“Comedy is like, is like magic, Kid. It’s one thing to make red sparks shoot outch ya ears when you’re real mad in all, but it something else entirely to shoot ‘em out over and over and over, on command, like clockwork. I’m tellin’ it ta ya straight, Kid, one comedian ta ‘nother.” 

The old comedian slapped his hands together with each “over and over,” emphasizing his point but also rousing Joel from his daydream. 

“Hmph? Right, ya over and over.” Joel brought his attention back to the coffeeshop, back to the too-small booth for himself and this too-large man, back to the most boring conversation he’d ever had the misfortune of participating in.

“You even listenin’, Kid? This stuff’s important.”

Mr. Friedman looked across the table at the young comedian. Handsome, and he knew it, with an excess of rugged-good looks, a large nose, an aggressive jawline, and thick wavy brown hair tossed effortlessly to one side. 

“Ah course Mr. Friedman, I’m just thinkin’ bout how I can best apply these ideas a yours to the new show is all.” 

Joel looked across the table at the old comedian. Past his prime, and he knew it, with traces of his old good looks hiding in the subtle details, a large nose, an aggressive jawline, and wavy brown hair thinning and slicked down over a noticeable bald spot. 

Joel flicked his glance down at his legal pad, searching for a semi-relevant callback in his notes to convince this has-been that he had been listening. 

Smiley face, smiley face, 3D square, black hole. Nothing.

“Well, um, tell me what it was like writtin’ and starrin’ in ya own show for CTV? Where’d ya draw your inspiration from?” Joel took a deep gulp of his coffee and scalded his tongue. 

“Ya, The Cardigan Brothers, big hit an all, lot of laughs, lot of dough, that’s all anyone ever wants to talk about. 11 seasons, 9 Golden Globes, three divorces, and one face lift later an I’m still the same standup comedian from Queens.” Mr. Friedman took a deep gulp of his coffee and scalded his tongue.

An awkward pause ensued. Both comedians scratched the sides of their faces, looking out the window. Spoons, knifes, and forks clattered as diner patrons enjoyed their meals. 

“Well, Mr. Friedman, the script for my pilot is due in a few weeks. You’re the OG, the been-there done-that guy, so anything else you think I should know.” Joel checked his watch, desperate to leave. He had 14 joke ideas in his pocket notebook, and he really needed to get back to work on his pilot. Joel raised his hand arrogantly to wave over the waitress for the check. 

Mr. Friedman looked at Joel for a moment, a great sadness weighing him down, wishing that just this once, the Kid could slow down and be in one place at a time. Always in a rush, another dollar to make, another joke to tell, another laugh to chase. 

A young waitress placed the bill down on the table. “One small coffee. That’ll be $6.89. You take your time, no rush at all.” As she bustled off to the next table, she paused and did a double take, letting her glance linger on Mr. Friedman for a moment, a puzzled look on her face. 

The old comedian looked at the young comedian with a heavy heart. He took a deep breath as if he were about to begin eulogizing. 

“Listen Kid. It’ll never be enough. You’ll never satisfy their need ta laugh. They always want more. More seasons, more shows, more jokes. It ain’t ever enough. You’ll never be funny enough for ‘em. So try to enjoy the ride. It ain’t about being the best, getting the best ratings in all of that, it’s about being there, live, in front of that studio audience, under the lights with ya cast, having a ball. Try to enjoy it, Kid. It’ll be over in the blink of an eye. Trust me.” 

“Huh? What was that? Sorry Mr. Friedman, I really gatta go. This was helpful and great an all, really appreciate it. You have a good one. Thanks again.” The young comedian stood in a rush, pulled on his jacket and made his way to the door without a second glance behind him. 

“Ya, alright, Kid, good luck ta ya.” But Joel had already left. The old comedian sighed, watching the young comedian walk off without hearing a word he had said.

Mr. Friedman knew it was futile. Nothing he could have said would have made a difference. That young man was on top of the world, and nothing and nobody was going to tell him otherwise. He knew that. 

“I just wish I could a spared ya that empty feeling of nothin’ in your gut, Kid,” Mr. Friedman whispered under his breath. “Wish you coulda slowed down and enjoyed it is all.” 

With a groan, Mr. Friedman slid to the edge of the booth and slowly got to his feet. He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the check and zippered his coat. 

As he made his way out of the diner the young waitress caught his attention.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I love that show you’re in. Would you mind taking a selfie with me?” 

The old comedian wrapped his arm around the waitress’s shoulder as he smiled in his millionth fan photograph. 

“Thank you! I’m literally obsessed with The Cardigan Brothers right now. I can stream all of the best CTV reruns on my boyfriend’s smart TV. We love to watch them to help us fall asleep.”

“Thanks, sweetheart, glad you like my show.” The old comedian’s fake smile was fading. 

“This is so embarrassing, I know your face from the show, but can you remind me of your name again?”

“Me? I’m Joel Friedman.”