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“So my best friend died last month,” Marius says as the microphone slides down in his sweaty hand. “Bad way to start a set, I’m sure you’re thinking, but trust me- it gets worse.”
There’s an uncomfortable chuckle in the back of the half-empty bar. He can’t really see faces well with the stage lighting, but Marius has already reached the conclusion that the tight-five he’d prepared for the open mic was going to fail- stupendously.
(“ Wow…” Courfeyrac says slowly as Marius rejoins him at the bar. “Marius, that was uh… that was-”
“-Terrible,” he bemoans and hides his hot face in his arms. “I know. I told you it was going to be bad if you were here.”
The bartender laughs. “Nah, kid. It’s also pretty fuckin’ bad when he’s not here.”)
Marius had only written it a couple hours ago with a manic sweat, and showed up at his favorite bar, writing down his name before realizing he hadn’t practiced, hadn’t done stand-up in a considerably long time, and hadn’t changed his shoes. He should have changed his shoes.
“But yeah, my best friend died. Which is kind of crazy for someone my age to say unless they’ve been to... like, war. And if you cannot tell by posture and disposition, I’m probably banned from enlisting.”
Crickets. Crickets, crickets, crickets- God! He feels insane.
(“ I didn’t know anybody still liked these,” Courfeyrac says from his floor, looking through a box of comedy albums.
Marius places a record on his shitty record player he’d found on the side of the road. “They were my dad’s,” he says, placing the needle. “I’m trying to… meet him, I guess.” )
“But the thing they don’t tell you about your best friend dying, is that you begin a weird relationship with his family,” Marius huffs. “You meet a guy in university and bond over a niche type of porn one day, and the next his mother is petting your hair and crying into your shoulder that you’re a good boy for agreeing to scatter his ashes.”
The microphone slides down in his hand again, and he shakily places it back into the stand, but grips it anyway. He needs an anchor before he falls to his knees.
In the very back of the bar, a familiar face wanders closer to the audience, an excited smile curling the corners of its mouth. Marius pretends that it doesn’t bother him.
“Um, well that’s the other thing they don’t tell you about your best friend dying- I’m learning that everybody's written a will but me.” The stage lights are too hot for him to think straight. “I guess that’s a thing adults are supposed to be doing, but I can’t even remember to pay rent on time.” Was that even a joke?
He should have worn a t-shirt. Who even wears a button-up to open mics? Marius imagines him on the stage with massive pit stains and prays for another episode. He wishes time would move too fast and suddenly he’d be done with the set. He’s not sure this is something he wants to live through. He shouldn’t have lived to begin with
“But because I guess he never wanted to squash the constant assumption that I was his boyfriend, he asked me to deal with his ashes.” A bead of sweat drips down his face. “He’d be thrilled to hear that in his purest form, condensed into ash, he was finally the skinniest he’d ever been- one kilo.”
The face in the back of the audience laughs, sparking a few other awkward laughs.
“His family isn’t from around here though, so for some genius reason they decided to ship my best friend to me in the mail. Once again, at his skinniest, he’d also be happy that he was first-class, handle with care .”
His face feels hot. His face feels numb. He feels like he’s roasting in the spotlight. The face at the back of the bar is clapping with a smile. More people are laughing now. Maybe they’re pity laughs. Maybe they’re not laughing at all and he’s imagining all of it, imagining standing here on stage, imagining living on as he bleeds out in the street.
Marius is losing it.
“But I guess the grieving process doesn’t include sending a warning that my best friend was taking his last-ever road trip up to my apartment. When the doorbell rang I had just lotioned up.” Marius mimed rubbing his hands together. “Because even in death we have so much in common; we’re both pretty ashy.”
He’s laughing- there in the back of the bar- laughing hard enough that it convinces other people to join in, even though the jokes aren’t anywhere near his best. Marius blinks through the sweat.
( Courfeyrac is doubled over, cackling as Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Dude, it wasn’t that funny.”
Marius can’t help but smile though, and passes the joint to Grantaire. Maybe Courfeyrac is indulging him, but it feels good anyway for someone to like his jokes for once. )
“I knew from the will that he wanted to be scattered at sea. And- here’s the third thing they don’t tell you about your best friend dying- he’s a basic bitch!” Marius exclaims, waiting for some laughs. With the cackler in the back, people are more willing to… indulge him. “I can finally talk shit about him without him finding out- so yes, I was judging his “celebration-of-life,”” he says with air quotes.
Marius wipes his face with his sleeve, his hands shaking like leaves. His hearing starts to get a little fuzzy- the laughs sound far away.
“And as horribly curious as I was, with this mysterious first-class handle with care package, I ripped it open. And that basic bitch, in his porcelain urn, slipped right out of my lotioned hands, and crashed down on my freshly-shampooed carpet.”
His hands are in front of him, like they were two hours prior, as the urn fell to his feet, ashes exploding out into his shag carpet, and the tips of his sneakers. Marius’s eyes fall to his shoes against the stage floor, white and grey still dusting the toes.
He should have changed his fucking shoes.
Marius untucks his button up, he feels like he might be sick. He might hurl, right here, right now in front of everyone, and have a better reason to be dead by morning. Better than the day before. And the day before.
“He was such a fancy bastard, of course he wanted to be skinny at sea for eternity,” Marius gasps for air. “But he wanted…he wanted to be scattered at sea, but- he all, he got my living room carpet instead.”
He flubs the delivery of his final line. He’s not even sure it’s a punchline. Once again, the audience seems unsure if they’re allowed to laugh at all. Marius can’t remember his transition into his next joke. His hands begin to get sweaty underneath the hot stage lights. They’re too slippery to hold a microphone, too slippery to hold an urn. Marius lets go of the mic stand back onto the stand with a few rapid blinks.
“Um. I’m Marius Pontmercy- thanks.” And he walks off stage before he passes out. His set was supposed to go for another few minutes. He can’t even remember his next jokes at all. It’s gone, all of it.
He collapses in a chair at a table, at the far end of the bar, where he can hardly hear the few, pitiful claps before the next person goes on stage. Marius’s eyes are burning- burning with sweat, with tears. The familiar face is leaning against the bar, looking over at him.
( “Are you gonna write a set about me?” Courfeyrac asks one day when they’re making dinner. “I think I’m a pretty funny person to live with. I’m sure I could prompt some hilarious jokes. ”
“My sets are bad enough,” Marius huffs. “I think talking about you in them would count as actual slander to your reputation.”
“Well, you’ll never get better if you stop trying.”)
At home there’s a tupperware box on his nightstand, full of salvaged ash and carpet debris, written in permanent marker: Courfeyrac . He doesn’t know what to do. He never knows what to do. The face passes by his table, and pulls the chair out a bit before leaving the bar. Marius watches it stop in the doorway, looking back, and with the face finally blurring into nothing, it’s gone.
It’s him, an empty table, and the awkward, quiet laughter in the room next over for eternity. His own personal hell.