Issuu

Confirmation (Sydney, Australia) I had been sending emails to John Daryl the owner and head comedian of The Laugh Garage for two weeks without a response. Finally, I got an email that said the club was not open on Monday, 28 December. I took it that the club was open on Tuesday, 29 December, and asked if I could perform. There was no response. When Tuesday came, I sent SMS’s to my friends in and around the Sydney area to come and support me for my comedy debut in Australia not really sure if I would perform or not. Even they gave no responses. Work delayed me until later than I had hoped on Tuesday and I was frantic trying to hurry to the Chatswood Train Station, buying a ticket to Town Hall and then trying to find where the comedy club was located downtown Sydney CBD. While sitting on the train, I feverishly studied my comedy routines in my little spiral notepad while listening to my iPod Shuffle. I was bobbing my head to the music and writing. Looking in the reflection of the train window, I looked like Eminem working on my rhymes. Always before performing in a new city, you start to worry and doubt yourself. Especially being in Australia where I heard the hecklers are hardcore and the humor is more self-deprecating and low brow. More about “sucking your own dick” and “I can’t get laid” jokes. I had been prepping for hecklers since Sunday. I was trying to determine if I would take the route of the comedian greats – Bill Hicks, George Carlin, and Dane Cook and basically scream obscenities at them. Or would I have enough gumption as Dave Chapelle and be able to outwit their heckling with a joke to humiliate them into quiet. Or would I be the good ol’ boy from Alabama and with a smile – and let the crowd boo them away for me. Anyway, I was worried.

My Blackberry finally vibrated and it was Erik. He said in his SMS, “I am on my way dawg. Be there soon.” I replied back that I was late too and see him at the club. When I got out at Town Hall it was difficult to find the stairs that led out. Finally outside, being a typical guy I didn’t ask for directions – I just started walking. Finally with only fifteen minutes to show time, I relented and asked someone waiting for the walking sign to turn into a Green Man. “Yeah, mate, you are going the wrong way. You need to go back up to Queen’s and make a left.” And with that, I hurried off and retread my journey making the appropriate adjustments. Then turning the corner on Elizabeth Street and across from Hyde Park, I saw the red and yellow sign pointing to the basement which was “The Laugh Garage”. And I wondered if all good comedy clubs were located in basements? I got downstairs and was directed by a red rope railing – which emptied in front of a bar. The barmaid saw me and she said something aloud – pointing me out to a tall, broad older man with salt and pepper hair. “John.” He turned and looked at me. “You Jackson?” “Yeah,” and I held out my hand. “Sorry I am late, I got a little lost getting here.” We shook hands. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said and brought up a piece of paper and struck a pen through my name. “We are going to put you on during the second set – is that okay?” “How much time I got?” “Five minutes is enough for the first time.” He then leaned forward and told the bar maid, “He is on tonight.” And she nodded. “I didn’t think I was on the show. I never got a confirmation,” I said. John laughed. “Hey man, life is not about getting a confirmation. Life is just about showing up,” and he slapped my back. “You want something to drink?” I heard the barmaid say behind me. While I was spinning around to say yes, I saw the crowd and saw Erik – he lifted his beer – to say hello and ask then he mouthed, “Get me another.” “Pure Blonde?” I asked mouthing the words.

He shrugged yes. I turned to the barmaid and saw my liquid courage in the cooler behind her and broke out into a smile. “Give me two Coronas,” pointing towards them, “and a Pure Blonde.”

Just before going as I was standing in the shadows to the side of the stage, an attractive woman came up to me and in an Aussie accent, “When are you going up Jackson?” I squinted and looked and recognized her as Diana. I leaned forward immediately and kissed both her cheeks. “Wow, you came! I didn’t think you would!’ “Of course I was going to. But when are you going up?” “I think the next set.” “I came here for you – not them,” she said a little loud talking into the comedian on stage. I quietly shushed her. “Hey, don’t want them to hear you.” “I don’t fucking care,” she said with a sly smile and I could smell the beer on her breath. “You here alone?” “No, I brought an old colleague from my old job, Olander, with me. He is originally from New York. He is sitting right there.” And she pointed to a muscular, good looking man sitting at a table near the edge of the stage. “Awesome.” “Let me go sit down. Tell them to hurry the fuck up and put you on stage.” I laughed quietly and she squeezed my shoulder as she walked back to her table with a new beer in her hand.

In the end I got to do eight minutes until they flashed the light. I went conservative and did my tried and true stuff. But because I had been working on a lot of new stuff, the old tried and true stuff came out a bit clunky. But my bits about Facebook and my dad warmed them up. There was a table of hot British birds all with one guy – who told the comedian before me – he was from Darwin, Australia - to the right of the stage. They were also the only people I could really see – the rest of the audience was hidden in darkness with the spotlight right in my eyes. They laughed and one of the blonde girls was biting her lip and twirling her hair as I performed.

When it was all over, Diane and Olander came over to me. Erik soon joined us – and I introduced everyone. That’s when I noticed that Olander was very, very tan. “No I am black,” he said. And laughed. “You are black?” I said. “Yes, I am half Scottish and Jamaican.” “Holy shit! You have a huge penis and huge balls.” I said. And we all laughed. “No one complains,” he said and he put his hand on his waist – and that’s when I knew he was gay. John came over to say hello to us but mostly to chat up Diane. The next thing I know Diane was demanding John give us free shots of tequila. Erik, Olander, and myself roared with laughter. “God, women got the power to do anything!” After the fourth round of tequila shots, and the comedy club was empty – except for us – Olander got the idea to do karaoke on the empty stage. John said it was okay as things were progressing with Diane. Olander disappeared behind the bar and took out his iPhone. Then suddenly, the speakers were booming from Black Eyed Peas, “Going to be a good night.” Erik was on stage first, microphone in hand blaring out the words. Olander ran out and joined him. I laughed and downed my Red Bull vodka – then leaped – slid between them on the stage. After one final round of tequila shots, and singing a dozen songs – Olander switching to Madonna, Erik switching it Notorious and Kanye – and me switching it Blackstreet “No Diggity” – we were sweating, dancing, and laughing. Diane and John were busy against the bar. Suddenly, Erik very drunk thought it would be funny to stack all the furniture on top of each other. He took tables, chairs, and put them on top of other tables and chairs – like he was playing a larger than life game of Jenga. And when it would topple he would giggle and if it didn’t topple – he would push it over – and still giggle. That’s when I realized it was four in the morning – and we had partied in the comedy club the whole night. I elbowed Erik in the ribs. “What the fuck dawg!” he said and then broke out into a laugh. “I think we need to get out of here. I got to be at work tomorrow at 8 am.” I said.

“Alright dawg – lets get the fuck out of here!” And he toppled some tables and chairs. We tried to gather everyone together so we could leave – but then John and Diane were still involved – Olander disappeared to crowbar them apart – and Erik and I took the fire exit and ended up on Queens Street. Outside, two pissed British guys saw us and staggered forward asking what club did we just leave from. “Comedy club my dear fellows,” Erik said with his best British accent. “What the fuck were you doing in a comedy club?” one of the drunk guys yelled out. “You will never understand,” and Erik’s American accent came out. “You cunts are fucking Yanks!” the other guy said. I walked past quickly to avoid any possible drunken brawl. But Erik wasn’t fazed. “Are you still talking?” The drunken blokes kept saying something with the words, cunts, Yanks, fucking – interchangeably. Erik and I were walking across the street on a Red Man too impatient to wait for the Green Man. Erik yelled out, “If you are still talking you got small cocks!” They kept talking. “God damn! You got some small cocks!” Erik yelled – and I walked faster but Erik – although half the size – meandered way behind me. We caught a taxi to Chatswood Train Station where Erik would take a bus or train to his parked SUV the next morning when he was sober. He passed out once he sat down. And I spent the ride talking to the driver from Nigeria. And I debuted my Nigerian jokes and told him about my film experience with Nollywood. He laughed and was impressed with my knowledge of the film industry in Nigeria. “You must hate the stereotypes about Nigerians especially after this failed terrorist attack last week.” He shook his head. “No man. The other day, I had this guy from here in Sydney who asked me to make contact with a bank Nigeria to find out about a confirmation of when his funds were going to be deposited into his account.” “Confirmation?”

“Yeah, he thought he was getting a million Euros! But instead – the next day he told me – they took all his money from his account!” His eyes went back to the road. “I don’t trust my people either. But we are the smartest people on the planet when it comes to scheming.” We laughed together.

It was ten minute to midnight on New Year’s Eve. Erik was in the empty Cheers Bar just off Queens Street and our table had become a focal point. We had the 14th best Italian cage fighter showing us that his nose had been broken so many times – he could push it to the side – dislocate it completely. I gagged as I heard his nasal cartilage snap, crackle, and pop. We also had two older brothers from Edinburgh, Scotland who were intrigued about me being a comedian. “Tell us a fucking joke Yank comedian!” they said in unison. Then I looked across the table to Erik and said aloud, “Doesn’t he look like the CEO of our company?” And we both broke out in a big laugh. And the resemblance was startling – same nose, same eyes, but he was wearing a baseball cap and had huge tattoos on his muscled arms. Erik looked at him, “Take off your hat! We think you look like the 40th richest man in the world.” The Scottish man complied. And soon as he did – damn – he looked just like the CEO of our company. “We should take you to our office here in Sydney – put you in a suit and tie – and man – people will worship you!” “You fucking Yanks are taking a piss,” he said and put his cap back on. We shook our heads vehemently. “No way man. You look just like him!” Erik said. “I want a picture!” I said. “No one will believe it!” And I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out my Samsung HD video and picture camera. Erik reached out his hand to take it. Those on bar stools jumped off and we all stood together. Erik snapped a couple of pictures. “Damn Jackson, your camera sucks! His face is always blurry!” “What?” And then I snatched the camera away from Erik and asked the waitress walking past us, “Will you take a picture of us?” She smiled demurely. “Sure.”

Erik then joined us as a band of brothers. The waitress fiddled with the controls – and it took a long time before we heard the electronic shutter sound. But then she said, “Sorry, his face is blurry.” Pointing to the man who looked like the twin of our CEO. “Let me take one more.” And just before she snapped it, the man who looked like our CEO – reached behind us – Erik and I – and with a huge explosion of energy – squeezed our asses. Erik and I jumped up and out of the shot. The waitress handed me back the camera. “Confirm that shot,” she said. And again – even though Erik and I had been in movement – we were clear but the CEO’s picture was blurry. Erik looked over it, “What the fuck?” I laughed. “I think our CEO has a patent on his face. Even if it’s someone who looks like him – all digital cameras have the technology to blur any face that looks like his – like his face is intellectual property.” The Scottish man who looked like a billionaire scowled. “You fucking Yanks are taking a piss,” he said and with that he added, “I am going to get another pint.”

On New Year’s Day morning, I woke up with a burning headache. The light was streaming through the bedroom window. I was having a dream that I was at my boss’s birthday party – and instead of being in Hong Kong – we were in Cape Town – at a Primi Piatti. And my best friend from Germany was there –Aksel. And while making a toast for his birthday, my boss said loudly, “Humans are motivated by only two things – love and fear.” And my boss’s usual style – he went quiet and looked everyone in the eye. “May you all be motivated by love. Cheers.” And we all clicked our beer and wine glasses. My buddy Aksel who was sitting beside me in my dream leaned over me and in his Finnish and English accent, “Yeah, fuck fear.” And we clicked our glasses. That’s when I woke up. I went straight to my computer and checked my Facebook to see if I wrote any embarrassing Twitters. And while reading through them I saw my Twitter that read, …never intended soulparking.com to go on forever; it's a story of a man trying to find home in a person; here's to ending soulparking in 2010…

And it was true. I hoped that this year was the last year of SoulParking.com. Not because I didn’t like writing it – but it was time to end it – and start a new chapter of my life. But in the back of my head I was afraid. What if I could never found the person who I could call home? Or what if I had already found her – and I let her go? Or worse yet – I had found her – and I hadn’t fought for her? I never confirmed to her – that she was the one. I knew it in my bones. I knew it was in my soul. I would fight the gods for her. To change my thought process, I checked my Gmail. Zen started chatting with me right away. “Happy New Year!” she said happily. “Happy New Year!” I typed back. “You got any resolutions?” “I am not sure.” I typed truthfully. “Are you okay?” she asked quickly. “I have been thinking about my life.” Zen waited a while before replying. “Well, you want some advice from a friend?” “Sure.” “You need to get rid of your past. Your feelings you can’t shake. It’s not fair to the next person you date.” “True. But it’s so hard.” “No, it’s not. Just go and do it. Confront it. And if they do not confirm it back. Move on.” “I need confirmation?” “Yes, too much of your heart is in limbo. Confirm if they feel the same way. If so, see what happens. But not knowing will make you repeat last year.” “Yeah I don’t want that.” “Then do something.”

Then an idea came to me. Maybe it was conceived in the remaining brain cells left after my hangover. I created another tab on my Firefox and left the chat. I went to one website and did a query. I went to another website and did another query. Then I remembered what Erik had told me, “Fuck fear.” And in my dream Aksel had said the same, “Fuck fear.” I said out loud, “Fuck fear.” I remembered what John told me when I arrived at the Laugh Garage. “Hey man, life is not about getting a confirmation. Life is just about showing up.” “Life is about showing up,” I said as I was typing in my American Express card number. Then the webpage sat in front of me with that Yes button and the question written out, “Do you want to confirm?” I sat there for a second or two and then ran my hand over my face – and blew out a breath. “Welcome to 2010,” and like I was jumping off a cliff, I clicked the Yes button. And suddenly, my stomach plummeted and my heart began racing. I suddenly knew in ten days from that click, my life would be forever changed. I went back to my Gmail, Zen had continued chatting to me without me responding, but that’s not what drew my attention. There in bold black letters was an email with the subject – Confirmation.