I am an aspiring stand-up comedian. I’ve performed a couple of times at on-campus open mic nights. One of the pieces I’m working on is about how dangerous cars are. You drive around the block once at 16, and you have free reign to control a half-ton piece of metal and glass, traveling upwards of 85 miles per hour. This past weekend, I gained a whole new sleeve of ammunition for this piece, as my best friend Dave and I crawled eastbound on I-90 at 30 miles per hour. My 2001 Ford Focus is not the ideal vehicle for driving through snow and slush. But, this was in the name of comedy. Our destination: Boston, The Wilbur Theater. The man we were risking our lives to see: Mike Birbiglia, and his new special, Thank God for Jokes.
The show was on Saturday night, February the 15th. The start time was either 7:00pm, 7:30pm, or 8:00pm, according to the tickets, website, and ticketmaster, respectively. This detail – or lack thereof – would only increase in importance, as it became clear that the weather conditions were going to severely inhibit our “on-timeness.”
Our initial plan was to go see the show, and drive back that night. Hopefully we would be home around 1:00am. But, upon waking up the morning of and seeing the all too familiar sight of frozen water floating out of the sky, we decided we should probably bring supplies for the night, just in case.
Initially, the snow flurries in the sky were all we had to contend with, as we drove up Route 9, then headed west to the Taconic. The roads were clear of snow, and traffic was sparse. We blared that Augustana song as we left Lee Plaza, just off I-90 in Massachusetts. And although I hear it’s nice in the summer, the first time I felt the car’s back wheels slip, I realized how it was very much the opposite in the winter.
I think we are all familiar with that feeling of almost getting into an accident. Blood was flying through my veins; a sudden wave of heat throughout my body, down to my feet. I let out a slow breath as I eased back cautiously on the accelerator. With snow plows yet to respond, I was left to follow tire tracks in the slush.
Dave and I watched jeeps and trucks whiz by our compact car. As the sky grew dark and the snowfall continued, even these all-terrain, four-wheel drive machines slowed. Automated signs on the side of the highway flashed intermittently: SPEED LIMIT 40 MPH.
As much as I focused on the road in front of me, and did my best to keep myself in the tire tracks, the feeling that I wasn’t in complete control of the car would make itself known with a subtle slide every now and then… Signs marking the distance to Boston were glasses of water, half-full, letting us know how much longer we would be stuck in this chaos.
But there was no stopping. This show was starting at 7:00, 7:30, or 8:00pm, and it was already 6:30pm! And, this was Mike Birbiglia. A man whose special, My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend, changed the way I looked at comedy. Whose film, Sleepwalk With Me, made me think becoming a stand-up comedian was possible. We had to continue.
We made it into the city a few minutes before 7:00pm. And we had just gotten word from Dave’s friend Henry, who we were meeting at the show, that it was in fact starting at 7:00pm.
We parked in a garage near the theater, in a row of spots labeled compact cars, next to a Range Rover SUV. We hurried out of the garage, and fast walked to the theater. Inside the theater, our tickets get scanned by the lady at the door. “Up the stairs, to your right.” She told us. I heard laughter as we climbed the stairs of the Wilbur.
“It sounds like it started.” I told Dave.
We get to the doors, and I quietly open them, not wanting to disturb Mike. Inside the stage is lit, and the audience is shrouded in darkness. Onstage stands the opener, Something Fish. I can’t remember his first name and Google has failed me.
We made it.
The opener ended. We waited a few moments. And out came Mike Birbiglia. Apparently, the storm was so bad that a makeup date was posted for those unable to make tonight’s show. Birbiglia started by saying, “We made it through the wintry mix.” He went on to say how great it was that we were all on time, and that we made it out for the show.
He was, of course, talking to the audience in general, but Dave and I heard his words loud and clear in row C, seats 18 and 19. The show went on. And, his hour plus of comedy was worth every bit of the five and a half hour, ice-ridden, near-death, trek across Massachusetts. I had never gone from such anger, to such laughter, in such a short time: Thank God for Jokes.
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