Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means so much to me! I will update as soon as I can, and once this story really takes off, I'll update once a week. But for now the updates will be a little random, so you can check back here daily or just follow/favorite. Thanks! :D
Review Answers:
andy6rocks1 - Thanks! And mission accomplished :)
Fairyfinder - Thank you, and if you find any critiques at all, feel free to let me know! Constructive criticism is always helpful! :)
Guest - Thanks, yes sir/ma'am! :)
Gone Pear-Shaped - Sorry about that, but that comedy club was a real dump. I'm glad that the descriptions were good enough to gross you out :) Actually, I have heard of that but I totally forgot when I wrote Chapter 1. But, hey, that's a really good idea; I'll add that in, thanks! I'm honored that my story is an exception :)
Early morning sunlight filtered through the windows, casting slanted yellow squares onto the clean, tile floor and onto the kitchen island table. The clock on the microwave above the old stove read 7:00 AM. The house was quiet except for the dull murmur of shower water hitting floor; Mark was getting ready for work.
I sat in my pajamas at the kitchen island on my old Mac laptop, Googling nearby comedy clubs since I got kicked out of the one I was at last night. There were a few places close by but they were higher-class than the dump I'd performed at; I was worried I wouldn't be hired since I wasn't very well known, albeit for some illegal tapings of my performances that people filmed with their iPhones and Androids and had uploaded to YouTube. The comments for those videos were, in majority, positive, which is more than I could ever ask for.
I settled on a comedy club several streets over (about a ten minute bus ride, so an improvement over last night) that had some somewhat comedians perform there in the past, so I called up the place and politely asked if there would be any openings for me. To my great surprise and gratitude, they had an opening at 10:00 PM. Granted, that was quite late for a show, but it was better than nothing; I took the deal quickly. The lady I spoke to, also the club manager, was ecstatic to have a rising comedian ('rising' used loosely, I presumed) and said she'd seen some of said illegal tapings of me on YouTube and liked my work.
Thank you, people who don't listen to instructions to not film me while I perform, you guys are freaking awesome.
As I hung up the phone, Mark walked into the kitchen, clad in his usual suit and tie and fancy dress shoes. He walked past me, stopped, did a double-take, and backtracked to me at the table.
"How on Earth are you awake right now?" he asked with an amused smile, noticing my Harry Potter pajamas (they had little flying Snitches on them and all of the emblems of the Hogwarts houses) and my ruffled, brunette hair.
"I kind of got kicked out of the comedy club last night, but don't worry, I found another place," I explained quickly before Mark could protest. "It's a much better place that hopefully won't rip me off. I mean, my show's at a later time but that doesn't bug me-"
"What time?" he interjected, making his way to the coffee maker.
"Ten PM," I replied. "I should be done around ten-thirty, ten-fifty at the latest."
Mark turned on the coffee maker and stuck a mug beneath the spout. The machine hummed for a moment, and when Mark inserted a little coffee flavor cup into the top and closed the lid, the machine hummed louder until the coffee came out the spout mixed with the heated water that sat in the machine's adjacent tank. I was quiet the whole time he made his coffee, waiting for his approval.
He turned to me, and I noticed the dark purple circles under his eyes. His light brown hair was neatly spiked and his face was cleanly shaven. He looked like an exhausted, yet perfect man. A man exhausted from being so perfect, I thought lovingly.
"Gwen," he began. "We need to talk."
Oh, shit. Happy feelings gone.
"Um, sure," I said, playing stupid. "What's up?"
He sighed, taking sudden interest in his shoes.
"I think... I think you should consider a different career."
I stared at him until his eyes moved slowly up to mine. They looked troubled but determined within their shade of hazel, light brown, and flecks of yellow around the pupils. My heart was sinking and I felt the need to cover my face with my hands.
"Babe, I know I haven't been very successful," I began, my voice weak and frail. "But, I mean, this will just take time. Just give me some time..."
The coffee maker let out a beep-beep-beep! Mark glanced at it, as if he'd forgotten it'd been making him a cup of his favorite coffee (chocolate mint truffle), then looked back at me. I got the feeling he'd lost his appetite completely; so did I.
"Look, Gwen," he said, his voice forcefully steady and methodical. "This comedy thing... just isn't working. I'm struggling to support both of us, and-"
"Hey, I'm working hard, too!" I interject angrily. "You think stand-up comedy is some simple thing, like mowing the lawn or watching TV? It's hard work, Mark! It's stressful, competitive, and gives me anxiety! But y'know what? I love it. Once I start talking to the crowd, I feel so... free."
Mark ran a hand through his hair, messing up his perfect spikes into more ruffled ones (which look much more sexier to me, to be honest). When he looked up at me, I knew there was no convincing him. His eyes were hopeless; whatever potential he'd seen in me, it was gone. After two years of my promising him that I would make it big one day, he'd finally had enough. It was like losing faith in someone who promises to make it big in Hollywood but always gets stuck with the crappy, B-movie roles.
We were Leonard and Penny from The Big Bang Theory before the season seven finale.
"Free doesn't pay the taxes, babe," he deadpanned. It was like a stake through my heart, but the worst part was that I knew he was right. Completely, one hundred-percent right. I suddenly wanted to raise a middle-finger to the world for making my life depend on money and not freedom and passion. "We need to be making more money, especially since we've just moved. You need to find a stable job with a stable company, and then maybe once we've reached a financial position of stability, then you can pursue comedy. You could work as an intern at my marketing company, or - hell - a barista at the bubble tea shop down the street!"
He might as well have been telling me that Christmas wasn't coming this year. Or for the next several years, to be brutally honest.
"But, Mark..." I trailed off, looking for words to explain my distraughtness. "That's like, sentencing me to prison. You can't just expect me to do mundane work like that and come home happy. I get where you're coming from, but I'd rather be poor and happy than... than rich and miserable."
He stared at me long and hard, like a mother staring at her child that doesn't understand that, "Don't touch that," means, "Leave the damn thing alone." Or the way a person who only thinks logically would stare at a dreamer.
Finally, he just shook his head and picked up his mug of coffee and poured it into a portable canister.
"I have to go or I'll be late," he murmured, not looking at me. "We'll talk about this later."
I was so stunned by this situation even happening, a situation that I'd considered would happen but had always disregarded it as 'worrying too much.' Despair rolled around in my stomach like a storm at sea and I felt ready to puke.
I watched him disappear from the kitchen. The front door opened and closed. I listened to his footsteps echo down the steps to the street below; eventually, they died out.
"I just want to make other people laugh," I whispered to the lonesome air surrounding me, engulfing me with its silence. My throat started to close up and a heavy weight was on my chest. "Is that too much to ask for?"
I looked around our apartment, feeling lost and alone. So horribly alone and so small in a big city I didn't know. My dreams were falling apart and the love of my life was tearing them apart with his own hands. For good reasons, too.
I squeezed my eyes shut but that didn't keep the tears from making their way onto my cheeks. I covered my face with my hands, plummeting into an abyss of darkness and self-loathing.
I pulled my hands off my face and happened to glance at the window above the kitchen sink, and saw a large barn owl perched on the window sill outside.
"Hedwig," I breathed, a spark of hope ignited within me. I ran to the window, wrenched it open, and the owl flew in in a flurry of movement. I cowered by the sink, feeling so overwhelmed and confused; Why did I let him in? He's a stray animal!
Hedwig circled the room with his powerful wings before making a clumsy landing on the slick kitchen island surface. Regaining his balance on his talons, his large brown eyes probed mine. Maybe I was going crazy, but the poor thing seemed concerned.
"Hey, buddy," I said. For some reason, I was shocked to hear my voice sounded hollow and weak. "How's your morning been? Hell of a lot better than mine, I expect."
Hedwig let out a mournful hoooot, and clicked his talons on the table. He gazed at me intensely, as if asking, Don't ask me questions. You're clearly the one who needs to vent right now.
As I gazed at the strange animal, my vision began to blur again. Before I realized it, my cheeks were wet and my chest was hitching. I covered my mouth and turned from Hedwig, as though he were a person and I didn't want to burden him with my dysfunctional relationship issues.
"Hooooot hoot," Hedwig whined, clicking his talons anxiously. I turned to him a little; he'd crossed the length of the table and was teetering off the edge, gazing at me with such human-like concern that it took me off guard for a moment.
"I don't think I've met a human that's been as selfless as you, little guy. I almost want to call you Ghandi."
Quite adorably, Hedwig cocked his head to the side in confusion. I was about to gush over it, when I stopped.
Holy shit... HOLY SHIT...
"Wait... can you understand me?" I asked him, my heart thudding. Hedwig blinked, then hooted cheerfully and flapped his wings. He took off into the air suddenly and soared out the window.
I gazed after him, watching him turn into a small speck in the morning sunrise.
"See ya, little guy," I murmured, and again, I was alone. But, somehow better than I was a few minutes ago; just slightly better.
What was I thinking? That an owl could understand English? I shook my head and ran a hand through my disheveled hair. That's absolutely crazy, right?
As I would learn later, not so crazy as I had thought.
The nighttime sky was the same solid, dead black as the night before when I took a double-decker bus to the comedy club. I sat near the door, gazing out the window and repeatedly running a finger over my gold engagement ring.
Oh God, am I nervous.
Visions of failure kept replaying themselves in my head: tripping over jokes or my feet, forgetting jokes,accidentally saying something horribly offensive, getting booed off stage, everything I could imagine that could go wrong.
Look at me, freaking out over one thirty-minute show. It's not like I haven't done this before. That's like a carpenter freaking out about building a chair. 'Oh God, I hope I can nail this pieces of wood together!... Okay, thank God! Now what about these pieces of wood...? Oh God, I hope it looks like a chair... Chairs are hard, I don't like chairs...'
I smirked at my little joke, feeling slightly better.
Except for this time, you've got your relationship running on this show.
Damn it, brain! I thought angrily at myself. Knock it off!
Gray and white buildings illuminated by the streetlamps passed by slowly in the congested London traffic, which I was okay with because I got to sightsee for free. As people bustled along on the sidewalk, I saw no difference between them and the people who bustled along the streets of downtown Cincinnati. Except for the accents, of course, but that was a minor thing.
We're all like siblings, I thought deeply. We're all similar yet different, too. America has filthy phone booths that no one uses and England has filthy phone booths in red boxes that they're known for. And Americans are addicted to coffee and the British are in love with tea. Otherwise, we all look and act the same...
"Hello," a voice said. "Is this seat taken?"
I jumped at the sudden voice and looked at its source quickly. A man with flamboyant blonde hair done up in long, overflowing spikes was gazing down at me. It would've looked absolutely stupid on anyone else, but he made it work. His two eyes - one a light blue, the other a dark shade nearly navy blue - probed mine with surprising intensity. A strong wave of deja vu washed over me, but I hadn't the slightest idea why.
"Um, no, go ahead," I said.
The man nodded with a smile and sat down beside me. I scrutinized his clothing out of the corner of my eye: he wore a tight, white shirt with a white leather jacket with golden, studded shoulders. He wore light blue denim jeans and tan boat shoes with white trim.
Wow, hipster much, I thought, repressing a smirk. I swear though, I know him from somewhere...
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I asked, hoping not to sound too rude.
He turned to me, his face lighting up.
"Yes, I came to your show last night."
It hit me like a freight train (or a wrecking ball, if you're into that kind of pop music): the flamboyant, blonde-haired man with the odd clothing who shook my hand after the show. I met him right before getting kicked out of the club and meeting Hedwig.
Damn, last night was screwed up, I thought with surprise. I might as well have been on drugs or something, because that would make more sense than being totally sober and not-high and talking to an owl. A freaking owl, man... what the hell is wrong with me?
"Delightful show," the man was saying. "I thought my sides would split in half from how much you made me laugh. You've got quite a gift."
Warmth spread through me and the gushing wound left by Mark started to heal. I smiled genuinely at the man and had the sudden urge to hug him.
Dude, you have no idea what kind of screwed-up morning I've had. No freaking idea. God bless you, seriously.
"Thanks, that means a lot," I said; the side of my mouth quirked up in a probably awkward half-smile.
The man smiled back and extended a hand to me, saying, "Gwen Jackson, yes?"
"Yeah," I said, shaking his hand. His skin was smooth and warm. "And you are...?"
"Jareth," the man said, still gazing at me intensely. It's like he could see into my soul, y'know? Like he knew so much more about me than I was aware of.
Preposterous! my mind chirped again in that mock accent. Absolutely preposterous!
I blinked at him once I registered his name.
"That's quite a name you've got there, Jareth," I said, genuinely interested. Like I said, eccentric people grab my attention like freak magnets. "Normally I hear 'Jared' or even 'Jarett', but 'Jareth'? Seriously, that sounds like a name out of a Star Trek movie..." Remembering the man's earlier generous comment, I quickly added, "Sorry, that was mean. I'm a stand-up comedian, I can't help but tease people sometimes."
Actually, his name sounds a little familiar... damn this deja vu, bugging me out of nowhere!
To my relief, Jareth just laughed good-naturedly.
"It is perfectly fine," he assured me, gazing at me... lovingly?
Nah, I thought immediately, like a knee-jerk reaction. Don't be stupid.
"Thanks," I said. "So, where you headed to, Jareth?"
"To the comedy club a few blocks down," he said. He had such a gorgeous British accent. "I hear they have a new comedian performing down there tonight."
I blinked at him.
Oh wow, you can practically feel the irony.
"Well, it just so happens that I'm that new comedian," I informed him. Right as I was feeling alright, I was reminded of this morning and a wave of guilt and shame washed over me; tears threatened, so I gazed at the ground quickly. "Whoop-de-doo," I breathed. I ran a hand through my hair quickly, struggling to compose myself.
Oh no, you don't, Gwen. Don't you dare break down in front of a stranger. That is the epitome of awkward, don't you dare!
Somehow, whether he heard what I muttered or noticed me look away, Jareth put a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"Are you alright?" he asked gingerly.
I let out a breath, straightened my shoulders, and looked back at him and tried to appear emotionally stable.
"Yeah, just a little nervous," I half-lied. "It's a bigger stage, y'know, and there'll be at least a hundred people there or less. I'm just having a bit of stage fright right now, that's all."
Jareth gazed at me with his discolored eyes full of overwhelming sympathy and care and said, "You will sweep the audience off their feet like a grand Queen."
I gawked at him, not knowing what to say. I almost never choke on my words; if you make me choke on my words, then you've either horribly insulted me or complimented me so wonderously that I am unable to tease you or myself. So far today, both had happened.
Before I could say, "Thank you," the bus driver was announcing over the loudspeaker, "NEXT STOP, LONDON COMEDY CLUB. NEXT STOP, LONDON COMEDY CLUB."
"Well, that appears to be our stop," Jareth mused, unfazed by what just transpired between us. He gazed down the aisle to see through the driver's window, and then looked back at me. The bus stopped as we exchanged smiles; he extended his hand again.
"Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Jackson," he said. "And all the best luck to you with your show tonight."
I took his hand, intending to shake it politely, when he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, his multiple-shaded blue eyes never leaving mine. My breath left me and I was speechless. He smiled at me, winked, and got up from his seat and started down the aisle way.
I sat there, gathering myself. What the hell just happened? Did a stranger just kiss my hand? What is this, a John Hughes movie?
Nonetheless, I was absolutely flattered and I could feel my cheeks heating up as I got up out of my seat. When I gazed down the aisle way, Jareth was nowhere to be seen.
Aw man, I better not be going crazy, I thought, stroking my engagement ring again.