I remember the first time I got paid to tell jokes. It was in a bowling alley’s attached tiki bar. I had nearly 40 people there to see me and I was paid $40. About $1.04 per person. That is a shitty commission, but at the time I was thrilled to make anything. I was going to frame it, like a restaurant frames their first buck, but I ended up spending it on beer several months later. Booze beats nostalgia in my book.
I had a funny conversation with fellow comics last weekend and realized there are times, very rarely, where you can’t believe you’re actually getting money for doing comedy. Usually, it’s the opposite – you get offstage and realize you’re working for gas money and a bar tab. I did a show once where the bar owner promised me a dollar amount, then when showtime rolled around four people were in the bar. Four. In an attempt to not pay me, he changed the terms. “If you don’t do 45 minutes, I’m not giving you a dime.” I had no business doing 25 minutes at that point, but this guy can kiss my ass. I walked onstage and one of the four yelled out, “Are you that comedian from Zanesville?” Yes! Fans! “The one that works at the Barn?” No! That’s my buddy Camp! Then he and his chick got up to leave. I said, “I was his college roommate for three years.” He looked down, shrugged his shoulders and sat back down. I then rewarded him and the other patrons for their loyalty by doing probably the worst 45 minutes of comedy they would ever hear. And I got my money. And now the bar is closed. Cue up the Cheers theme song.