Work Text:
Sitting in a sketchy pub at five in the afternoon with an old binder packed with absolute nonsense surprisingly sits at least somewhere low on the list of Top Twenty Weirdest Situations Phil Ellis Has Found Himself in on a Friday. Long title for a list, far too specific, and the fact that it exists at all probably says something about his life that he doesn’t want to explore (especially the fact that this is on the bottom). And yet: here he is.
It had all started about a month ago, truth be told. (Or longer than that if you were a therapist and wanted to go into his childhood.) He’d just finished his show at a nearby club—one he could walk to which was honestly a relief because it meant he could drink as much as he wanted after and only worry about walking into the street a couple of times—and the friend of his that Phil had invited to come see him perform because he’d been in town for some reason or another had cautiously approached afterwards. That should have been his first clue that something was wrong, the second being the awkward way that he had touched Phil’s elbow and then his shoulder and then ordered the two of them a round of fizzy water instead of shots. Unfortunately, Phil didn’t comprehend what was going on until the words were delivered to him point blank like being sniped at a close distance.
“Do you try to hang yourself every show?” Phil would have denied it if he didn’t still have the noose around his neck like a particularly macabre tie. He was about to crack a joke about it but his friend hadn’t let him get a word in edgewise which was honestly probably the right call. “I think you might need to find something else to do for awhile. You’re not popular enough to get a glowing obituary in the paper. Or any obituary at all. It’s not worth it. Also fuck, man. I’m kind of worried.” Each word a bullet to the balls. He wasn’t too far gone though to realize that the guy had a point.
Going from that to crafting a kid’s show with a bit of a parent wink-wink nudge-nudge bite to it did not seem like a logical conclusion to all of it yet it’d been an idea that had made a nest in the back of his head for years and maybe it was time.
I’ve got a nine-fifteen spot open if you want it, the jackass who had it before you got appendicitis the piece of shit, the club owner had said to Phil on the phone one evening, you want it? It was a good time; crowd would be drunk but not to the point of belligerence which was Phil’s ideal crowd. He almost said yes but then remembered.
I’m taking a sabbatical from comedy for plastered blockheads, Phil had responded which earned him a laugh that didn’t seem particularly kind.
Ain’t ‘sabbaticals’ the thing smart professor-types take? The implication that Phil wasn’t smart was hurtful but he took the punch with surprising tact that he knew he’d just drink and smoke about later that night. It was fine and normal and healthy and don’t worry about it (he says as a mantra to himself in front of the mirror every morning).
Three days into sorting out logistics and planning he realized that there’s no way he could do this alone and also that he couldn’t possibly fathom forcing anyone he knows even tangentially friend-of-a-friend to be a part of this so he put out an ad. He tried to write it in a way that didn’t read “sleazy guy asking for any available man or woman or in-between to have a good time with him on the weekends, kids will be involved” but in his effort to do so it somehow made it seem about a million times worse, like he’s trying to make it as nice as possible to any old moron but the people who understood would figure it out. That, at least, is what Phil says to make himself feel better about the lack of responses.
He’s about to pull the ad completely from everywhere he’d posted it a little less than a week after it had been up due to both a lack of patience and an unending well of self-deprecation that he could dip his rope-tied bucket into for the rest of his life but he decides to checks his email one last time just to make himself feel worse. Amongst the spam and reminders from his bank (also junk) he spots a message sent early that morning with the subject line: LOCAL GIRL LOOKING TO HAVE SOME FUNZ AND GAMEZ (NOT SEXUAL). Phil almost deletes it without reading further than that. Of course it was just his luck to have the only reply be from some bot or prankster but after staring at it for far too long he figures he might as well get a depressing chuckle and some new material out of this absolute mess.
Ania turns out to be very real and genuinely interested. Phil has to stop himself from asking her during their short email back-and-forth is she’s actually sure because considering her CV already so far and the general vibe that burns off her written words she sounds like she might be too good for this. They agree to meet up just to talk more and Phil phrases it in a way that makes it seem like he has other people lined up to vet and he’s just going with her first for no particular reason other than it fits into his definitely very busy schedule. Her response is enthusiastic but dripping with an aura of someone who didn’t believe a single word of what she had just read. Maybe she would fit in after all. Either that or Phil is just a truly atrocious liar.
He’s arrived half an hour early partly out of anxious energy and also to be able to get a couple pints in him so he can order a third while she’s sitting across from him and have her think it’s his first, nerves already steadied in advance. Him? A problem? No thank you and he’d like it if nobody mentioned that again.
They hadn’t exchanged pictures even though maybe they should have and yet he knows exactly who she is the second she opens the door and meanders in, clothes loose, bag slung over her shoulder, her bright curly hair like a beacon. He’s not sure if he should remain seated or stand to get her attention and somehow winds up stuck between the two, half-sitting, sort of standing and he waves, continues to do so until she finally sees him. A smile brightens her face and she comes over, flopping down in one of the seats at the small table.
“Uh.” Great start. “Hi.”
“I really hope you’re Phil Ellis and I didn’t just accept a random invitation to sit with a strange pervert,” Ania says.
“I’m Phil,” he says. His palms are sweating and when he lifts them from where he’d rested them on the binder they make a weird noise as they pull away from the plastic. “But fair warning: I am strange.”
“What about the pervert part?” A raised eyebrow.
“Depends on who you ask.” That makes her laugh which is a bit of a relief. “Do you want a drink or…?” That question has her consider him for a moment that feels way too long, like she’s trying to make a decision about something.
“First time I’ve ever been offered a beer during a job interview.”
“I’m cool like that.” He’s not cool. He’s the opposite in fact. God, he needs a smoke.
“Cool, strange, and occasionally a pervert. Can’t believe we hadn’t found each other sooner.”
They exchange some more pleasantries because that’s what Phil figures they should do and it turns out she’s fairly easy to banter with; she tells him about her writing and her considering enrolling in drawing classes which Phil tells her she should because life is fucking short and if it sucks then who cares about that too.
“So why give up the whole stand up show thing?” It’s a good question, especially for someone you’re hoping to work with around children. Phil thinks about it while taking a sip of his lemonade (he would have preferred something else but Ania had announced she was getting one and then asked if he’d like one too as if she could tell he was already two pints deep and was trying to be nice and offer him something non-alcoholic without actually saying any of that; Phil had trouble saying anything other than ‘alright yeah’).
“I haven’t ‘given up’. I’m just taking a break.”
“Interesting pivot,” Ania says, “To go from making no money to making more no money.”
“What can I tell ya.” That’s all he has and Ania waits for the rest which he doesn’t deliver. She nods at the binder.
“Is that anything or is that part of your ‘strange guy’ schtick?”
“’Schtick’?” Phil scoffs, makes himself sound offended. “I’ll have you know I was born this way. It’s all me, baby. Homegrown.” The ‘baby’ part Phil immediately regrets for numerous reasons but she does him the favor of chuckling at it, humoring him just to make things not stressful or maybe she was just as insane as he was. He picks it up, turning it around so she could peruse it. “It’s uh. The Plan. Ideas. Mock-ups? What I want— What I’d want us to do.” He hesitates. “If you still want to. If you’re interested.”
Ania opens to the first page but looks up at his comment, her eyebrows going up again.
“Are you offering me the position? What about all the hundreds of other people you have to talk to?” She knew.
“Fuck ‘em. You’ve got what it takes. I wouldn’t want anyone else to be on stage with while they prance around in a giraffe costume.”
“Giraffe?” Ania flips to the page with the printed out photos, the poorly drawn sketches of a man that was supposed to be Phil in a pirate get-up, an amorphous, genderless figure beside him in a giraffe onesie. “Don’t ask me why I have it but I’ve got a dalmatian costume. How do you feel about that?”
“Two minutes on the job and she’s already making rewrites.”
“I’m doing you a favor. And saving me money. Bit of a win-win if I do say so myself.” They lapse into an oddly already comfortable silence, Ania examining Phil’s horribly written and laid out ideas, Phil sipping his drink, the ice clacking against his front teeth. More people have started filing in after work, laughing and talking and filling the building with a rush of noise that feels less oppressive and more like a weighted blanket being draped over his shoulders.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Ha ha.” He soldiers on. “Why do you want to do this?” He couldn’t help it, he had to know. Ania shrugs a shoulder, closing the sticky binder and then lifting it to clutch to her chest, wrapping her arms around it.
“Dunno. Needed something new and weird to do. You know what I do most of the time? Work in an office. I do my treatment scripts occasionally but the credit I get for them isn’t worth anything yet because I’m not ‘established’. I have so much creative… I don’t know. Juices? And nowhere to put them. I like making people laugh. And kids are people aren’t they?” She sighs. “To be honest one of my friends showed me your ad because he thought it was stupid.” Eventually Phil would appreciate her honesty but right now it makes him wince. If she notices she doesn’t mention it. “But I read it and it just… felt right. Seemed fun. So why not? If it worked out then I have something silly to do and if not and you turned out to be some deviant I’d kick you in the nuts and move on.” A pause to let it sink in. “I feel like you were supposed to ask that before you hired me, not after. What if I’d said something terrible.”
“Then I guess I’d kick you in the nuts and move on,” Phil says. He holds out his hand for the binder but Ania mistakes it for a handshake so he gives that to her, the two of them moving their arms up and down for a lot longer than was socially acceptable. “One of us has to let go first.”
“I don’t know. I reckon we could do this forever.”
“Great. Let me know when I can move in.”
“What about your place?” Ania asks, still shaking his hand.
“It’s barely big enough for me.”
“And you think mine’s any different?”
“No,” Phil says, “But it probably smells nicer.” They let go almost simultaneously.
“Can I ask you one more thing before I go?” Phil hadn’t asked if she wanted to leave or did anything to indicate that she should. He kind of wants to convince her to stay and hang for longer because he really doesn’t want to be alone but that would be truly pathetic and it’s far too early to expose that to someone he thinks might actually be real friend material. Phil nods, drains the last of his beverage which is mostly just melted ice by now. “Are you… okay?” It’s not at all what he was expecting and he nearly chokes on his last swallow, feels the liquid go painfully up his nose.
“Do I not look okay?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Ania doesn’t give him time to reply, continues talking as if she thought she’d chicken out of whatever she had to say next if she allowed Phil a chance to speak. “I lied, by the way. Just a little bit. Not so much a lie really I guess and more so an omission of information. I saw one of your shows. The one at the Buck & Iron.”
“Oh.” He knows exactly which one it was because he’d only performed there once. It was meant to be a three week commitment but then some well-meaning buddy had walked up to him after it was over and made a mountain out of a molehill and Phil was feeling small enough that he’d believed the guy about the size of it. “You’re not stalking me are you?”
“I promise I’m not. Complete coincidence about the ad. And everything else I said was true.”
“You caved pretty quick. Remind me not to loop you into my side business robbing banks.”
“I’d be a great bank robber.” She starts chewing on her bottom lip. “So are you?”
“A bank robber?” Ania gives him a pointed, capital ‘L’ look, one that will turn out to be the first of many more to come. “Is anyone?”
“Hmm.” Obviously not what she wanted to hear. “I’m taking this by the way.” Phil practically gets whiplash from the change of subject and she indicates to the binder she hasn’t separated herself from since it wound up in her possession.
“But that’s mine.” Phil is aware how whiny he sounds but it is. He worked hard on that.
“Not anymore. Now it’s ours.” Can’t argue with that. Ania stands and it already feels a little like being abandoned. “I’ll text you later.”
“If you have any questions?”
“No. Just to be annoying.” She grins. “See ya later, Captain Pip.” And just like that after a hearty salute, she’s gone. Phil stays where he is for a time even though he knows he shouldn’t—this kind of atmosphere starts to wear on him no matter how good it feels at first—but the thought of going home doesn’t sit well yet in his stomach. (Or maybe that was all the drinking without having any food.)
An hour later he’s halfway through his fourth pint when his phone pings. It’s Ania. She’s sent him a blurry photo of a poster pinned up outside what he thinks might be a co-op. Village Fun Day in a month, the follow-up text under it reads, think we can get the ship rocking-and-rolling by then?
Perhaps things were finally starting to look up.