Last night I drove to an open mic at a bar we used to be able to walk to. We didn’t, very often, but we always meant to. It’s a total dive bar and they allow dogs, so we brought our handsome and horrible husky with us once or twice. We liked it. There was Philadelphia Eagles swag on the walls and a patio that had potential. I remember thinking it might be a good place for comedy, because there’s a nice stage, but back then I ran an open mic at a different East Colfax venue and I guess I figured that was enough.
Since we left the neighborhood, a veteran in the scene has established a Sunday showcase and mic. Last night, I finally had the time and inclination to go.
As always, rousing myself to get out of the house and go do open mics is painful. I think of every reason not to go. But this time, for a lot of reasons, I did it.
I drove all the way from the ‘burbs to the old stomping grounds, to spend a few hours waiting for my four minutes on the mic. It’s hard to explain to normal, adult, reasonable people but it’s not unusual for me.
As I drove up Quebec I started feeling anxious, in a way I remember from my earliest days of doing comedy. The butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of dread that actually used to motivate me, because taming it felt like a super power (and all it takes is three or four minutes on the dais for physical stress to be replaced with something close to euphoria).
But then, unbidden, the anxiety overwhelmed me. As I drove through familiar neighborhoods, memories rushed at me: of driving away from my old life into my divorced life, of searching for and finding the Dollhouse, of the first time I drove there to make it mine, of exploring the new neighborhood and feeling free, of the countless Ubers I took to countless open mics, of the first time Joe came to my door, of driving to and from our storage unit until we fully committed to staying in the little house, of the tree in the front yard and realizing I’ve liked a lot of trees in my life but that’s the only tree I’ve ever really loved.
I drove through the leafy canopy of mature trees on Quebec and remembered how pretty I think that part of Denver is. And I sobbed. It was more difficult making that drive than I expected.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but I drove by the property. The lot. The overgrown, empty lot, where a few branches have fallen from that tree I loved and no one has picked them up. I didn’t see any neighbors and I couldn’t tell quite how I felt about that. It might be nice to get a hug and catch up, but I feel guilty about ruining the neighborhood, killing their dog, and damaging their homes. I also don[‘t like admitting it but I’m a little resentful that none of them has stayed in touch with us. It’s not that hard for me to manufacture scenarios in which they are resentful of us for abandoning them, angry at our privilege for getting out, especially now when the construction on Colfax is a nightmare. Surely property values are down. If the improvements are all the city hopes they will be, residents of East Colfax may indeed experience an economic and cultural renaissance. But it sure feels a long way off.
It’s been 665 days since the fire. Lately, it feels like we’re moving on, more than I ever imagined was possibe. We’re feeling some relief, some healing, some hope that was fleeting for a good long time. Last week, we bought bicycles AND I got my pottery wheels up and running, both of which are evidence of us PLAYING again. The new house is feeling more like home, more like us, more comfortable to be in. I can think and speak nice things about this house without feeling like I’m cheating on the Dollhouse and/or losing a part of my soul.
So I was surprised how brutal it was, driving through the old neighborhood. But I shed my tears and enjoyed a perfectly lovely evening on the patio of the dive bar in the neighborhood where I once lived. I hung out with some lunatics I’ve known for years and met new people, as well. I heard new jokes that delighted and inspired me. I questioned my life choices and cursed my compulsion to do comedy, which is absolutely part of my nightly timeline at an open mic. And then I drove through the dark back to my new neighborhood, feeling better than I felt earlier in the day.