“Ladies and Gentlemen, Richie Mac!”

The stage lights are on, the house is packed, and suddenly, the room is silent. Every face turns toward him and says, "Make me laugh funnyman!” The club owner tells him it’s his last chance while the other comedians pray he’ll bomb.

So what the hell, Richie Mac? Prove them wrong! Take the microphone and make them laugh! Make the audience laugh so hard they cry and fall out of their seats. You can do it! Tonight’s your night. You own this room and everyone in it!

The MC hands him the microphone, and Richie Mac does his act. He hears himself over the sound system, but it's not him; it’s a stage persona—an exaggerated version of him. His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. He tries to look directly at the audience, but the stage lights blind him. He gives them a deadpan, "You look like a good crowd tonight. No, really, you do!”

There’s no reaction at all—just cold silence.

“I got back from the doctor’s office yesterday, and man, am I glad to be here tonight! I always thought my doctor was Mr. Competence. But not anymore, not since he tried to X-ray my foot with a quartz heater!”

Dead silence again except for a guy in the back of the house who says, "What the…?”

Ignore him, Richie Mac. Go into the line about the grocery store; that’ll kill them!

“Have you noticed how the language keeps changing all the time?”

“No!” someone yells.

Richie Mac ignores him.

“You hear new expressions every day. Have you noticed how everyone these days says, 'Have a good one'? It used to be you were lucky if you got a simple 'fuck you.' Now they say, 'Have a good one.' I went to the grocery store the other day and bought some stuff. As I was walking out, the guy behind the counter says, 'Have a good one.' I said, 'You don't have to be an asshole just because I bought a box of Fig Newtons and a jar of Vaseline!'”

A couple in the front row stares at one another like they're attempting to translate Sumerian. There’s a lone chuckle from a woman somewhere in the back of the house, but the man sitting next to her snarls at her and says, “You think that’s funny?”

Never mind, Richie Mac. Keep going. Do the cruise ship joke; that'll work!

"I was quarantined on a cruise ship for two weeks during the pandemic. I had nothing to do, so I watched pornography. I know, I'm ashamed. But what the hell? I was quarantined on a cruise ship for two weeks in the middle of a pandemic. What was I supposed to do?”

"Jump into the ocean!" someone yells. The audience laughs, and there's scattered applause.

Don’t answer them, Richie Mac. Just keep going.

“It turns out I caught an STD from the pornography.”

 Richie Mac looks bewildered. The audience is silent.

“Well, where else did I get it? I was quarantined on a cruise ship for two weeks in the middle of a pandemic!"

The audience boos and the club owner signals him to end the act. A guy is about to throw an ashtray at him, but his wife restrains him.

Do the Joe Pesci routine. They’re sure to like that!

But his mouth’s so dry he can hardly speak. He gives it a try but sounds more like James Cagney with a head cold than Joe Pesci. There's more heckling, and a man yells, "Who the hell was that supposed to be?”

He puts the microphone back on the stand and walks off the stage. The MC asks for “a big hand for Richie Mac,” but the audience laughs as if the MC has just delivered a punch line.

The other comedians avoid him except for a young comedian with purple hair wearing a party dress and way too much eyeliner. She had just bombed terribly and left the stage almost in tears. She gives him a tentative, plaintive look and says, "You just have to work on your material, that's all!" The club owner stares at him like he's the Elephant Man. Even the bartender can't look him in the face when he orders a Jack Daniels on the rocks. He swigs his drink in one angry gulp and walks out into the night, where an arctic wind hits him in the face.

OK! So what? So you had a bad night. It happens. The audience sucked, and the club's the worst in town. There are sure to be other nights and better clubs. This is Chicago, after all, not Kokomo, and you’ll kill them somewhere else, Richie Mac. Just you wait and see!

The El Station is only two blocks from the club, but it seems like it's a mile. It's so cold his hands freeze, and his ears sting. He pulls his knit cap down over his ears and wraps a scarf around his neck. When he climbs the wooden staircase and reaches the platform, he sees no one there except for a guy curled up on a bench in a fetal position. For a moment, he thinks he should take his coat off and throw it over the guy. But it's freezing, and the train is about to enter the station, so he shakes the man's arm and says, "Hey, buddy, you better get on the train. You're going to freeze to death out here." The guy mumbles something in a garbled foreign language and looks terrified. He has pissed his pants, and the stench is terrible, but Richie Mac takes his arm anyway, lifts him up, and leads him onto the train, where the guy slumps into a seat next to the door.

Good deed, Richie Mac! This proves to the world you're not just a self-centered entertainer who cares for no one but himself. It's sure to be included in your biography someday. Now show them what you’ve got. Let them have it!

He looks at the disheveled assortment of passengers seated on both sides of the train: two giddy teenage girls bundled up in winter coats chat incessantly, a lunatic with Neanderthal features waves his hands in the air and carries on a frenzied conversation with himself while a middle age woman, holding a bag of groceries, tries desperately to avoid eye contact with everyone. A bald construction worker with a pot belly, wearing just a leather jacket and sweatpants, stares angrily at the floor. Next to him, a security guard on the way to the night shift reads The Sun-Times. Richie Mac looks the crowd over and wonders if this could really be called an audience.

What the hell, Richie Mac? It takes all types! But these are real people, not the usual congregation of stuck-up yuppie hipsters. This is a real audience. Give them a treat! Leave them laughing so they’ll remember this night and, for a while, forget about the rest of their miserable lives. They'll thank you, each and every one!

He stands in the middle of the car as if he just stepped on stage at Madison Square Garden.

“Hey, it’s great to be here tonight!”

The woman clutches her bag of groceries like it’s a life preserver, and the teenage girls stop talking and stare at him, looking confused and a little afraid. Everyone seems uncomfortable except for the lunatic who pounds his fist against the window and the construction worker who yells out something unintelligible but definitely obscene. The security guard looks up, shakes his head, and returns to his paper. The guy he helped onto the train is slumped in his seat, nodding off into Neverland.

Give them a chance. They're just not used to this. But keep going. It’ll be worth it when you’re done. After all, they’re just like you; they have a destination and are determined to get there.

He attempts to tell another joke but is met with stifled groans and a barrage of epithets from the construction worker and the security guard. He ignores them and is about to continue his act, but a conductor crosses into the car, lifts his hand up as if directing traffic, and says, "OK, Robin Williams, time to give it a rest!" The train stops at Fullerton Street. He steps off, and everyone applauds.

 Hey, don’t kid yourself, Richie Mac. That’s because they loved your act, and they loved you. They applauded because they didn’t want to see you go; that's all!

            As the train leaves the station, he steps onto the platform and stares at the tracks while a blistering Chicago wind cuts through his coat and freezes every inch of him.

 Oh, come on, Richie Mac! It wasn't that bad! You'll be on Late Night any day now. Caesar's Palace will be packed. Just keep going!

Another train rattles into the station. The door opens, and he steps inside. This time, the train is empty.

So what? So you’re the only one on the train. You’ve got it all to yourself now. It’s a gift! The time is ripe. The stage is set. Do your act, and do it well; do it like you’ve never done before! What the hell? The act is all that counts. Who needs a bunch of half-drunk imbeciles looking at you like you like you don’t belong on a stage of any kind? Don’t take a seat, Richie Mac. Stand up. After all, that’s why it’s called that.

            He stands at the stage center in the middle of the train, looking at the rows of empty seats, ice-clouded windows, and posters advertising night school. Discarded wrappers and plastic bottles are scattered about, left behind by passengers in too much of a hurry to have a proper dinner at McDonald's. Above him, the overhead lights fill the car with a neon glare so intense that he’s forced to stare at the floor.

            It's not the house he'd hoped for, but Richie Mac begins his act anyway. There are no hecklers this time, no sorry contemptuous faces looking up at him as if he's a sad mistake. And his voice is his own, not the phony persona that no one knows. Every line is delivered perfectly; he even adlibs, jokes about the weather, and tries a new character. There is hysterical laughter and applause that only he can hear.

            Way to go! Richie Mac! You’re on a roll this time!! Defy the night, defy the winter wind, and defy the rickety elevated train that takes you nowhere but to The Southside and back. Now’s the time! Bring them to their knees, laughing in agony. And don’t they wish that they were you? And aren’t you glad that you're not them? So see who gets the last laugh, Richie Mac!

            Cheers go up so loud he can’t hear himself think; the house is packed with fans. It’s a damn good crowd-- a crowd unlike any other. When he's finished, they yell, "Encore!" So he keeps going; he gives them what they want. He’ll take the train as far as it goes, across the river and through the Loop, all the way to the end of the line.

Richard McMullin graduated from The University of Massachusetts, where he studied creative writing. Originally from Boston, he worked as a social worker for five years, and then moved to New York to work for McGraw-Hill. After three years living in New York, he moved to Chicago to work as a publishing rep. He now lives in Rutland, Massachusetts, in Central Massachusetts, and is on LinkedIn and Facebook. His stories have appeared in Half and One,  Literatus, Write Launch, and Word’s Faire.