wings was drag performer, Sticky Nicky came tumbling out, yanking at a hairbrush stuck in her wig.

“That was Sticky Nicky, or Miss Sticky is you’re naughty,” Moda announced down the mic. Applause pounded through.

Panting, Sticky Nicky winked. “Good luck out there.”

“And welcome to the stage, the trash you put out but isn’t collected on a Wednesday. It’s Unlucky Ulysses,” Moda announced, flicking her pink wig. The applause turned to groans. “I want you to make some noise. It’s his birthday.”

Oh no.

I took the mic. A crackle of static came through the speakers.

“G—good evening all,” I let out through a voice crack.

The stage was a raised black platform with a single white-hot spotlight. It made looking out at the faces difficult, all of them hidden in shadows.

I tapped a finger against the metal. “Right. Well, it’s my birthday. You all know what happened when I was born.” I paced the stage, tugging the mic wire. “I was given to the wrong parents.”

Muffled whispers and the shuffle of chairs squeaked in response.

“Right, so. I have new jokes. You may take a sigh of relief now.”

A couple chuckled.

“You don’t have to laugh, but it would make my evening. They might even give me the honour of cleaning up, either that, or they’ll let me back on this stage next week.” I sighed, that was the truth. “If you’re new here, I go by Unlucky Ulysses, and you’ll say, how unlucky—well, for starters, my parents named me Ulysses.”

Pity laughter.

“So, Unlucky Ulysses is so unlucky, ask me how unlucky.”

“How unlucky?” a couple of voices answered.

Audience participation was great.

“When I was born—nah, I’m kidding. I told you, I have new material,” I said to their near-groans. “Let me tell you a story. So, not only am I nearing six-foot, I’m also anaemic. I say, nearing, like I’m about to get taller at thirty.” My tongue clicked. “Well, I was in the doctor’s office last week, and the doctor said, Ulysses, I hate to tell you this. And immediately, I thought, oh, just my luck, I’m dying. You’ll never guess what he said?”

“You’re anaemic,” a voice hollered.

“No, I’m Ulysses, nice to meet you.” Tsch. Tough crowd. “He told me I should start getting my prostate checked. I told him, doctor, my boyfriend checks it every night. It’s still there.”

Some chuckles.

“I guess, just like my evening in public restrooms, this isn’t going down well.”

More laughter that time.

“But you guys are a lot harder to please than men in public restrooms, so I’ll give you that.”

I’d lost my train of thought. The material I’d planned.

“So my birthday. The big three-O. My boyfriend said I could top. Now, if I had a dollar for every time I topped. I’d have—one, two, yeah, two dollars, which is a lot for a guy who claimed to be versatile on dating apps.”

I caught myself biting back a grin at my own joke.

Moda came back to the stage. “Well, we must keep things moving,” she said, holding out a hand in her obscene lime suit. “If we have time at the end, we might bring our birthday boy back up so he can tell us more about his—ass?” She shrugged.

The applause came—just as I left the stage.

I passed Juke Lames as he brushed a little highlighter on his cheeks.

The green room was empty. I sighed into the sofa, grabbing my notebook from the side. There was something sticking out like a bookmark. I tugged it free. The card slipped from between the pages.

It was a scratch off ticket.

The green room was still empty. I wasn’t someone who played the game, so I hadn’t purchased this. It was possibly a gift. I looked it over; front and back. A simple game, top prize of one-hundred thousand dollars.

All you had to do was get three money bag symbols and scratch off the figure amount.

Scratching the foil away with a fingernail, the coating came away.

The first symbol.

A money bag.

I’m sure that’s what they usually did, a fake out to get your heart racing.

Second symbol.

A money bag.

My heart thumped in my ears. My throat dried. I looked around, still nobody. I gulped on the rock of air in my throat.

Third symbol.

A money bag.

“No,” I let out through the dryness in my throat. I shook my head. “No.” I scratched the winning amount.

‘$20,000’

The temples of my forehead thumped with anxiety. I took a deep breath.

I won? “I won.”

“Surprise!” Petty Patty burst through the door.

“I won. Look. I won.”

She cackled, snatching the card from me. “It’s a fake,” she said. “Gertie bought it. It’s a joke.”

Behind her, Gertie and Hilbo.

I pulled it back. “What?” I scanned both sides again. I’d seen these in stores.

“Look! Gert. He thought—”

Gertie shuffled over. “Happy birthday,” she said. “You win?”

“Of course he did,” Patty chuckled. “I’m using this in my set tonight.” She threw her head back in laughter.

If I weren’t seated, I’d have been on the floor. “I—I—”

“You won?!” Gertie gasped. “Really?”

“Duh!” Hilbo tutted. “We texted you to get him the fake.”

My tear ducts wished they could’ve worked. “Why?” I asked.

“Yeah, you got him the fake,” Patty let out through a series of snorts. “Where’s my phone? I—I need to get this on video.”

“No, I got him one from the store,” Gertie replied.

“What?” I let out, my shallow voice breaking.

She nodded. “From the store on the corner.” Her eyes widened. “You won? How much?”

“No,” Patty’s voice turned serious.

“Still playing with him,” Hilbo snorted.

I flicked the card over in my hands. “So—so I won?”

“How much? Couple bucks?”

Rubbing my finger over the figure. It wasn’t real. “Twenty-thousand dollars.” My heart resumed its heavy beat in the blood vessels around my skull. “You’re—you’re not kidding, are you?”

“Gert!” Patty screamed.

“Wait. It’s real?” Hilbo scratched at his head.

I tucked it back into the small black notebook, keeping it out of their prying eyes. I stood, quick on my feet. I fumbled forward over my feet into the wall. “Guess I’m still unlucky in some areas.”

It was life changing. I held the notebook close to my chest.

I knew already what I was going to spend it on.

“Leaving?” Moda asked in the hallway, striking my sight with her gaudy colour combo.

“No, no,” I approached, careful on my feet. “I—I actually want to ask you something.”

“Make it quick, Juke is losing the audience, poor guy,” she chuckled.

“I want to invest in Bell’s Bottom.”

“Invest,” she chuckled.

I nodded back. “I just won twenty-thousand dollars. You said it yourself, you’ll have to close or rent the space to the improv group at the college.”

She shook her head. “Ulysses.” She smiled, reaching out and patting my shoulder. “I can’t take—”

“No, before this place accepted me I didn’t even accept myself,” I said, letting it off my chest. “Let me invest. But it does mean I get to take a full ten-to-fifteen-minute set.”

She shook her head. “I’ll draw up paperwork with my lawyer.” She extended her hand.

I shook it. “And I’ll keep this scratch-off safe.” I drummed my fingers across the book. “Thank you.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “Saves me, actually.” She turned on a heel, looking over her shoulder. “Happy birthday, again—slightly lucky Ulysses.”