Hit a Deer, Win a Prize
By Ophira Eisenberg
Every road gig has one thing in common: the booker leaves out one important detail. It’s always something specific that will ultimately work against me; like, I’m opening for a magician, or the place is a strip club during the week, or the stage is actually a small section of a large gymnasium and a basketball practice will be taking place during the show. Still, I approach every show like a third wedding thinking, “maybe this time it will be different.”
I’m driving to Vermont to perform at a college. I like Vermont, the money is good, it seems like a nice gig. I call my agent to verify the venue and she reminds me it’s not at the college, but at a nearby country club. “Are you sure it’s not restricted?” I joke. Silence on the other end of the line. I explain the joke, and she responds blandly, “I think they’re fine with Jews now.” What do you mean you think?
I pull into the gravel parking lot, find my writing book, my set lists, and my lip gloss, take a deep breath and head into the bungalow. It’s an old country club, perhaps in its day it was an alternate shoot location for The Shining. I walk by a small reception room where pastel-clad people in their sixties are situated around white table-clothed round tables having a civilized dinner. I stare at them for a while because they are just some of the whitest people I’ve ever seen on the planet. Like white verging on albino or… British. A little white-haired woman wildly waves at me.
“You must be Ophira,” she says power-walking towards me. She has the smile of a librarian who finally located a lost book. Within minutes she reveals to me the hidden detail of this gig: I’m in the right room, this college gig is an alumni dinner and it’s a Christian college. She’s not a librarian – she’s a church lady. I’m completely unprepared for this gig. Why me? Why not a Christian comic? I know they are out there. I’ve seen their websites (whatwouldjesuslaughat.com). Let me tell you, I only wish what I do on stage could be described as “stand-up, improv, and message”. Unless the message is: Don’t do drugs…when you get older. The paranoia switches from cops and parents to taxes and the IRS. Nowhere near as fun. Why the Jew? The name says it all – Ophira Eisenberg! There is no mystery there. No one ever says, “Oh – I thought you might be Scottish.”
What I usually do with the college kids is I really try to appeal to the party animal in them. I gear my jokes around well-worn themes like drinking, drugs and partying. Oh, and I swear a lot – they seem to go for that. But in this scenario, that seems out of the question. I turn to the booker-church-lady-woman and ask, “Is there anything I shouldn’t say?” And of course she responds with a laundry list. “Yes, yes, don’t talk about drinking, certainly not sex, please don’t curse, and definitely nothing about drugs.” With every word I cut jokes out of my act. I’m down to about three minutes of material. I start to panic. Can I replace references to alcohol with cold medicine? Who here has played cold medicine games? I don’t think so. How the hell am I going to fill an hour? I know the answer. Crowd work. Audience interaction. Jesus Christ Mary Mother of God, help me.
I try to find a quiet corner and sit down and just collect my thoughts – pull myself together. But before I can figure out where that is, I’m ushered to a cushioned seat at one of the tableclothed round tables, with eight young Christians staring at me. They thought it would be nice for me to sit me at a table with them for the coffee and dessert. No performer ever wants to hang out with an audience beforehand. That’s like French-kissing death before you climb on a motorcycle in a bikini. But I’m so in my head, I’ve stopped fighting for myself. I have conceded to the flow.
And my show starts without warning. I’m sipping a coffee and I hear the booker-church-lady-woman say to, “Oh, I’m going to present some awards, but first, please welcome Ophira Eisenberg.” I gulp down my caffeine and run to the stage which is the area between two of the round tables. “Hello!” I say into the two dollar microphone with two feet of cable and plugged into a small square amp beside me. I’m on a tight leash and people can’t really hear me. Maybe that’s best. I notice a few small children staring up at me and peeking out from under the tables hoping for balloon animals. I’m saying my act but obsessing on how I’m slowly going to disappoint every single person in the room as the hour wears on when I hear a laugh. It turns out they are really nice! For four minutes..
At minute five I’m out of material, which is a minute more than I expected, so I go into to the crowd, hoping to find some comedic fodder. I’m doing the basic “oh, what do you do?” and person after person answers “I work as the head of narcotics, work in the narcotics division, I train the dogs that sniff out narcotics for the police.”
“Ah…you work in narcotics. Is that a fancy way of saying Meth dealer? Heh heh heh.”
Silence and then blinks.
These people are not my friends. They’re the people who pass the blood tests. I struggle for the next forty minutes, dredging up stories from my childhood and anecdotes about my family. I’m completely off book. Some of the words coming out of my mouth I haven’t even heard before. Then I said the best line ever, “Thank you so much! Goodnight.” It’s enough. I find the booker-church-lady-woman. She is ecstatic.
“Thank you so much, that was great!” It must be great to be blinded by religion.
Ah-huh, sure, let’s have the check. I need to get my Jewish ass home.
Then she tells me that, “Oh you know, I left the check on my desk at the office, I’m so sorry…but I’ll write you a personal check from my own bank account. Oh, I hope it doesn’t bounce. Or I can just put it in the mail for you tomorrow.”
After giving yourself paper cuts for an hour, you just want to walk away with the paper in your hand. But because I’m ever so accommodating I say “No, that’s fine. Send it to me in the mail.”
Thanks a lot Christians. I walk away dejected, get into my car. I have a hotel room but it’s just one of those nights where I just want to drive back to New York. I need to be around my friends, diversity, Jews, and drugs.
While driving, I’m deep in thought, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. WHY Christians? WHY? But mid-obsessing, a deer lands on my car. A deer falls from the sky and lands on my car. It did not cross in front of the car or jump into traffic. It slipped from the hands of god onto my hood, bounced off and rolled into ongoing traffic on the other side.
I get out of the car to try to figure out what to do, I’m on a highway in the middle of fucking nowhere. All I can hear is thumping of other cars running over the dead deer. Still no laughter. WHY Christians? WHY?
In addition to the dents, a hoof went through the radiator, so the car is not drivable. I pull out my cellphone and tell myself that it’s all going to be okay….but I have no service! Why? Because I’m in the middle of Vermont. I’m in God’s country.
So I start waving down cars. Finally this redneck guy pulls up, but he’s only concerned as to whether the deer still has some edible meat on it. When I approach to ask for help, he shoos me away and mumbles that I should wait in my car for the Sheriff. I feel like a Jehovah Witness.
But the sheriff does show up. She’s a very nice, very petit woman, maybe my age, with a gruff voice compensating for her delicate size and demeanor. As she’s filling out a report with me, her cell phone goes off with this sweet girly ring. I can’t believe she’s carrying a gun and that’s her ring. I can’t believe she has service. She lets me call my boyfriend, who agrees to drive five hours from New York and get me. A tow truck takes the car and I am dropped off at a local pizza place to wait. While eating cold Vermont-style pizza, I start thinking that maybe I pissed off God by cursing out the Christians for the last few hours, and also not being able to entertain them properly. I promised God I would be more understanding.
And life moved on. I made it home, the car was repaired, the anger cooled. And then the check arrived. I opened it up and it was for three hundred dollars more than it should have. Three hundred dollars more than the contract said. I guess they made a mistake. I don’t think it was a bonus for my fantastic job. Or maybe I had it all wrong. These Christians are probably a lot closer to the ear of God than I am. Maybe they heard about deer and thought – “What can we do to make sure she doesn’t have a sore taste in her mouth about us Christians? I know! Let’s give her three extra hundred bucks.”
Jew or no-Jew, it really worked.
Ophira Eisenberg is a comedian and writer
from New York. Visit OphiraEisenberg.com.