Why I Moved to NYC to Become a Comedian

Prior to moving here in June of 2001, I worked as a pawnbroker for my family’s pawnshop in Virginia Beach and performed regularly at Thoroughgood Comedy Club. I was an aspiring comedian on my way to be a road comic middling up and down the east coast. I got engaged to a young lady who I had been dating on and off for five years. We bought a townhouse together (well technically it was in her name so “we” should be amended to “she”. A wiser person would have seen this as a telling foreshadow of what was to come). During those five years, the aforementioned young lass went back to school for her master’s degree at Old Dominion University. She had a bachelor’s degree in anthropology from U. Conn but decided it was worthless when she found out that there were no whips or Nazis involved in the actual field work. It mostly involved labeling chips of bone fragments in a musty room. During her studies, she began a metamorphosis. Slowly she gained about twenty pounds, got glasses, and braces—a reverse Cinderella story.

I wasn’t deterred by these superficial changes. I was smitten and blinded by true love. I should also reveal the fact that Virginia Beach and Norfolk has five Navy bases and has the highest rate of eligible bachelors (eligible meaning douchebag sailors) and ranked second as the fattest city (Hence the reason why Norfolk is pronounced, “No-fuck”). With that said—at the time, I wasn’t fully aware of my self-worth and thanked God for anyone to put up with my neurosis. I felt if she left my life, I would be doomed for eternity, never to be loved again (fucking pathetic).

Somewhere within the five years of our courtship, we had taken a seven month sabbatical. My friends were very disappointed in me when they heard that I had decided to get back together with her. Someone told me, “If someone gives you a spoonful of poo, why would you ask for another?” I should have listened but again I didn’t know my self worth and had a second helping. I proposed on Christmas Eve of 2000 and are wedding date was scheduled for August 2001 in Hawaii.

Everything was moving along swimmingly for an average couple living in Suburbia. A yard, a lawnmower, a cat, a fireplace, a laundry room, an office, a guest bedroom, a garage, a grill, etc…I knew I was on a path to domestication when I bought a twenty-five pound bag of winter rye grass seed and a seed hopper at Home Depot and was excited as I drove home to my wife-to-be.

As our wedding date approached, my fiancé finished her degree, landed a job, lost the twenty pounds with yoga, got contacts, had her braces removed, and started to go to a tanning salon. In one month, she had transformed into a sexual butterfly. Think Sandy from Grease or Tony Danza’s daughter in She’s Out of Control. She became the knock-out girl I originally fell in love with. Life seemed incredible.

In April of 2001, she informed me that she was going on a cruise to the Bahamas with her teenage sister for some bonding time. Having two brothers myself, I completely understood her want of one-on-one time with her sibling. Why not? The previous year they had gone to Cancun. Unfortunately, we ran up a four hundred dollar phone bill because she wanted me to be there and spoke every night. However, this particular trip I didn’t even receive an email. Something seemed amiss but I didn’t put too much thought into it because it was ship in the middle of the ocean with limited access to telecommunication.

She came back tanner and hotter than I had ever seen her. I quickly set her bags down and leaned down to kiss her passionately. However, my sexual energy was rapidly dissipated by her cold response. She returned my advance with a contrived, emotionless embrace equivalent to a great-aunt who you are meeting for the first time. The psycho jealous part of me immediately started to chant in my head, “She fucked someone!” I shook that off as immature thoughts and gazed in her eyes. She quickly looked away and walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Not good. She was avoiding eye contact. I asked, “Do you want me to fix some eggs?” trying to sound casual. She stared out the window and stroked our cat Buddha. I nervously observed her with my peripheral vision and stared at the frying pan. As I flipped the eggs over with a spatula, my mind was flooded with images of her in a cabin in various positions, sweating, panting, crying out in ecstasy…the eggs…focus on the eggs…make the bad thoughts go away.

An internal dialogue began:

As I carefully placed the eggs on a plate and buttered the toast, she turned to me and said quietly, “Dan, I have something to tell you.”

I left the plate of food on the counter top and walked out to the living room and sat next to her. She looked at me. Here eyes were vibrating and slightly teary. She looked me in the eyes and said, “I kissed someone on the cruise.”

“WHAT!? How could you?” I cried out and stood up and placed both my hands on the mantelpiece and stared at with wall in front of me. She started to cry and I felt this white cloud of rage ebb through my body. I closed my eyes and let it fade out. I finally turned around and rubbed out the rest of my anger from my eyes and face with the palms of my hand. I massaged my forehead with an up-and-down motion. My hands still smelled of bacon and butter from the meal I just made her. It made me feel nauseous. I started to relax and started to rotate my fingertips on my temples to bring me to a sedated state. I opened my eyes and looked at her. I wanted to be an adult. I want to have a mature response. So I firmly planted my left hand on the mantelpiece and calmly said, “Obviously, this is a cry for help. Something is wrong with our relationship. I want to fix it. I still want to marry you. I still love you. I forgive you.”

And how did my precious love-of-my-life respond you ask?

It reverberates in my head to this day. In fact, every time I need to illicit rage, sadness or combination of both all I need to do is raise my left arm and look down to the right. My body responds to this like Pavlov’s dog does a bell.

Here is what she said verbatim:

“You forgive me? (confused smirk) I don’t want your forgiveness. If I had a chance to do it again, I would.”

As traumatic as this tale may seem to be, I thank her for what she did that day. If she hadn’t done that, I would probably be in a sexless marriage, own a pawnshop and perform comedy sporadically throughout the South.