Killing Mrs. Jones (Hong Kong)

Killing Mrs. Jones (Hong Kong) I looked in the mirror to see how the Mrs. Jones t-shirt fit and it seemed everything was coming together – and I visualized myself on stage during the International Hong Kong Comedy Festival. I had the microphone panning the audience with my sideways grin and I would say, “But I did go out on a blind date just before getting here. Her name was Mrs. Jones. She is a little older. And she is a professor at Hong Kong University – teaching mathematics – but she used to teach United States geography with a focus on Montana….” Pause for the audience to laugh.

Then I looked on my Mac and saw the time and noticed the sky outside was already dark.

So I stripped and jumped in the shower.

Nearly thirty minutes later, as I was walking to Bhatti Bar for the Pre-Festival Party, I noticed I had no money. So I followed Hollywood Road down to HSBC. I waited in que.

My mind wandered to a school girl I had seen earlier today on the MTR. She was in school uniform and the material was straining around her big, body shape. And she stood in the corner of the train where the train sections connected – crying. I heard her sniveling quietly. And around her stood other students talking like nothing was wrong – they were ignoring her. Some of the boys were playing PSP and Nintendo DS. The other school girls were giggling and whispering in each other’s ears.

But this obese Hong Kong girl in light blue uniform stood in the corner – her buddy shuddering from sobs.

I thought over and over what to do. I wanted to go up to her – but I didn’t want to draw attention and embarrass her more. Then I thought about going over and kissing her on the forehead – but then thought – that would make me look like a pervert.

And suddenly, the train stopped, and the overweight school girl pulled her face out of the elbow of the connecting train sections and smoothed down her uniform and stepped off the train.

I thought about pursuing to say something – but suddenly – she was lost in the crowd at Kwun Tong.

“Sir, its available,” a voice said behind me. And suddenly I found myself standing in front of the HSBC ATM that was empty.

“Thanks,” I said and shoved my card into the slot and started making selections.

I pulled away from the ATM to the corner of the room and shoved my Hong Kong dollars in my wallet. Then I moved toward the glass doors and pushed out.

And that’s when I saw her. She saw me too and instantly she averted her eyes. She had her hand over her mouth talking into the phone. And it seemed suddenly that her phone conversation became high priority – or the most important thing going on in her life.

I tried to also pretend that I hadn’t seen her, but my emotions gave way and on reflex, I lifted my fingers and hand to wave. She ignored it like I was no one.

Just as quickly as the direction she was going towards me – she did a complete one eighty degrees and went the opposite way. And she moved fast.

So I turned up Hollywood and moved up SoHo. My heart was beating fast and I started nervously sweating.

And I had imagined this moment for three years – what was going to happen if I saw her in public – would I be able to pretend we didn’t know each other? Would she be able to pretend she didn’t see me? But if she was alone – would we secretly acknowledge one another by a sly smile or a gentle wave?

I guess the answer to everything was no.

I walked faster to Bhatti Bar. Without thinking I stepped in front of an oncoming taxi, and it squeaked its breaks and hooted.

I felt stupid. From the tee shirt to the rebooting of my comedy material to send special, encoded messages to a woman – who I thought was trapped in a relationship she couldn’t get out of – just to let her know that I was still in love with her.

And anonymously on a busy street, surrounded by strangers, she couldn’t even acknowledge my existence. I felt like I was a mistake.

And instantly the image that flashed into my head was her on top of me making love – and she suddenly stopped – cupped her hand against my cheek – and she leaned down and kissed me. Then she whispered, “You are so beautiful. So unique.”

And I, at that moment, felt I was conceived, created, born just for those words.

Now, I felt like I should have never been born.

I practiced my routine for four hours straight – tightening it up – and cutting and editing those bits I thought didn’t tell the story of my one day trying to find a way to pay my father back – leading up to my comedy festival performance. I cut out a lot of fat because I was afraid I would run over the seven minute and twenty nine second time limit.

In retrospect, I cut out too much. I ended up being too short.

I rewarded myself for my four hours of practice by going to Café O and ordering my favorite meat lasagna, salad, and ice lemon tea.

I sat in Café O not studying my material – or really doing anything – just trying to chill – getting in the zone. I watched the people pass by through the floor to the ceiling windows. There were beautiful people and there were ugly people. People I would never ever be able to speak to because of language. Some people I would never know. Some people who would live their lives without us ever meeting and impacting one another.

And like a curse, suddenly my thoughts went back to her. I physically shook my head to try to get rid of them.

But my thought was: how could she walk the streets with me months earlier? But now not even acknowledge that I even existed? I was like the people passing in front of Café O along Queens Road Central – I was nobody.

“Here you go sir,” said the Nepalese waiter. And he placed the tray of food down. Then there was a woman behind him who put down my ice lemon tea with a plastic container of sugar water.

I put my hands together, “Namaste.” I said.

And I stopped the thoughts by replacing them with mouthfuls of lasagna.

I went to 7-11 on Elgin Street and bought my two customary Coronas and ducked down into Take Out Comedy just past 8:30.

Jami was meeting with the judges and giving them the rules of the competition. Polly was waiting with her usual, big smile and getting ready to take and sell tickets.

Some of the comedians who were not competing but who wanted to watch were already there. They were helping with the setup and logistics. We all laughed and greeted each other.

“What number are you tonight?”

“I am number four.” I said.

“Good number,” everyone agreed.

As I walked past Jami to get to the green room he saw my shirt and he gave a chuckle, “I love it! Mrs. Jones!” And he bounded upstairs to the bathroom. He had seen my reworked material during the open mic and knew my bits about a Mrs. Jones.

Suddenly a man came to the back who was incredibly tall and with a strong, American accent. “Hey man! I am Ashley.” And he reached out his hand.

“Oh yeah, you are the one that flew in from the United States just for the competition?”

He smiled. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“You ever been to Hong Kong before?”

“Nope. Never. First time. Just got here at 2 pm.” And then he looked down at my pants. “Hey, I know this sounds crazy. But I forgot to pack a belt in my suitcase. Do you mind if I borrow your belt during my set?”

I laughed. And then I compared our waists. “You sure it will fit?” And I started unbuckling my belt. Then I handed it over to him.

He put it around him. “Perfect.” And it did look good.

I turned around and looked at the schedule on the whiteboard. “Yeah, we got Stuart between us – so make sure you come up to me before you go on and grab it.”

And he took my belt off and returned it to me.

Then the other comedians started trickling in. Mahesh showed up – and he was pumped.

We were talking about how people must have thought we were crazy all day – because we were saying our material out lout to ourselves all day.

“I was sitting on the toilet stall at work – and someone in the next stall asked who I was talking to.” Mahesh admitted. And we laughed.

Then Jami came to the back and pulled the curtain to the green room closed. “Everybody excited? Huh? You excited?” And he pushed out his hand for everyone to bump. Then he went through the details of the show.

Finally, he wrapped up by saying, “Tonight is about killing. Kill the audience. Kill your bits. But most importantly, have a great time, okay?” And he went around the circle and

gave a final fist bump. And then the photographer came up – and we all locked arms around each other – and they took a couple of shots.

Then we could hear the club was filling up with people.

The smokers went out through the back door to smoke on the patio.

The non-smokers took to their seats to prep.

I went to a corner and put my back to everyone like a naughty student and with the lights behind – seeing my shadow on the wall – I began my routine.

And again, the schoolgirl who was sobbing on the MTR came back into my head.

She was pretending nothing was wrong. Hiding her face in the corner of the MTR train.

And no one reached out to her. I was too scared to reach out and tell her – I know she was hurting.

I had to admit too I was hurting too.

But instead of hiding in the corner, I was getting on stage to make others laugh. If they were so busy laughing, they would not notice me.

Then my thoughts returned to her. And I wondered where she was. Would she try to sneak in and see the show?

I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts.

Then I started my set to myself. add you on Facebook?”

“Have you ever owed somebody money and then they

Sometimes when you are doing comedy – you get this explosion of realization – oh shit!

I am on a stage, with a spotlight, and a microphone – that’s it! Sometimes it feels like an out of body experience.

And here I was. Alone. Except for the coldness of the microphone in your hand.

I saw the more than a hundred people – some highlighted in yellow spotlights in front of me – and then I looked out into the darker shadows – saw all their faces staring back at me – waiting for me to make them laugh. That’s what they expected of me.

But actually I was searching for one face – her face - that I knew would not be here and just at that moment I said, “Dating is very scary. It’s hard to find a woman who is not afraid to be a woman, ambitious, passionate, funny, and…” And I did a quick pause. “…not a transvestite.” The audience laughed. “Because if a woman is perfect she is

usually a man. Right ladies?” And I searched the faces again. “Because if a man is perfect he usually likes men.”

And after all the practice, the words, the story I was trying to tell – I suddenly felt lost – forgot that I was trying to make others laugh – I felt empty.

Then without even seeing the six minute warning light being flashed, I headed into my final bit.

“But I did go out on a blind date just before getting here. Her name was Mrs. Jones. She is a little older. And she is a professor at Hong Kong University – teaching mathematics – but she used to teach United States geography with a focus on Montana….” I paused and the audience laughed.

“And I will never forget what she said. She said, ‘I’m married.’” And I paused and the audience splattered laughter. “And then she said, ‘I would like to hire you as my duck, which is a prostitute here in Hong Kong.” I took a breath searching the room. “Then I told her, ‘What do you think I am? A piece of meat? A toy you can just use and abuse and ignore.’” Pause. “Can you pay me ten thousand Hong Kong dollars?”

The audience ahh’d and laughed.

“Now I have paid off my dad.” And then I did one last search of the room for her face – but she wasn’t there. And who was I kidding – she would never be there.

So I went for the kill.

“And I love you, Mrs. Jones.”

Written by GS Jackson, © 2009 LOL Entertainment Group, LLC (USA) Limited (HKG)