Da Art of Storytellin'

A few weeks ago, I sat in an audience of 50 and watched my oldest childhood friend perform standup comedy for the first time. A long overdue item on her bucket list, standup was something she had always wanted to do but often deferred for one reason or another – one likely being the fear that a room full of strangers would receive her with deafening silence and blank stares. Still, she needed to do it, prove to herself that she could do it, which is why when a local comedy club asked her to do five minutes during its weekly open mic night, she took it as her chance to scratch her longtime itch and cross “perform standup comedy” off her bucket list.  

Watching a friend get on stage and deliver jokes isn’t as horrifying as actually doing it yourself, but you definitely still want to throw up. At least I did. Especially after watching five of the seven “comics” who went on before her absolutely bomb. One guy told “joke” after “joke” about every nationality possible and managed to offend everyone after spewing a particularly jarring zinger about the Holocaust. Yes, Buddy, it’s too soon. The Holocaust will ALWAYS be too soon.

I was also sitting in a room of questionable Hoosiers. We’re all pretty questionable when you get down to it – we all chose to live in Indiana as adults after all – but this crew was a particularly dubious sea of sketch. Were they going to like my friend’s jokes? Would they laugh? Do they laugh? I see you, guy in sunglasses, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, sipping whiskey and coke with no ice at 10 p.m. on a weeknight. You haven’t laughed in years.   

But perhaps I was only projecting my own anxiety about being on stage, any stage, talking about anything at any time. I am almost as terrified about public speaking as I am about paralysis and/or prison, which is why I’m sure I was probably even more nervous than my friend when she finally hit the stage.

I met Lindsey, the budding standup comic, when we were 5. Before starting kindergarten, my Mom told me she had a friend whose daughter would be in my class, and on our first day, I remember leaning in toward the pretty, curly haired girl in front of me and asking if she was Lindsey. She smiled brightly and said, “Yes!” I think I raised an eyebrow at her enthusiasm, but we quickly accepted one another anyway and here we are, 32 years later, still friends and still, in many ways, the same girls we were so long ago.

1989: Indiana Beach.

1994: Last day of sixth grade. Yes, I’m wearing a Looney Tunes T-shirt.

This needs to be recreated.

1999: Junior year.

2000: Senior banquet.

2008: My wedding day.

Different things have always motivated Lindsey and me, which is one of the reasons I think we’ve remained friends all these years. We do the opposite of one another in almost any situation, yet still manage to pull the other along for an adventure or a perspective we never would have experienced otherwise.

At 8, Lindsey was thrilled making up fictional storylines about our Barbies while I was much more content seeing them for what they were – lifeless, unrealistic representations of the female form, void of all hardships that accompany real women everywhere. I also thoroughly enjoyed organizing their clothes. Nonetheless, in the process of playtime, I learned storytelling didn’t always need to be as realistic as a true crime article in my Mom’s Reader’s Digest, and Lindsey learned arranging small, impractical doll clothes leads to an odd sense of accomplishment.

Years later, we both went on to become storytellers in our own right – Lindsey’s stories come with a backstory and a punchline, and mine come with pragmatism and self-deprecating humor. As a radio DJ, Lindsey is completely at ease speaking to a live audience and telling the occasional tale or two. In fact, during her time as a morning show host, it was her job to invent hijinks and embellish stories to keep her listeners engaged – essentially being paid to play with figurative Barbies every weekday from 5 until 9.   

Her mode of narration, I think, made the jump into standup comedy that much more practical. While she couldn’t see the faces of the audience to whom she was speaking on the radio, she could see the increase in her listenership. What she was doing on air was working. Her listeners liked her, they really liked her, which is why it wasn’t a surprise that when she finally hit the stage, she was received with that same kind of approval from the debatable audience at the comedy club too.

Unlike the xenophobe who took the stage earlier, Lindsey told stories and provided quips that were easy and relatable. She pulled anecdotes from the news. She referenced popular culture. And, most importantly, she invited us into her story, making us feel as though we were a part of the act and that she liked us as much as we liked her.   

And although I was still uneasy during her entire set – worrying about her plight and imagining my own failure should I ever set foot on a stage myself – I still laughed effortlessly at her jokes and realized that no matter how much time goes by, we all still have a thing or two to learn from our dearest friends. I learned that under no circumstance will I ever perform standup comedy. Ever. I also learned maybe it’s time to dive deeper into my shelved bucket list items. Something that perhaps scares me a bit, but that I’ve always wanted to do. Like play with Barbies without judgment. Only time will tell.

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Title Track: “Da Art of Storytellin’ (Pt. 1),” Outkast. Listen here.