Honey, You're A Funny Girl

“This is Paris, Queenie. Of course we would leave him up there to die and then pelt the body with rotten vegetables.” About halfway through his sentence the a loud boo echoed from the somewhere behind them. “Ah, see it’s already started.” 

“I think you’re confusing Paris with some Arthurian court. The poor bastard’s on stage, not in the stockades. He doesn’t deserve a wilted cabbage to the face.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than the man had made some wonderfully awful joke that prompted the audience to call for his removal. “I suppose you might be right.”

Something as silly as Queenie’s accent had Tae rolling with laughter when the poor soul on stage couldn’t even make him chuckle. He stifled his loudness with a hand covering his mouth. Eventually he was able to quiet down long enough to hear the heckling start. “Hope he finishes soon for his sake.”

A grin split the comedian’s face as the man laughed. As his laughter dimmed (after gaining a few curious looks from bored patrons) she nodded in agreement. “He’s gonna get the hook soon. They won’t let him die up there... I hope.”

“From New York City,” he replied with an exaggerated accent that he thought sounded quite like Queenie’s. There was no saving the comedian on stage in Tae’s opinion. The man’s word play didn’t land with the way he rushed through certain parts of the jokes and waited for laughs at the wrong moments. Given a better performer maybe the material might have been funny. “I don’t think there is any.” 

Queenie cackled, shaking her head. “Whaddaya talking about I don’t sound like that!” she replied, exaggerating her accent some more. She winced as a heckler started up from the back. “This poor bastard.”

“You can add Master of the English language to that title. Soon enough I could pass for a regular American,” he said with a wink. “Eat hot dogs, talk about baseball, and live the American dream.” He finished off his glass of water and leaned back into chair. Another performer was taking the stage now which drew the bandit’s attention away from Queenie. He tsked unimpressed at the first few jokes. “You’re better.” 

“A perfect American citizen,” She laughed, shaking her head. The next comedian had taken the stage, and unfortunately, none of their jokes seemed to be landing. It earned a few polite titters from the audience, but no one was in stitches. At his comment, she turned to look at him, a sympathetic grimace on her face. “Hopefully they’re just saving their good jokes?”

“I suppose that’s true.” He let out a little laugh with her. “Ohh, I welcome it these days,” he said, irony thick in his tone, a contrast to his content expression. “Kidding.” He removed a hand from his pocket to pick at some fluff on his coat. “Do you come here often to wax about comedy?” 

“No,” She said with a little snort of laughter. “Usually I’m telling jokes instead of depressing people with my own problems.” Queenie gave the man a lopsided smile. “Couldn’t you tell by the ‘sad clown’ aura of comedy I have flowing about me?” She asked with a sarcastic eyebrow wriggle.

@queenie-ofcomedy

“Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that? Here, lemme just—” 

Dallas stared up at the petite woman who woke him up from a light doze. His sketch book was left forgotten in his lap with his charcoal piece held loosely in his palm. Maybe an hour, possibly two, had passed since he had fallen asleep under the shade of a tree in his favorite park. No words left his lips as a feather light touch moved his messy hair away from his blue eyes. Whoever she was, she was the kind of beauty Dallas could capture on paper and still itch for more.

She had been sitting in the park, soaking up the first warm day Paris had enjoyed in a while. Every once in a while, she would look up from her book to people watch. At one point, her eyes fell on a man under a nearby tree. Queenie’s face scrunched up into a lopsided smile. It reminded her of Marcello, the way his hair insisted on falling in his face. She got up from her spot and walked over to him. She reached out ever so gently to push the hair back. “Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that?” She asked. “Here, lemme just-” He looked up, and it became abundantly clear to her that she must have just woken up from a nap. “Oh, god were you asleep? I’m sorry, I thought you were working on something.”

“And what of happy clowns?” Bhari’s hands found the pockets of his coat. Meeting new people never failed to feel like a puzzle for him, taking little clues in what they say to try to figure out who they are before they reveal themselves. So much could be said with so little. I’ll survive. He liked that, and nodded in understanding. “These transitional times of year are always strange. Not quite winter, not quite spring… My mind is clearer when I’m not preoccupied with trying not to freeze.”  

“Happy clowns are just better at hiding their troubles,” She said after a drag of her cigarette. “Comedy is rooted in pain. I mean, whatever created all this,” She gestured vaguely to everything around them with her cigarette, the smoke leaving behind a trail in its wake, “had a warped sense of humor.” Queenie laughed a little, shaking her head. “You should get inside then, monsieur before you catch your death.”

     He was more than happy to help, and promptly flicked up a flame to hold to the end of her cigarette. Although he was a social smoker, himself, (there was no better way to figure out what to do with your hands in social settings) he wasn’t up for the taste of tobacco that evening. The lighter, after all, was a gift from a colleague. “I’ve never seen so many frowns outside of a comedy club,” he said, and the image made him smile. “Beyond minor lighter malfunctions, are you alright?” 

She inhaled, letting the smoke fill her lungs and let out a long, steady breath. The corner of her mouth quirked up. “What can I say? Sad clowns make people laugh.” She flicked some of the ash onto the cobblestone beneath her feet. “I’ll survive.” Queenie smiled. “It’s just a rough time of the year.”

​ @queenie-ofcomedy ❈ closed.

     Misery loves company, that was true. One would think that a comedy club would spit out people in high spirits, but that did not seem to be the case as he watched a visibly frustrated woman struggle with a lighter. Feeling a tad miserable himself, he wondered if her type of misery would like company. “May I help?” he asked, pulling a newly filled silver lighter from his lapel. “You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

Queenie was not in a good mood. This time of year was always particularly difficult for the woman. It was around this time in the year that her husband had proposed. Then their anniversary followed, and then the anniversary of his death. It was a whirlwind of emotions, and now her damn cigarette just wouldn’t light. She let out an angry huff as she clicked the lighter to no avail. She looked up to the sound of a voice. She nodded, giving a wry laugh. “Like you would not believe. Yes, please.” She said, holding the cigarette between her lips and drawing closer to ignite the damned thing.

Vivienne’s eyes flicked back and forth from the performer onstage to her grumpy complaining audience member. At the sound of being chewed out by not one but two women at this point – rather elegantly, Vivienne liked to think – the man appeared to be growing tenser by the second, his irritation showing through in his rapidly reddening face. Could that possibly even be …embarrassment? Vivienne wondered, not without glee.

“No, perhaps that doesn’t fit you, dear,” she said, looking at the man with the wide smile of a consummate performer soaking in the rapt attention of those watching, “What do yo think?” she called to the woman onstage with a smile. “Fuchsia might be quite lovely on this gentleman. don’t you think? It’s rather good for those who like being the center of attention, you see.”

As Vivienne sat back slightly, satisfied enough with herself to look around at her fellow audience members, it appeared to her that they might be warming up a little. No one looked bored in the least now, and a few were even smiling.

The heckler, though, appeared to be coming apart in front of everyone’s very eyes. Was that a bulging vein, even? “…Aww …!” he repeated, more growling than speaking, his hands clenching and un-clenching. “Aww …You–!” he finally burst out, turning and making his exit with deafening stomping noises as we went.

How delightful! Vivienne thought to herself, shooting a conspiratorial glance at the comedian. Nothing like a good public shaming to liven up the night, eh?

The poor idiot that had deigned to heckle Queenie was now reminiscent of an oversized tomato. The poor dears masculinity seemed rather fragile, as the women’s jabs about which lipstick color would suit his complexion and mustache best seemed to slowly push the poor bastard closer to detonating.

 “Fuschia! Now that would be his color! Something bright and beautiful that attracts attention, no? Perfect for someone who thinks its a good idea to call out in the middle of a show to tell the comedienne that she isn’t funny. The color and the attitude just screams ‘make me the butt of your next joke! I’m begging you!’”

And finally, the ticking time bomb of the man’s ego finally exploded. She couldn’t help but laugh as the man sputtered, storming away. “Well, folks. I believe our lovely friend took up the rest of my time for the evening. Thank you so much for your time, and enjoy the rest of your night.”

As she walked off the stage, she waved to the bartender, gesturing to the woman who had helped her out. She held up two fingers, for two drinks, as she walked up to the bar. 

“Perhaps embracing your femininity instead of needing to also be like a male comic worked in your favour.” He mused as he took the cigarette from his lips and placed it on the ashtray as their coffees came. Sitting up a little he took his first sip and shrugged. “How are you finding Paris otherwise. Settling in alright so far? You are rather far from home.”

“Perhaps.” She said, a wry smile sitting on her lips. “Paris is lovely so far. It’s been a few years now, but my French has improved a lot. And the fact that it is far from home is exactly why I like it.”

“When can’t all be young and beautiful. You’ll get there eventually and then I get to make fun of your wrinkles.” Taemin rubbed the wrinkles around his eyes already feeling tired from the being around the crowd. “Good, then I’m getting better,” he said switching over to English. His accent was thick, but at least his words didn’t come out awkwardly. 

“That’s a title I’ll take to my death.” 

“Crows feet and laugh lines. That’s all I’ll be,” she chortled, shaking her head. Her face broke into a delighted smile when he spoke her language. “Listen to you!” Queenie was certainly impressed. “I think it’s a pretty good title.”

“What, here?” Gabriel scoffed, “I think I’ll just take my chances and drive it myself, I doubt anyone here can do it for me… nor do I want them to.”

The scuffle continued behind him, and the critic remained oblivious until the moment he stood up from his chair; his seat hit the one of the men, and it was enough to give them pause. Gabriel turned around and nodded, but not before being mildly surprised that they were there the whole time. He returned to his seat, before remembering what he was supposed to be doing.

“I’ll return shortly,“ he declared, standing back up again so he could stumble his way to the bathroom.

Queenie vaguely paid attention to the scuffle going on behind her new friend, as he attempted to rationalize not leaving his car. “Whatever floats your boat. Or your car, in this case.”