I am telling jokes in a comedy club underneath a vaguely Mexican restaurant, on a fundraiser show benefitting a nonprofit that's working to get the Equal Rights Amendment ratified. For this, I am paid with a plant. A Venus fly trap, specifically. It's a fun show.
I follow three women who all self-describe as "women of a certain age." My opening line practically writes itself while I sit in the back, watching.
"How about a hand for the wonderful comics you've just seen," I say. "It's so nice to be on the same show as all the women who keep sending me checks for my birthday." Big pop. Good news.
After the show – and a post-show hang with college buddies who came by – I travel back to where I'm staying in the West Village. I get off to change trains and find myself unable to transfer underground. I go topside, and because I am still not used to this city again, have to reorient myself. I have the Venus fly trap in one hand, and Google Maps on my phone in the other.
"Are you trying to find the M train too?" A New Zealander approaches me, equally confused.
"Yeah!" I check my phone to see the little dot that's me spinning around, trying to orient myself towards the right street/avenue combo. "Looks like it's this way," I tell her. We start walking down the street. I check my phone again. It's not this way.
"Nope, hang on, it's that way." I reorient us back the way we came, then hang a left at the avenue and cross at the crosswalk. This is also wrong, which we both figure out almost immediately after we finish crossing. "Sorry, I don't live here," I say, chuckling.
We walk towards the 14th Street station and talk about where we've come from, where we're going. She's been in the city for 3 years. "How are you still this bad at directions?" I jokingly ask. She, laughing, doesn't know.
I tell her I'm a comedian just visiting town. "I just saw a comedian at the Beacon Theater," she says. She doesn't remember his name, but her friend who's involved in comedy gave her the tickets. She never knows the names of the comics he gives her tickets to, "but he eats me out," she says casually, like it's a good enough reason to keep taking tickets to see random comedians you don't know.
She barely knows any comedy, outside of fellow Kiwis and a handful of Brits.
"You ever watch Taskmaster?"
"No," she says, sheepishly adding, "my YouTube algorithm is dogshit."
I describe Taskmaster to her, as we approach the stairs, and she laughs. She'll check it out, she says. Anything's better than the pop culture recaps she currently gets served up.
(By the way, if you’re not familiar with Taskmaster already, watch it. I could write a whole other entry on how much I love Taskmaster – it’s simply one of the most brilliant comedy shows on the air.)
We're on the subway platform when she tells me she's an artist doing design for a big tech company.
"How do you feel about that?"
She winces. "Not great!" Her schedule makes it hard for her to find time for herself creatively, and she’s afraid that trend will continue.
I know the feeling. I tell her about my work in reality TV, putting words in other people’s mouths, fighting for time off the clock to do my own material. We talk about the perils of when art becomes your career, about how working for some corporate faceless entity can create disdain and resentment.
"For me, it all has to go back to process. Back to basics," I offer. “That’s the best way I know how to tap back in.”
I get up as the train approaches my stop. We bid each other farewell. "Look at this," she exclaims, "a good, normal interaction on the subway!"
"How rare!"
I get off the train, in more familiar territory now. I walk back to where I'm staying unaided by technology.
I bring the Venus fly trap outside to the balcony. I don't know how I'll bring it back to Los Angeles, but for now, it seems like this is most likely place for it to thrive.