Late in my senior year of college, I found myself quite characteristically drunk and socializing at a friend’s party. I was talking with a fellow student, a Bio major if memory serves, when I mentioned my intent to pursue writing as a career. His eyes lit upon hearing this, not out of shared interest but out of recognition that I wasn’t the only person he knew with this passion.
“You have to meet my friend” he exclaimed, unable to control himself. “He’s a writer too, and one of the funniest guys I know.”
Now I’ve long known that I have somewhat of a knack for this–that is to say, the art of combining words into cogent thoughts and phrases. I’m always on the lookout for others with this talent, telling myself it’s a search for kindred spirits, but knowing all the while it’s merely scoping out the competition.
Whenever I go into these meetings, it’s with the hopes that I’ll connect with this other writer in a transcendent, almost romantic way. I wonder if we’ll enjoy the same styles and share interest in genre or syntax. We could become writer-buddies, sharing projects and creating worlds we’d never have imagined on our own.
Ultimately this is never the case for two reasons: One, I truly believe that every writer’s words are his own, and for that reason I’ll never find my perfect match in text. Two, I’m far too stubborn and selfish a writer to cooperate amicably.
Nevertheless, I went into this meeting at the party with the same high hopes as always. The Bio major had left, but he quickly returned with his friend. Like a seasoned matchmaker, he gave us a wink and an, “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Now despite compatibility as writers having no connection with physical appearance, I was immediately disappointed by what I saw. This gentleman was obese, with a bushy beard, a shamrock t-shirt, and a “cabbie” hat. He drank beer from a Guinness glass that, judging by the complete absence of glassware anywhere else in the party, I was left to deduce he’d probably brought from home. Far be it from me to judge someone for celebrating heritage–hell, I was vice president of the Irish club and I’m less than a quarter Irish–but when someone’s entire image is defined by stereotype, that person is doing nothing but damage. Worse, I got the impression that if an orange-tanned, muscled guido had walked through the door, this guy would have scoffed unironically, convinced of his moral superiority.
He drank deeply before asking me what I wrote. I told him it was screenplays, mostly. “Oh yeah?” he asked, taking another swig, “What style?”
“Comedy,” I said, surprised by his look of exasperation as I did so. He was rolling his eyes.
“I know, but what kind?”
I’ll admit I was profoundly confused by the question. To me, comedy just is. Sure, every comedian has his or her voice, but it always comes back to finding humor in something and using that to make others laugh. Unsure of how to respond, I started listing some of my favorite movies, the ones I find to be particularly poignant and inspiring.
“That’s white-cover comedy,” he said with a sneer. “You really should find your own thing.”
I really didn’t like the judgmental tone he was giving me, nor did I like his use of the term “white-cover comedy” as something only I was stupid enough to not know. My research later that night, as well as numerous times since, has failed to provide any information or consensus toward the meaning of “white-cover comedy”. I tend to think he just made it up.
After a long pause, I tried to save the scraps of conversation that laid bleeding and burning on the floor between us. “So, are you a student here?” I asked.
“No.”
“Oh, where do you go to school?” I was thinking maybe he went to one of the nearby universities or, at worst, a local community college. Come to think of it, that Bio major never said anything about it…
“I’m not in school.”
“Really? Then why should I give a flying fuck what you think about my comedy?” Only instead of screaming it, I just wished it. Here I was, talking to a poorly groomed pile of flesh who was making it hard for me to decide which would turn up a lower number: his IQ, or his life expectancy. If nothing else, I tend to believe college parties should be reserved for those with at least the intention of being in college.
“Well, good luck,” he said as he walked away. I watched him return to his group of friends and continue drinking without saying much. And yet, for as uninteresting and unfunny as he was, I remember him to this day. He became a hallmark to me, an icon of a bar set so low that I can always say, “Well, at least I’m not that kid.”
