Work Text:
As you stand there at the bus stop, watching the back of the bus trundle down the road, you realize that you may have been a few minutes too late.
"We love your work, you've got the makings of something great here, and you've put in a commendable effort towards making it marketable. But it's just missing a certain something to appeal to a wider audience."
Studio execs never know their ass from their elbow.
Your name is Dave Strider, and for the third time in a row, your spec script for sbahj: the 1th moviev has been rejected for incredibly unclear reasons. You don't get it. They loved your student films. They flat-out admit you have a property that can make money as proven by the pages of balance sheets in your messenger bag. But they just refuse to take the leap, citing some vague lack of 'something'. Well, how the fuck are you supposed to add 'something' if they don't tell you what it is they're looking for? You're starting to think they're just blowing you off for fun and games.
Fuck this. You're walking home. You need time to cool off anyway.
It's early afternoon and the sky overhead is gray, obscuring the afternoon sun. Your shades protect you from more than just its rays, though. The neighborhood is lively, but not crowded, so you're not alone, and you make a token effort not to run into anyone. But you also refuse to meet anyone's gaze, even with the protective tint of your shades. You just don't get it. You're racking your brain over what changes you could possibly make, what concessions you can give without compromising your entire vision, when the first droplet hits your cheek.
You look to the ground at your feet to see the sidewalk dotted in dark specks, more and more as the rain starts coming down. Other people pull up their hoods or pull out umbrellas. But you didn't think that far ahead, so it's just you in your nice-ass suit. Yeah, sure, Mother Nature gets to be as trite and hackneyed as she wants with this sad-dude-in-the-rain bullshit, but your script isn't good enough for some reason?
The one saving grace is that you know where you are. You scan quickly down a line of boutiques, bakeries, and other assorted storefronts, and see that there's a show at the comedy club half a block down. You can't read the marquee, but it's lit up, which means someone's performing. Poor bastard, getting that Wednesday afternoon time slot. Or bitch, you amend internally, challenging your internal biases surrounding women in comedy. But you have nothing better to do until this rain lets up, so why not drink your troubles away and let some idiot try and fail to crest the incredibly low bar of knock-knock jokes?
You know the girl staffing the box office today, a 20-something like you with hazel eyes and wavey hair— dark pink today, though it was teal the last time you saw her— so you slide up to the window, smooth as anything, and put on a winning grin. You lean on the counter, suave as a motherfucker, despite the fact that the rain dotting your suit jacket has transformed you into more of a spotted douchebag.
"Wow," she says with one brow raised curiously. "Surprised to see you back here after that stunt on open mic night."
You laugh, caught off guard by the fact that she even remembers that. It was months ago. "Oh yeah? How'd all that shake out, anyway?"
"Well, no thanks to you, management is requiring all first time sign-ups to go through a vetting process," she says with a shrug.
"All thanks to me," you retort, puffing your chest as if it's something to be proud of. "All I did was expose a flaw in the system. So. How about letting your favorite provocateur in? For old time's sake."
Rolling her eyes, she leans in and fixes you with a solid stare. "We're sold out."
"Just like that?" You feign offense with a hand to your chest, and cant your head down to look at her over the rims of your shades, face scrunched like you're in any sort of pain. "You're going to send me back into this torrential downpour to freeze my ass off?"
She peers around your shoulder to the street, where it's 72°F and drizzling, then looks back up at you, brow creased. "Well, if letting you in will get you to stop making that face at me."
"It's puppy dog eyes," you try. You're not really as desperate to get in there as you're acting, but it's the principle of the thing now.
"It's terrifying," she deadpans.
"Tomato, potato." You're already pulling your debit card out of your wallet and proceed to slide it through the gap in the window.
She takes the card and processes it, sliding it back with a drink ticket. "You're lucky I like rebellion."
"Hell yeah." You shove your wallet back into your pocket and head for the doors, glancing over your shoulder only briefly. "Thanks, Luce, you're the best!"
You don't see her face, but you hear her roll her eyes again. "Don't I know it."
~~~
Inside the club, the man on stage has already started his set. The marquee outside was advertising him as John Crocker, a name that means nothing to you, and you mentally scoff as you see him for the first time. Alright, sure, he's kind of a silver fox at first blush, with the whole Burt Reynolds thing going on, mustache and all. That's about where your interest ends, as you slide into an open seat at the bar and wave the bartender down. This place is always pretty clean, but it can't escape the faint air of old beer. You order your gin and tonic with the Hendricks— because you're worth it— and when it's placed in front of you, you take a sip, the bittersweet, almost medicinal flavor warming all the way down your throat. You aren't a heavy drinker, to the surprise of many; you find your vices in things you can't usually buy at a store or restaurant. But every so often, you partake in the Devil's juice.
"—So one day, he sat me down and taught me how to shave. Which, first off, kind of feels like a prank to a teenager." The man on stage pantomimes something, which you quickly pick up is probably the act of shaving with a straight razor. You refuse to do anything straight, so it's safety razors for you, at least until they invent a gay razor. "Here's a super sharp blade! Put it on your face! It'll be fine!"
You snort, despite yourself. It's not that funny but— okay, your interest is piqued. If nothing else, this will be an interesting study in a field of comedy you don't really engage with that often. At worst, it'll give you something to bitch about once you get home.
"On my face? Yeah. But don't press too hard. Okay, but like... define 'too hard.'" Like any good comedian, this Crocker guy pauses there as the audience chuckles, and you pretend you're not straining to keep a straight face.
"Well..." He pretends to mull this over for a beat too long, but just long enough that the audience is still engaged. "Not so hard that Sondheim writes a musical about it." He nods sagely, and the audience really seems to enjoy that; you're not cultured enough to get it, but there's still something in the presentation that's funny nonetheless, and you inelegantly snort into your cup. "That's not a lesson, that's the origin story for Sweeney Todd, aimed the wrong direction."
You feel your phone buzz in your pocket and pull it out. Your sister. Rose. You groan inwardly; she's asking you how the pitch went, and you know that the longer you take to respond, the more her inane psychoanalytical bullshit is going to go off the rails. She's not even a psychologist, she just likes fucking with you, so you turn your attention and start tapping out a completely nonchalant non-answer.
By the time you hit send, the comedian has moved on.
"And he explained dry cleaning to me. Which—by the way—is not dry." You watch as he looks about, conspiratorial, before leaning in closer to the mic, and adding in a stage whisper: "That's just a myth we've all agreed to believe, like Bigfoot or low-carb options at Olive Garden."
Fuck. You love Olive Garden, and you exhale sharply. Dave Strider is not immune to a bit of observational humor, when presented properly. Something about this guy is bizarrely intriguing. You want to keep listening, but your phone buzzes again in your hand. It's hard to divide your attention, so you shoot another text back, before returning all your concentration to the man on stage. He's moved on from the dry cleaning. You're having to piece together the lines you're catching, but his delivery is animated enough to make up for the confusion.
"You will, at some point, consider moving across the country because someone smiled at you in a way that felt statistically unlikely to be accidental... and you decided to trust the data." Crocker brings a hand up to his chin, squinting into the middle distance, scrutinizing this fictitious smile. "I don't know if they meant it, but I've decided the odds are good enough to uproot my entire life. This is exactly what Dad has been preparing me for." His proud confidence slowly gives way to confusion. "I'm not sure how knowing the optimal foam density of shaving cream is going to help—"
He pauses, looking for all the world like he's seriously contemplating this, then nods decisively and adds, "But I'm sure it's gonna come up."
At some point, this went from being a show on a stage with an audience separated by a foot or two of space, to having a chat with that one friend who gets really excited when telling a story, no matter how inconsequential it is. And for some reason, you find it funny. Fuck. Alright. You have to admit. He's good, and you're getting ideas.
"And the worst part is—"
The worst part is that Rose texts you again, and you miss the rest of Crocker's sentence while you bring up your phone to tell her off.
TG: rose
TG: rose i need you to shut up
TG: for maybe ten minutes
TG: my muse has descended from the heavens
TG: and he looks like tom selleck
TT: Well yes, Dave, I believe we all agree that Tom Selleck was sent from on high, but what does that have to do with your muse?
TG: not literally tom selleck rose come on keep up
TG: he just looks kind of like him
TG: or maybe a rejected member of the village people
TG: fuck if i know i just know this john crocker guy is up there and he hasnt said a single funny thing since i got here and im still laughing like the pillsbury fucking doughboy getting my tummy poked by a white suburban mom because her idea of consent and boundaries has been eroded by her shit ass husband and she stopped caring after the third crotch goblin
TT: Incredible. I give that one an 8/10 for addressing the issue of increasing disillusion of middle class white women.
TT: That's surprisingly astute for you.
TT: And your highest score in quite a while.
TG: rose can you take anything serious for one damn second
TT: How long have you known me? I think you know the answer to that.
By the time you finish bickering with your sister, veering into the topic of your failed pitch only briefly, you realize the comedian's routine is done and you curse. He's already gone off stage, and the crowd is starting to filter out into the damp evening air. By the time you get out there, it's dark, but... you feel renewed as fuck. You half-jog, half-speed walk the rest of the way home, the better to get to your computer and start putting down all the thoughts roiling in your head.
~~~
You spend the better part of the weekend revising your manuscript. It's better. It was already good, but now there's something to it that you can't quite pin. Something that came into your head listening to that old comedian. When you've done all you think you can, you send it off to your agent, and sit back, hoping beyond all hopes that this will be the secret sauce, the one weird little trick that you needed.
But it still bothers you that you can't really put a name to what, exactly, the comedian inspired in you. Sometimes that's how inspiration goes, but you're desperate to find out. You have to see him again. For research purposes and nothing more.
A quick Google search tells you that you're in luck: The comedian will be playing again the upcoming week. You make your plans, buy your tickets in advance, and get ready to listen this time. Really listen. You even go so far as to turn off your phone, a huge gesture for you. Rose will not be distracting you this time, even if it was kind of your fault last time.
You sit up front, arriving early before most of the crowd has filed in. A couple you've never met joins the table, and another singleton, but you don't pay them any mind. You're more interested in the man on stage.
And hey. Now you get to learn about this guy's taste in movies.
"Because I love movies where the entire plot is just someone making the worst possible decision... and then fully committing to it."
Up close, he's unnervingly charming. You were endeared from far away, but now you can see the glint in his eyes, and curve of his face, and maybe— just maybe— your heart does a little jump when he looks your way. You don't think much of it; it's natural for a comedian to do crowd work. It's half the job, really. But for that brief moment, it felt like something clicked into place, before being cruelly ripped away by another audience member who apparently seemed more interesting to focus on.
"These movies always struck a chord with me, because you know what they're about?" He pauses, an expert beat spent glancing over the crowd. You can practically see the gears turning behind his brilliant blue eyes, scanning the audience reaction, waiting for the exact right moment to continue. "I mean, besides toxic masculinity and an excuse to make things explode."
You snort again, in spite of yourself, and the rest of the audience chuckles with you. He again waits, quietly, patiently, until the small wave of laughter subsides.
"They're about family." You know that's not the punchline. But it sinks in, in the silence. The idea of family. It means a lot of different things to different people. You think of your sister Rose in the ensuing pause, before he continues. "...and doing something deeply unhinged, just to prove a point."
You know you shouldn't laugh as hard as you do. It's a lot more aggressive than most of the laughter in the room, and the comedian's eyes immediately lock onto you like a pair of very beautiful, sapphire-encrusted ICBMs.
"See, this guy gets it!" He doesn't know you were thinking about Rose, and the absolutely demented lengths you will both go to, in order to prove a point to one another. "Tell me, which deranged family member just came to mind for you?"
"My sister. Rose," you pipe in, once you get over the fact that he's looking straight at you. You've never been so glad to be wearing your shades.
"And your name is?" Crocker prompts.
"Dave."
"Dave and Rose. Alright." He nods, like he's deciding on which steak to buy at the grocery store. You should be used to being seen like this... but you're not. You resist the urge to wriggle in your chair. "And what do you and your sister do?"
"We're both writers."
"Both writers, huh? Your family must be proud."
He gazes out over the audience, silence far more pointed. There's a light chuckle, because that's it, that's the joke. That you're a writer, and you can't blame him for using that against you. But there's more to it. He must see it in your face, somehow. You know you keep your face schooled to be even at all times unless you choose to make another expression. Still, something gives you away, and instead of continuing that thought, he gives the audience a very solid stare until you hear a few chuckles, and then he moves on from talking about the rest of your family, letting the idea that you and your sister are writers be the punchline. You appreciate it, because you didn't think the fact that you're a goddamn orphan who grew up in foster care was going to be a very good accompaniment to whatever joke he's setting up.
Or maybe you're just reading into it because you desperately want him to not just see you, but to see you.
"So. You must both be pretty creative, huh?" he muses. "Tell me, what's the most unnecessary thing she's ever done to prove a point?"
"She took an argument we had and rewrote it as an epistolary novel," you respond quickly. Rose has done a lot of wild shit, but that one probably is your favorite. "Had it published and everything."
His eyes go wide behind his goofy Buddy Holly glasses. "She had it published?"
You can't help it. You smirk and nod. "It made the New York Times bestsellers list."
"Best sellers—" Crocker puts a hand to his forehead and does a short walk around the stage before coming back to the front. "Dave, do you want to come up here and take over the show? Because I could use a bathroom break anyway. A novel... like the kind they sell at bookstores? Where am I going to find it? Historical Fiction? Self Help? Sick Burns? Is that a section, because it should be."
"Fiction. It's called Per My Last Email."
"Per My Last Email. Wow." He's grinning ear to ear now, and it's the most beautiful smile you've ever seen. "That's spite with an ISBN. Passive aggression given Dewey decimal representation! You know what the best part is? You could be lying and I'd never know! So either you're telling the truth, or you're a fantastic liar, which is a critical skill for a writer. Thank you, Dave, I appreciate your contribution. Looks like I'll have to hit the bookstore to see if you won that argument or not. Or if I'm the only loser here."
The way he winks at you should not send such a shiver down your spine, but you force your face to stay even, even as his attention turns away from you. This should not have been as much of an experience as it was, and yet here you are, trying to maintain what little composure you have. Your leg bounces, and you know you need to get up and walk around. But you really want to hear the rest of the show.
"How am I supposed to follow that up? My family is certifiably insane, but not, you know... peer-reviewed insane. I tried to get them added to the DSM, but—"
This is a problem. A huge problem. Your fingers twitch, aching to... do anything. Text Rose. Vague post. Doom scroll. But your eyes are fixated, mesmerized by the man on stage. You're only hearing about half of his words because your head is too busy spinning as you try to contend with the prospect of having a crush on a guy you've never actually met.
"—they thought about you long enough to figure out what would specifically ruin your day—"
He knows your name now. That's a start. You don't know what to do about this. The last time you had anything resembling a celebrity crush was when you were 12, and it was socially acceptable to cut pictures of the Backstreet Boys out of magazines and paste them on your wall. Technically, you do live alone. You could get away with pinning pictures of this guy up, if you could find any. Somehow, that seems insufficient for your adult mindset.
"—and immediately start planning your revenge—"
Maybe if you were on better terms with the club owner, you could ask for an introduction. As it stands, it's a wonder that you're not completely banned from the premises. They could have trespassed you at any time, and they wouldn't have been wrong. You're not about to poke that hornet's next just because you're lonely and haven't been on a date in three years.
"—and you'd think that means I love dessert—"
Maybe you could toss a paper airplane at him with your number on it? No, that's stupid. You should just catch him before he walks off stage like a normal person. Well. Not a normal person. You're never a normal person but especially when you're contending with a crush. It wouldn't be the wildest thing you've ever done in the name of romance, but it'd be top 5 at least.
"—if someone goes way out of their way to mess with you..."
You came here for inspiration. You're leaving with more problems than you walked in with, though, and most of them are named John Crocker.
"...that might be love."
You glance up in time to catch him looking in your direction. You're pretty sure he's looking in your direction. He could be looking out at the crowd in general, though. Kinda get over yourself, Strider, the world isn't about you. But you can't help it. Something deep down, something you thought long buried, is telling you that this is right. This is the one. Because of course it is.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," Crocker says, fixing the mic back on the stand, "I have to get to the bookstore before they close. I'm either about to find my new favorite book..."
He waits a beat. This time you're sure of it. He looks straight at you. Not just a glance, not just his eyes passing over your face. His gaze meets yours, even through the cover of your shades, and you're sitting there, slack-jawed and practically drooling all over yourself.
"...or my new favorite way to be seduced. Goodnight, everyone!"
You're pretty sure you might keel over, if you weren't frozen in place. You can't deny that last look, that wink, can you? As the crowd starts to shuffle out, you follow them, trying to convince yourself that he didn't mean anything by it. He was just doing crowd work. It's a normal thing for a comedian to do. If he looked at you afterward, it's just because he remembered you. Maybe he wasn't flirting with you. Maybe he was just giving you a subtle thank-you the only way he could. That would be just like you, to assume that someone showing you a modicum of kindness was flirting. It wouldn't be the first time. And it probably won't be the last.
It's a nice night, so you walk home, for once not even looking at your phone. Hands in your pockets, you make your way down streets and side streets until you find yourself at your apartment building. You beep yourself in and take the elevator to the top floor. Inside your apartment is quiet, or about as quiet as it ever gets, with the persistent sound of traffic on the street below. But there's a certain stillness that just sits with you, like a stranger sitting a little too close at the bus stop, when there's plenty of room to spread out. You wish you were anywhere but here. You finally spare a glance at your phone, just to see the usual parade of notifications. Your electricity bill went through, that's good. An ad for a credit card, which you immediately delete. A bunch of other advertisements from various online retailers.
And an email that catches your eye. Your agent responding to the latest draft you sent over, and you curse under your breath. You have even more ideas now, but you already sent that revision off. You open the email hesitantly, not sure if you want it to be good news or bad. At least if it's bad news, then you have a chance to go make more revisions.
"sent it out. early interest. will keep you posted."
Your heart hammers in your chest. Yeah, no. Good news is... well, it's good news. They call it good for a reason, and it's better than bad. It has to be, right? You trust your agent; if she didn't think it was worth sending out again, she would have just told you so. So maybe you've finally got it. It's not a full movie deal, but it is something.
Your bed is calling to you, but so is your computer, and you're not sure which to indulge first. Despite having sent it off, you know you should work on your screenplay, with the new inspiration from actually paying attention to the show. And from that moment of whatever you had with Crocker. You have even more tweaks to make, and it won't hurt having another draft ready; the great thing about computers is that you have back-ups of every single presentation-worthy draft.
But laying down for a bit couldn't hurt, right?
You split the difference and flop down on the couch, your laptop just out of reach. Pulling your shades off, you set them on the coffee table and drape your arm over your eyes.
His smile is burned into the backs of your eyelids. His laugh permeates the empty space between your ears. And that last little comment settles in your stomach like a particularly heavy meal, the kind where you ate way too much despite knowing how much you'd regret it later, but you just couldn't get enough, could you? Greedy. So greedy.
A thought sparks in your mind, and your eyes pop open, staring at the ceiling. You hastily sit up and pull your laptop to you, pulling up a search engine.
john crocker
john crocker married
john crocker dating
john crocker divorced
You like to think that your internet search skills are fairly well-honed after this long, but nothing you find on the man indicates that he's currently attached. He apparently got divorced about a decade ago, and there's really nothing linking him to any romantic endeavors since then. He was on Dancing With The Stars, apparently, but that's as close as it comes. Unless he's keeping the relationship close to his chest; it's not impossible. Most of the information you find on him isn't recent, outside of indie blogs writing about his recent performances.
You click the images tab. And there he is.
You can't help but feel kind of like a creep. You're not really going out of your way to find images that aren't readily available. Most of them are from entertainment publications and blogs, and there isn't even anything too lascivious. Just some shots of him on stage, a few headshots, and none of them give you the same feeling in the pit of your stomach than seeing his face shine under the stage lights.
You lay back down and close your eyes again.
You are so boned.
~~~
"still reading but i think they like it so far. nothing concrete yet. i'll let you know."
You exhale slowly, send a quick "k thanks" back to your agent, and stuff your phone back into your pocket as you're leaving the comedy club for the third week in a row. No distractions this time... but he didn't call on you, either. You're not even sure he noticed you, and maybe that's for the best. You paid attention this time, really paid attention, took every word in.
"If you care enough, you stop solving problems... and you start proving a point."
You can't get that line out of your head. Is that what you've been doing? Trying to solve something that never needed to be solved in the first place? You gaze at the cloudless sky and the crescent moon above, and think about how you're going to prove your point.
~~~
"looking good. they want to talk more. what's your schedule?"
When you attend your fourth show and Crocker smiles at you again, you make up your mind: it's statistically unlikely to be an accident, and you're going to have to trust the data this once. You carry that floating feeling all the way to the meeting with the producer at the end of the week, where you spend two hours over coffee proving your point.
You meet with a producer and your agent at a quaint little coffee shop, the day before another one of Crocker's shows. By this point, you've thought a lot about where you want to go with this, what changes you want to make even now. You play it cool like the hotshot director you're trying to become, but every so often, you think of Crocker's smile and flush hot all over. If the producer or your agent notice, they don't say anything.
~~~
You're making a baloney sandwich the next day when your phone pings. You pick it up and see an email from your agent. You promptly forget about your sandwich.
~~~
Alright. This is it. You have to pluck up the courage to approach Crocker... somehow. Because this is the fifth week in a row you've been to his show, and it's probably getting a little creepy, and a little pricey to boot. You're not hurting for money, but you like to try and keep your belt tightened when and where you can, the arts being what they are. Your webcomic and everything surrounding it still brings in a comfortable stream of income, but it doesn't hurt to be a little mindful, and spending weekly on show tickets isn't what most people would call a sound financial decision. It'd be much easier if you could just talk to him and meet up outside the club like normal human beings.
You take your customary seat at the front, not that any of the other attendees would know. You're the only one who's been here weekly for over a month, but all the same. The lights dim, and Crocker takes the stage, resplendent as usual. Stupid handsome Crocker.
He begins his routine, and you're starting to memorize it, more or less. Sometimes he ad libs and throws you off a bit, but you're starting to get the gist of it. Not only that, but you're starting to understand it. Starting to understand what it was that caught your attention in the first place. He gets up there every time, and every time he proves his point. His point just happens to make people laugh in the process.
"My family is... insane." Just like last time, he glances towards you— or more likely, towards your seat. You see the corners of his lips quirk up when he sees you sitting there. Like he wasn't sure you would come. He doesn't linger, but he knows you're there, and that's all that matters "I mean that with my whole heart."
You wonder what his family is actually like. You don't take the bit too seriously, but he's so consistent that you're pretty sure at least some of it is truth. Will you ever get to meet any of them? Maybe you're getting ahead of yourself. You should think about giving him your number before you worry about things like meeting his family.
"—My dad believed in commitment to the bit. Not starting a joke, but finishing it too. Living in it, even.—"
You wonder if this, what you've been doing for the past few weeks, is a bit. If you've been doing it for the thrill. Maybe it is; the jury's still out on that one. But you really want to find out. You want to commit until you can't any more, and even then, you might not stop. You're so tired of trying to hold yourself back. You started coming here once a week, that has to mean something, and now it's time to finish it. To really meet him face to face, and not just from across the fourth wall.
"—You have to know the person to really make them laugh at themselves. It's a great system. ...right up until it's your turn.—"
He noticed you. That has to mean something, right? You're positive it isn't just a fluke. He's looked your way more than once this show, expecting you to be in the same spot. It's not creepy, is it? You haven't done anything lewd, and if he wanted you out, it would not be hard to convince the proprietors to throw you out. You have zero doubts in your mind that they are already looking for an excuse and would need zero persuasion.
What if he does think it's creepy, though? And he's just too nice of a guy to do anything about it. He's not looking at you, he's... checking to see if you're still there. And here you are with your weird-ass parasocial relationship, threatening to let your voyeuristic tendencies take over your life and consume you whole. You'll be like Robin Williams in that one thriller movie that you actually kind of liked, except instead of a one-hour photo kiosk, it's a comedy club. And you haven't completely lost grip on reality. So it's really nothing like that at all, except the part where you're kind of dangerously obsessed.
Even your spinning mind can't come up with a good reference to carry on your internal dialog.
"—A girl in college gave me a slice of king cake once. I bit into the baby Jesus and thought she was flirting with me.—"
Has he ever met Robin Williams? You wouldn't be surprised. Their styles seem pretty similar. You're not a comedy connoisseur, but you just assume it's one of those industries where everyone knows everyone else. Like the movie industry you're trying so desperately to break into. Maybe that'll be you someday. You'll know everyone else, and you'll be able to brag about it. Maybe to someone you love. Maybe to Crocker himself. You wonder if he'd ever be in any of your movies; your current manuscript doesn't have a main character role for him, but you can see him in a cameo part. Would that make it more professional, if you approached him and asked him to be in your future movies?
"—Love is always doing something. Sometimes it's for you. Sometimes it's... to you. And it's not always clear which is which. Sometimes it's both.—"
Stop. You tell yourself to stop. You're inventing problems to solve.
But you already know.
You don't have to solve a problem. You just have to prove a point.
"You've all been great, seriously. I love this town." Crocker stands at the front of the stage, fixing the mic back on the stand as always. But he doesn't walk off right away, and that's not how he ends this set. He has a stranglehold on your attention now, does he know that? "This is my last show here, and... yeah. Thank you. Thanks for making it fantastic."
Your heart sinks. His last show. That means... it's now or never. Literally. You have no idea where he's going next, and as much as you would like to pack up and move cross-country because you think he smiled at you once, your career is here.
"I hope you all had a good time. If you take anything from tonight... go do something unnecessary for love."
You have to work your way up to cross-country move levels of unnecessary. You're already trying to figure out what exactly that is, though.
"Do it for your spouse, your dad, your aunt, your little sister— hell, do it for your babysitter!" He laughs, lightening the mood a little, but it's clear he's feeling a bit emotional himself. You see it in his eyes. They usually sparkle, but now he seems to be... misting up. It tugs at your heart strings. You want to leap up there and confess. He did say do something unnecessary...
"Do it for someone you know. Do it for someone you don't." Your heart leaps into your throat. You think he glances at you only briefly. Or maybe it's just your imagination. You don't care. You can't interpret this as anything other than him giving you permission to do something incredibly stupid. And possibly mildly illegal. "Just... go out and do something."
"Thank you and goodnight!"
Crocker walks off stage to the clapping of the audience, but you don't even think to join it. It must look pretty goofy, but what they don't know is that you're steeling your nerves. You're looking around, watching the movement, seeing where the ushers are. You have to be slick about this. Casual. You can't be like that guy in a heist movie who just starts power walking somewhere and expect to fly under the radar. But if there's one thing you know how to do, it's look cool under pressure.
You stand with the rest of the crowd, make a show of gathering your things. There's a manila envelope on the table that you don't want to forget, and your phone so... it's a short list. But you make do with what you have, and start moving with the crowd, creeping your way to the outer edge as though you've been pushed side. The backstage door is right there. You glance ahead and meet hazel eyes and wavy pink hair. Fuck. Luce stares at you curiously, and you try to beam into her brain that you need to do this, and she just needs to be cool about it, and you promise that you're not going to cause too much trouble, and please please please— you even push your shades to the top of your head, to make sure your thought beams are getting through.
She furrows her brow and tilts her head, confused, but you watch as another employee comes up to her, and she casually maneuvers them so that their back is to you. You exhale in relief when she tilts her head towards the door, and take that as your cue to slip inside.
It's easier once the door is closed behind you to pretend that you're supposed to be here. Not that it's particularly busy, and not that it's a particularly busy backstage. Just so long as it's not management who spots you, you'll be fine.
Your foolhardy shenanigans are rewarded as you make it to Crocker's dressing room— less a formal dressing room and more just a room where the performers can sit, take a look in the mirror, and chill until it's time to go on stage. Your hand hovers over the handle and you pause. Your heart is hammering, feeling for all the world like it wants to vibrate out of your chest, and it very well might. The last time you felt this way was... well, never. Not even when you asked a girl to prom. As terrifying as it was, it was normal.
Nothing about this is normal.
Nothing about you is normal.
You grasp the handle and push the door open on squeaky hinges, busting into the room like a stockbroker when the market starts to skyrocket, and you need to tell everyone to buy, buy, buy!
"I got optioned!" That was not what you planned to open with. You gesture with the thick envelope anyway. "And it's all your fault."
"Oh, hi there, Dave," Crocker says with a congenial smile as if you didn't just bust into the room and accuse him of doing something.
It deflates your sails a bit, which is probably for the best. "Uh. Hi. You remembered my name?"
"Hahah, yeah! How could I not? I went out and found your sister's book, by the way," he says moving on easily from... whatever it is you just did. You step inside the room fully and close the door behind you, then stand there like a moron. "I gotta say, she definitely won that argument! What's this about getting optioned?"
You blink back the confusion and realize your shades are still atop your head. Too late to put them back on now.
"Oh. Uh." You look at the envelope still in your hand and offer it out to him. You're not sure why you brought it, if you really thought he'd want to read it, or if you just needed it to prove to yourself that you can make it. Your emotional support manuscript, if you will. "I write too. Wait, you knew that. Specifically, I write for movies, that's... that's my script. It got optioned."
"First time?" Crocker opens the flap on the envelope, taking the manuscript part way out before putting it back in. You notice that he sets it aside with his belongings. "Congratulations. You must be pretty excited, huh? Is that what you wanted to come back and tell me?"
Fuck.
"No," you say automatically, before you can think better of it. You step closer. He sits in his chair, smiling blithely with his hands folded across his chest as you look down at him. He looks so much more handsome up close. His eyes are so beautiful. "I— it's— heh. Well. You said to go do something unnecessary. So here I am. Doing something unnecessary."
This is it, he's going to call security, rightfully, and have you kicked out.
Except he doesn't do that. He smiles still and tilts his head, his eyes narrowing fondly.
"I was wondering when you'd take the hint," he says simply. "I've seen you five weeks in a row. That's already pretty unnecessary. Just not in a way that I could do anything about it."
"You— wait, really?" Why are you so surprised? You were sure he's been making eyes at you every time since the second night you attended, so it shouldn't be a surprise. Maybe you're just shocked that you were right for once. "God damn. I'm fucking this up, aren't I? What was I supposed to do, just bust in here and profess my undying love?"
"No, that'd be weird," Crocker chuckles, brazenly honest, and your cheeks go hot. "I don't know what you were supposed to do. That was your decision. And you busted in here accusing me of... getting you optioned? Care to elaborate?"
"Yeah, I just... I've been watching you these past few weeks, and it put something into perspective for me." This feels dangerously close to talking about your feelings, something you've never been particularly good at, but you're in it now. There's no backing out. Or— there is, but you're not going to. "That I didn't need to solve problems. I just needed to prove a point. You do it every time you get up there. I mean, hell, your jokes aren't even that funny! But you're up there telling them like they're the funniest fucking thing in the world to you! You're not trying to make the audience laugh, you're trying to prove to them that they should laugh and I— Jesus. Sorry. I just. I've been thinking about this a lot. I didn't mean to say you're not funny."
Crocker stares at you for the longest few seconds of your life, and then lets off a deep-chested laugh. Like, if there was an example in the dictionary for the word guffaw, that would be it.
"It's alright, I appreciate the honesty. It's weirdly refreshing," Crocker says, finally standing. He steps in closer, and you fight the urge to step back. "I'm glad I could inspire you so much. You're interesting to me, Dave. And I want to get to know you better."
"But...?" You can hear the unspoken but, and you're just waiting for the floor to drop out on you. Crocker is going to turn you down, he's going to tell you he's attached, or he's not interested. Then your agent is going to call you and tell you the studio backed out. Then the vet is going to call you and tell you your dog died, which is funny because you don't even have a dog, even though you want one. Does Crocker like dogs, you wonder?
Sensing your wandering mind, Crocker grabs your tie and pulls you in unnecessarily close. "But it's going to have to be long distance. At least for a while. Contracts suck, but I've signed a bunch of them so I have to go and do these shows."
"Oh. Yeah. Well. That's why we have phones and email, right?" Your voice sounds thin even to you, your breath going out of your lungs. He's only an inch or two taller that you, but it's just enough. You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. "—I want to get to know you too. Do you like dogs?"
God damn it, Strider. If he cares about your non-sequitur, he doesn't show it. Or he shows it in a very, very weird way, which is to lean in and meet your parted lips with his.
His kiss is so warm, soft and exploratory at first, and then when your hands find his waist, deeper and more insistent. Has he been waiting for this too? Maybe it should bother you that he's almost old enough to be your dad, but for fuck's sake, you're an adult, and you want this almost more than you want a movie deal. Your eyes flutter shut and you let yourself be pulled flush against him, as he reaches up and snakes one hand around the back of your head, the other still holding onto your tie as if you might actually go somewhere if he doesn't hold onto you. You're not going anywhere.
You finally part after god-only-knows how long, and he bumps his nose against yours, no more ready than you are to fully move away. Your kiss-bruised lips still brush his when he breaks the silence.
"Well... do you think you've made your point?" he asks, grinning broadly, and you can't help but join him.
"Wait." You steal another quick peck, just for good measure. "There. Now I have."
"Hmm. Yes. I'd have to agree! I suppose that means we should—"
A knock at the door has you jumping apart like teenagers caught in the janitor's closet. The door opens a crack and you don't recognize the person on the other side, but Crocker apparently does.
"Mr. Crocker, your car's here," the man says plainly, stealing furtive glances at you. You feel a pang of insecurity as you wonder if this is Crocker's first time being caught like this, or if it's a regular occurrence that this man has stumbled in on before. "I'll wait for you outside."
The door softly clicks shut, and Crocker turns back to you with an audible sigh.
"So much for that! At least I came prepared." On the small dressing table, he grabs his wallet, a pair of keys, the envelope that you gave him, and then another envelope, this the size of a greeting card. He hands it to you and you take it. "Open it later, because I wrote it before I knew you were going to come back here, so it's going to be really awkward if you open it now. I wish I wasn't hopping on a plane so early tomorrow, we could go catch a late dinner, but right now I think I'm just going to go home and crawl into bed."
"Yeah, no, 'sfine." You stare at the card in your hand; being told not to open it just makes you want to open it even more. You're feeling way too many things right now, and you don't know which feeling to prioritize, so they all cancel out, and you're just left feeling really jittery from the adrenaline rush. "I didn't really. Have any plans when I got back here. So. That was great. Really. Great. We'll get dinner whenever you're back in town? Does that work?"
"Works for me," Crocker says, grabbing a satchel from a hook. "My number's in there. You don't have to text me if you don't want to... but you could."
"I will," you say instantly, no hesitation. "What, like I'm gonna let a foxy old man like you get away, just like that?"
"I'm 47 years old, how old do you think I am?" Crocker scoffs with mock offense. "I probably should get going though. Just text me, okay? You young whippersnappers know how to do that, right?"
He flashes you one more winning smile, and dips in to steal another kiss, before making for the door, and you don't stop him. You've done enough foolish things for the night, and as much as you want to follow him back to his car, back to his home, as much as you have the gumption to do it... you think this is better. A little distance will force you to calm your raging hormones and actually get to know him before you try anything else.
A minute or two passes between the door closing again and you opening the card. You pull it out and see a cute watercolor illustration of a brown rabbit holding an armful of carrots, captioned "I Carrot Even..." and you open to see what's inside. Underneath the inscription of "No-bunny compares to you!" is a handwritten note in some of the worst chicken scratch you've ever seen, and every single feeling comes flooding back into you all at once.
"You're one of the best audience members I've ever had. Having someone come back and stare bullets into my head every week really lights a fire! Call me, and let's get a drink next time I'm back in town. 555-555-0413
XOXO,
John Crocker"
