Mic Drop

Chapter 1

     Tillie sat on the chilled barstool with her head held high. Her face brandished her comfortable mask of unbothered focus, despite her sneaky attempt at rubbing the sweat off of her palms on her light-blue jeans. She always hated jeans–the way they cut into her waist and left indented lines that lingered an hour after she removed them. She would much rather wear cotton shorts and a big t-shirt, but her best friend Maya had been on her ass about "refining her stage aesthetic". Tillie compromised by wearing jeans.
      She knew there were nine performers tonight, and had counted each time a new comic took the stage. Tillie was in slot number five. We need you in the middle to maintain people's interest and keep their attention. That's what the producer of the show, Gina, had told her before the show. Comedian number four was on stage, an off putting guy who was Tillie's age, whose lazily written set she had come to memorize over the last few months. Only two more dick jokes and an ending punchline that even crickets quieted at–then she would take the stage.
      Tillie yawned and took an unenthusiastic sip from one of the free beers the bar gifted to performers. She definitely indulged in alcohol, and marijuana for that matter, but she didn't like to go on stage drunk or high. She refused to allow substances the opportunity to boggle her memory on stage, and didn't rely on substance-induced confidence or charisma like some of the other local comics did.
      She went over the order of her set in her head easily, only needing to recall the introductory lines and punchlines of each segment, knowing that the filler jokes would come from memory once she started. She was confident in her ability to work a crowd, and had learned what inflections and pacing worked the best for her current fifteen-minute set. She had worked this set out once or twice a week for a month, and knew it was killer. She grinned and quickly looked at the floor when the realization hit she was about to captivate the room and elicit laughter–however much could erupt from a twenty-person crowd.
       She snapped her head up at the sound of applause, and saw the penis-joke-dependent comic leaving the stage. She didn't know if the clapping was due to the crowd's liking of his set or due to his exit from the stage. She stood up from the barstool and strode up to the side of the stage, sliding her still sweaty palms down the denim she damned in her mind repeatedly.
"It is my true honor to introduce our next comic," the producer, Gina, said into the mic, smiling down at Tillie from the stage. Tillie let a short-lived grin show in return, and quickly adjusted back to her mask of seriousness–her mask of focus–the mask that showed her intent to kill.
      "I saw her perform a few months ago and instantly fell in love with everything about her. She is fiery. She is feisty. She is fearless. And she is absolutely fucking hilarious. Welcome to the stage, Tillie!"
      As Tillie began the short trip up the three stairs onto the stage, the welcoming applause became muffled as her predatory focus overtook her senses. She saw a swoosh of green leaving the opposite side of the stage, and was able to make out the back of Gina's form-fitting green dress through the blinding, white stage lights. Mentally, she wasn't nervous. She felt confident. She felt excited. Yet, her physical symptoms proved her nerves. As she reached to remove the microphone from its stand, she glimpsed the glistening of sweat on her palms. She chuckled to herself internally, attempting to disband the physical proof of her nerves.
      She pulled the mic from the stand, and attempted to meet the audience's gaze through the disorienting stage lights. She stared out at the crowd, building an atmosphere of anticipation. After five seconds, Tillie grinned.
"What the fuck is up, Atlanta."
Her set went forty-five seconds over due to excessive laughing that she refused to speak over.

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As Tillie left the stage, she attempted to display a nonchalant attitude, but a small grin forced its way onto her face. She weaved her way through the crowd, eyes fixated on the side door that led to the outdoor patio. She wanted to smoke. She needed to smoke to balance out the adrenaline that continued to rush through her. She was intercepted by three people on her way out, two complimented her set, one was the bartender who thrusted her a freshly poured pint. She thanked them all, and opened the side door so swiftly the beer swished out of the top of her glass and dripped down her hand.
Tillie frowned at the disappointment of the warm summer air that quickly grounded her. She immediately felt her hair hiss at the humidity that began to rip her conditioned hair from its sleekness. She sauntered over to the side of the patio, seeking a semi-hidden spot away from the door–far enough away that the herb scent wouldn't smack anyone in the face that walked out.
She plopped down at a wooden picnic table and tried to ignore the male voices that came from the left of the patio. She didn't have to glance over to figure out whose mouth emitted vulgar statements about the way Gina's assets filled out her green dress and how he'd like to peel that dress off of her.
     Tillie forced herself into dissociation, causing her ears to shut out any other noise that wasn't the flick of the lighter that lit the end of the joint she pulled out of the front pocket of her fanny pack she had laid on the table. She took three quick puffs, leaned forward and rested her elbows on the scratchy wooden table top. She sighed at the immediate release of tension from her shoulders.
Tillie closed her eyes as she burned her way to the center of the thickly stuffed paper. She relived the highlights of her set and smiled at the memory of the cackles that came from the men in the crowd when she delivered her bit about the way men's grunts immediately dry her up during intercourse. Male comics talked about their dicks, Tillie made fun of their dicks.
     Her eyes popped open and her smile disappeared when the previously far away male voices slithered up beside her.
"Damn, Till! That shit smells good. Let me get a hit," the male comic said smugly, extending his thumb and pointer finger.
Tillie stared up at the comic whose material motivated the content of her own. "You didn't even watch my set, Jason."
"I had to come out here and give Ben a pep talk," Jason said, nudging the skinny, frazzled looking guy that stood beside him, the next comic to take the stage. Tillie noticed Ben's swaying imbalance, followed by a deep burp that was no doubt from his abuse of the free beer privilege. Jason continued, "He keeps forgetting half of his set!"
Tillie deeply inhaled a large puff and blew it in Ben and Jason's face. "I wonder why."
"It's all new material!" Ben slurred.
"I don't think four IPAs mesh well with new material," Tillie slighted.
"It was 3 and a half. He spilled half on his shorts," Jason said, rolling his eyes.
Tillie's eyes had already darted down and spotted the dark splatter that covered the top half of Ben's khaki shorts when the guys had approached her. She internally crafted a brutal, ego-ruining one-liner upon seeing it.
Tillie rotated her gaze away from the babbling idiots and took another puff from her joint, just as the side door to the patio was pushed open.
"Ben, get your drunk ass on the stage!" one of the more established, locally renowned comics, Bill, yelled from the doorway.
Ben zig-zagged up to the side door.
"Thanks, Bill," Ben burped as passed by Bill, whose body was propping open the door.
"What...the...fuck..." Bill whispered to himself after noticing the darkened fabric on the front of Ben's groin area due to the beer splatter. He followed Ben inside with a shake of his head.
     Jason turned back to Tillie, raised his eyebrows, and extended his fingers once more, fiending for the last remaining hits of the joint.
     "Go watch your friend's set. He'll need someone to clean up his puke off the stage," Tillie said, gaze still set forward, avoiding Jason's pestering.
      Jason glanced at the side door, then back at Tillie, then began to jog toward the door.
"Wait," Tillie called out, stamping and twirling the lit end of the joint into the top of the wooden table, her back toward Jason.
Jason halted in his tracks and turned his head behind him toward Tillie. "What?"
She rose from the table and strode toward Jason. She slapped the burnt out joint stub into his palm and continued walking past him. "Gina will never fuck you," she said monotonously.