Chapter Text
Making people laugh wasn’t something Richie thought he could make a living out of, not because he didn’t know that kind of job existed, but because he didn’t really think he was any good at it. He wasn’t funny, not that much at least. He was funny enough. He could make voices, do impressions, that sort of stuff. He wasn’t funny, but he could do impressions of funny people. That made people laugh for a while, until the voices start to get annoying. Richie knew how to get annoying really fast.
When he told his dad he wanted to move to California to pursue his career on whatever the fuck he was good at, he knew he would get a disapproving look at least. Of course, Wentworth knew his son wouldn’t follow the family business, and Richie was sure nobody would want a dentist with buck teeth, but still, hearing your kid say he’s just dropping out of college and leaving with the hope of finding a job offer on the back of the newspaper had to be pretty harsh.
That’s why Wentworth was the first person Richie called when he was actually hired to do stand-up comedy at The Spot, a well-known theatre in the city where Richie had acted before sometimes with his improv group.
“You mean people are paying to watch you?” Wentworth asked and Richie laughed.
“Yeah, I know. Crazy.” It was. Richie felt dizzy only thinking about it. “But they liked the show. I mean, it’s kind of like a show, you know? But it’s just me. Standing up and… saying shit.”
“Funny shit, I hope.”
“Me too,” Richie agreed. “You guys should come someday. I can get you some nice seats. Front row and everything. There are other artists, too. I’m sure mom would like some of them.”
“I’m sure she would love your act too,” his dad said, and Richie had to bite his tongue not to reply with something he would regret later. “We’ll find the time.”
“Or maybe, if this really takes off, I could, like, tour all over the country. Go back home for a few days.”
“We’ll find the time, son,” Wentworth said again, and Richie knew what that meant.
“Okay. Yeah,” he nodded, even if his dad couldn’t see him. “See you, then.”
“Of course. And, Richie?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re proud of you, son.”
Richie smiled, bittersweet, and closed his eyes. He wanted to believe it. Not the ‘proud’ part, that he knew was true. The ‘we’ was the problem. That word that involved his dad and his mom too. Richie couldn't even remember what his mom’s voice sounded like. It had just happened. At first he would call home and talk to whoever picked up, sometimes his dad, sometimes his mom. But then his mom stopped picking up the phone and Richie never asked to speak to her, so the years went by and, when he realized, it felt like it was too late.
The thing with his mom was Richie knew she loved him, and he did love her too, but… that was mostly it. He didn’t remember a single time he had felt his mom like a mom. Yes, she did what moms were supposed to do, like fix him breakfast before school or kiss him good night and read him a bedtime story. She took care of him until he could take care of himself and then she just… Then she was just… there.
Richie never felt like he could talk to his mom, like really talk to her, just to share his thoughts or to ask for advice. His mom just didn’t get him. At all. It were as if they were strangers living in the same house. She didn’t show much interest in Richie’s matters but he didn’t blame her, it wasn’t like he offered any interest in his mom’s affairs either. Richie was sure his mom wanted him to have a good life, to succeed, to be happy, but in the same way you want the world to be a nice place and for people to be happy. She didn’t wish him ill, but she didn’t really care, either.
“I know, dad,” Richie responded. “Thanks.”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.
It had taken almost seven years for Richie to get where he really wanted to be, or where he thought he wanted to be. He had every possible job in the business and out of it. He had been a barista, a maintenance helper, floor staff, crew, PA, and even handed out fucking flyers. It wasn’t easy. The first few years Richie felt like he was in a dead end, like no matter how hard he tried it wouldn’t work for him.
He started to hate the word ‘comedian’. Wanting to make a living out of making people laugh started to sound absurd, ridiculous even. Sometimes he went to this open mic night at a club near his place and felt really good when the audience responded well, only to feel like a fool once he walked out of stage and realize that was it.
You’re just a clown, Richie.
The voice in his head liked to torture him. And the word ‘clown’ made his stomach churn.
He wasn’t in a good place when he joined the improv class. He had just found a new job in postproduction for a TV comedy show. It was good, or at least better than the previous jobs, and Richie had accepted maybe that was it for him, he just couldn’t aim higher, but there still was a hole inside him, something he couldn’t quite grasp but weighted heavy anyway.
Richie hoped the classes would make him get out of his mind a little, at least for a while. He also hoped to meet some new people there, maybe even make friends. One of the things Richie hated the most was the loneliness, and maybe that was the reason he didn’t mind the overexploitation, the crazy working hours or the underpayment. He’d do anything to prevent going home just to be alone.
The improv class was fun, and it kind of helped Richie work on his way to approach people. He was still annoying sometimes and still didn’t know when to just shut up, but he also learned how to be charming. After all, he always had too many words, it was only a matter of time before he managed how to use them well.
Another good thing was an acquaintance at the classes had a family member working for The Spot, a well-known comedy theatre, so they would let them use the stage sometimes when there weren’t any performances or productions showing. Not a lot of people went to see them, even though they didn’t even charge anything, just some friends and friends of friends came to watch whatever the hell they would do, but it still made Richie feel like it was valued.
He was finishing off picking up props and stuff the evening he overheard the conversation between some of the cast that were part of the main show the theatre was playing. So this guy, Alan, just broke a leg hiking. It was ironic, given how many times Richie had heard that phrase, “break a leg” before people went on stage. The guy wasn’t one of the main characters, thank goodness, but he was still important and they needed someone to replace him immediately.
“I know his part,” Richie said, because he still hadn’t learn how to keep his mouth shut. He expected some dissing. They’re actors, after all. They don’t care what you know.
“Do you?” One of the girls asked, and that’s how Richie stopped picking up props and went on stage for the first time in his life.
He almost died.
Richie never thought he could freak out like that in his entire life. His legs were quivering, his arms were shaking, his stomach was dancing and he just wanted to throw up. Some crew member actually had to push him on stage and, right there, right when he set a foot on the floor, he became Richie Tozier. He said Alan’s lines, he did Alan’s voice, and he added some not-Alan things that made the audience laugh like crazy.
People. Liked him.
They weren’t laughing at him, they were laughing with him. And what was he supposed to do? Not be encouraged to do more? Craving the cheers, the ovations, the round of applause one after another, the laughs so loud he could just escape his mind and forget about his mom back at home maybe not even remembering she had a son, his dad letting go, his tiny apartment, his underpayment, the fact that he didn’t have much life outside the theatre, the feeling of having lost something you can’t remember, the loneliness, the fear of being forgotten.
“Man, you’re so good at that. You could have your own show.”
Richie had never worked so hard in his entire life. He learned how to act, how to move on stage, how to deliver and when, he learned how to wait, to be patient and create expectation, build up, maintain, release. He perfected the formula for success. He took writing classes, too.
“Damn, Rich, this is too dark.”
They didn’t work. But, fuck, he got so good at improvisation and once he started working on them, his voices were amazing. It didn’t take long till Mr. Bartlow called him to his office and offered him to have his own act, his own show. Mr. Bartlow was the kind of man you see walking down the street and immediately know he means business. It was odd that for a man who operates a place meant for laughs, Richie didn’t think he had ever seen him smile. He told Richie to work on something during the summer and present it to him before the opening season. Richie thought he wouldn’t be able to do it. He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t a professional. He was just a trashmouth.
“This… This is good, Richie. This is so good. This could really be something else,” Mr. Bartlow said.
He liked it.
People liked it.
And then there were posters and billboards with his fucking face on them all over the theatre.
Richie Tozier, look what you’ve done.
The first week there weren’t too many people in the audience, just the right amount, the usual. It was more than Richie was used to seeing, but he still managed to control his anxiety. It wasn’t the same being part of a group scene where you can hide if you fuck it up, rather than being there all alone on stage, in front of judging people waiting for you to entertain them. He quickly made friends with Jack Daniel’s, just a shot before coming on stage, just so he could calm his nerves.
After the first week, every show was sold out.
Richie had never puked so much in his life.
He honestly thought he was coming down with something the first few days because he literally felt like shit. The show was still on, people loved it, although sometimes Richie didn’t even know how he was able to perform at all. The theatre was cashing a lot of money too, so he didn’t have the heart to ask Mr. Bartlow to cancel it. He could, however, ask him if maybe they could tone it down a little, take his face off some billboards, stop announcing it so insistently.
So that was the intention. When Richie finished his show for the day and the last round of applause was over, Richie decided it was time to face it and talk to his boss, open up about what was going on with him and maybe finding the best solution that would work for both of them.
He went backstage, saying goodbye to the crew, some of his castmates, and the people already leaving for home while he walked into the building, looking for Mr. Bartow’s office. Richie hadn’t been there often, just when he had to present his idea for the show. It was true now they had kind of a closer relationship, but Richie still saw him like his boss, someone not to be mess with. He wasn’t a bad guy, no. Richie had had a fair amount of bosses that were absolute jerks, so he knew Mr. Bartlow wouldn’t yell at him or call him useless (or so he hoped). However, he was a nervous wreck.
His palms were sweating and his heart wanted to jump out of his chest. Every step he took he kept repeating the words he would say to Mr. Bartlow in his head, changing the tone, trying different ways. No matter how he pictured it, he always ended up looking like a coward. But hey, what if he was? Cowards deserve to live too, right? And they deserve a job. Right? Right??
God, he didn’t want to be fired.
As Richie walked to the office he started hearing someone speaking in a kind of heated way. At first he thought there were two people, but the closer he got, the better he could understand it was just a guy speaking really fast. Like, really fast. The voice came from inside Mr. Bartlow’s office, but Richie couldn’t hear Mr. Bartlow at all. He stood there, in front of the closed door for a few seconds, just wondering what to do.
Maybe he should have knocked, at least that’s what you’re supposed to do when you face a closed door, but Richie was curious and, most of all, a knucklehead, so he just pushed at the doorknob and opened the door.
Uh. That wasn’t Mr. Bartlow.
That was a guy, kind of tiny compared to Richie, looking like he was about to have a heart attack, looking through a stack of paper and using Mr. Bartlow’s computer at the same time. All of this while rambling like a maniac. He didn’t even notice Richie coming into the room, looking at him like that scene didn’t make any sense at all.
“Hello?”
“… all the way from Queens and this is the first place I visit. Of course. Let’s fuck up the new guy, let’s send him to some fleapit run by absolute fucknuts and see if he doesn’t fucking hang himself before finishing the job…”
“Hi?” Richie tried again, walking closer, but the guy was just not having it today. He was on fire. Richie was sure he could see actual smoke coming from him.
“… and of course now there’s a dozen of excel sheets I need to compile just so I can fucking start working because these fucknuts don’t know the meaning of the word order and then I’ll need to check out the whole fucking place. Of course. Of fucking course,” the guy kept moving sheets of paper on the desk and looking at the computer in front of him. “No Occupational Risk evaluation? Really? This is just awesome. How the fuck is no one dead already??” And then the guy looked up, finally looked up, and stopped rambling for just a second before asking. “And who the fuck are you?”
“Woah, easy there, Hot Sauce. I’m Richie Tozier. I work here. My face is, like, all over the building.”
“Well, then your face is a security hazard. And I’m Edward Kaspbrak, I’m the one who’s gonna save your business,” the guy said, and Richie waited for a shake of hands or another kind of greeting of some sorts, but it never came. Instead. “Don’t call me that, by the way. Nobody does. Edward, I mean.”
“Oh, then how should I address you, your majesty?” Richie joked, making a bow. “Ned, maybe? Ted? Teddy? Teddy bear. I bet that’s how everybody calls you. Little teddy bear. You’re about the same size,” he laughed.
“Aren’t you supposed to be funny? If this places depends on you, then I think my work here is done…” the guy said, gathering some of the papers and putting them in a big folder, then carefully fitting it inside his shoulder bag. He walked right towards Richie, stopping barely inches away from crashing against him. “You mind?” He asked, and then Richie realized he was actually blocking the exit. He raised an eyebrow, though, looking down at the guy with a side smile.
“Sure, shorty,” Richie laughed, moving aside. The guy just rolled his eyes and walked away. Only he stopped at the door and looked back at Richie for a second.
“It’s Eddie, by the way.”
“Ooh, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie said before he could stop himself. The guy just huffed and left, muttering something that sounded like ‘hilarious’. “Hey, wait!” Richie called, walking to the door in quick strides and looking out, leaning on the doorframe. The guy, Eddie, had stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Sorry. I just can’t help it sometimes,” he said, but that wasn’t the reason he had stopped the guy from leaving. Eddie just shrugged, brushing it off. “Hey, do you…? Do I know you? I feel like I know you.”
“Impossible. First time in California,” Eddie said. Richie frowned. Really?
“Where are you from?”
“Queens,” Eddie answered, and just for a few seconds they just stared at each other. Richie blinked a few times, feeling something in his chest growing up. Not something new, more like something that was asleep awakening for the first time in a long time. “I guess I have a pretty common face,” Eddie added.
“Pretty, that's for sure. I don’t know about common,” Richie replied, and he immediately wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall for being unable to control his mouth. The guy blushed and frowned at the same time. “Sorry. It’s, you know. Comedians. The filter…” Richie pointed at his head and mouth. “Doesn’t work.”
“Don’t worry,” Eddie said, but it didn’t sound convincing. “By the way, sorry about, you know, before. I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just this place is a fucking disaster. Like, financially and structurally speaking.”
“Oh, is it?” Richie moved a step closer, but didn’t let go of the doorframe. “Please, don’t get me fired,” he joked, or at least he tried. Eddie was still looking at him like there was something on Richie’s face, or like if he was a puzzle and Eddie was trying to make out the hidden picture. “So, do you want to get some coff―”
“I need to go. You know. Work,” Eddie interrupted him, kind of pointing at his bag and taking a step back. Richie took a step back too, almost trying to hide behind the doorframe again.
“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He nodded. They both nodded. Like stupid. “See you around, then. I guess.”
“I guess,” Eddie said back, and it sounded a little unsure, it sounded like it could be a lie, but just before he turned around and left, Richie could catch out a brief smile in Eddie’s lips.
Richie stood there, watching the guy disappear at the end of the hallway, a curious smile opening on his own face. Well, that was something.