An improviser improvises

(This was written sometime in 2020, after my improv course was cancelled due to covid, shortly after moving to New York City)

‘Tired of reality? Just make up a new one! Join NYC’s best improvisers at Upright Citizens Brigade.’

The ad was hanging in the announcement board at Staples in Midtown. It was one of those old paper ads that nobody reads anymore but still makes for great narrative devices. The address in the paper was in the same street I was in, the 42nd, so I decided to go down and inquire in person. To get there, I had to cross Times Square. As a foreigner, the place still fascinates me, but as a wannabe New Yorker, I’m learning to despise it. I tried to go through it fast, steady-paced, eyes forward. Trying not to look like another idiotized tourist. I failed. Just when I was about to leave behind the last crosswalk, I indulged in New York City’s favorite and most questionable hobby: staring. In this case, I stared at a balding, redheaded, well-dressed man with a funny little mustache standing at the other side, holding a sign. He was staring back at me. The light went green, but he didn’t look like he had any intention to cross. I tried to avoid passing too close, elude eye contact, but he knew I had noticed him, he knew he was all I was thinking about. He knew I wanted to know. I gave up and got a good look at his sign. It read: ‘YOU have been BRAINWASHED!’

Brainwashed? Maybe. But about what, particularly? Maybe he was only a Times Square nuthead, but I felt that he had rung a bell of some kind. I was still thinking about this twenty minutes later when I arrived at the UCB Theater in Hell’s Kitchen. In the pictures posted in Google Maps you could see life, posters announcing ongoing shows, people having a laugh. I just found a naked façade, a closed door, and a note.

‘For some time now we have barely been able to pay the rent for this theater. Due to pandemic closures, we cannot afford to continue with the lease anymore. We tried everything, believe us. We told the landlord we just sent him a transfer, but he insists he hasn’t received it. We pointed out he is not supposed to say ‘No’ to anything, or else it’s impossible to build a scene. He ignored us. He wouldn’t take these ten thousand dollars we just took out of our jacket’s pocket, either. We even offered a coffer full of gold one of us found at a 16th Spanish wreck in his last vacation in los Cayos, but it was of no use. So, we are closing. But this doesn’t mean UCB is leaving New York City. We’ll figure something out, you’ll see. We go back to the origins. Shows and classes will continue in different locations in the city. In fact, all around the city! The whole city is our stage now. The spirit of UCB will spread through New York. Like comedy, like mankind’s quest for joy, we’ll be everywhere. Forever.

PS: No refunds.

Take care,

Matt Besser, Amy Poehler, Ian Roberts, and Matt Walsh

After a few minutes staring at the blank wall, reflecting on my meteoric career in show business, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around startled, and there was a tall white man around his early fifties, with dark, thick eyebrows and shiny teeth, wearing a red plaid shirt. He was speaking to me loudly.

“Charlie! It’s me, Matt. I finally found you, man! We’ve been trying to get to you every day for the last two months. Where the hell have you been?”

“What?”

“What do you mean what? We had to close the fucking theater, Charlie! You cannot just disappear in a time like this.”

“I’m sorry sir, I think you confuse me with somebody else. I just came here to ask about the classes.”

“You can ask about the classes all you want when we figure this out. You are our accountant, man! You cannot just vanish from the company’s meetings like that. Look at what happened! You were supposed to find a way to get the money for the leases.”

“Accountant? What are you talking about? I just moved to New York! I’m from Spain!”

“I know you are. I always found your accent funny. I still don’t get why your parents would name you Charlie though. Anyway, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing I guess. Wait… what?”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit. We have to find a solution for this before it’s too late. Let’s go! We have to meet the others.”

“Who the hell are the others?”

“You’re not making this easy, are you? Let’s go, our cab is ready.”

He started walking towards the side of the road, but I saw no taxi there, only a middle-aged lady getting in her car after loading some groceries. My new friend—at least I was hoping he was—opened the car’s back door to get in. When he looked back and saw me standing in place, he started to waive at me, looking irritated. It became clear to me that the only reasonable way to continue was to go get in the car with him, so I did.

“To Central Park in the 96th please”, he said to the lady. I thought she may be surprised or upset to find two strangers in her car. Instead:

“You got it. Move the bags back there if they are bothering you”, she said.

What an example of the renowned New Yorker hospitality and kindness!

“That’s fine, thanks”, Matt said.

“Do you want me to go take the 10th or the 12th? The 12th takes longer but there’s probably less traffic. Although the 10th is arguably a nicer ride. Although that depends on the passenger too, if you like the riverside or…”

“Whatever is faster it’s ok, thanks”, he interrupted her.

“The 10th it is then.”

She had been right: we got stuck in traffic. I thought of using the chance to ask this man about him and our mission, but the lady driver was chatty and left no space for silence.

“So, you guys are from the city?”, she asked.

“I am from Brooklyn, and my friend here is from Spain, but he’s been living here for years. We work together”.

I was going to correct him because, as far as I knew, I had been in America only for a few weeks, but once again the lady was faster.

“Oh, Spain, that’s nice”, she said. “I’ve never been to Spain. I would like to one day. I’m from India, I came here with my parents when I was a teenager. I mean, I came here with my parents when I was a teenager”.

This second time she said it with an unapologetically cartoonish Indian subcontinent accent. I know New York is a cultural melting pot where humans of every origin and condition can be found, but to me, this lady looked —and, at first, sounded— very much like the Jamaican ladies in my Brooklyn neighborhood. Ok, I thought, maybe here’s a lady who appreciates a bit of old-fashioned racial humor.

“At first I wanted to be a Broadway star, you know?” she went on. “But then I got married. My parents found a girl for me. Soon I had a wife and two kids. Had to feed them all, you know. So I started working the cab with my dad. And here I am. It will be twenty-six years this year!

I was amazed by the discovery of this Indian subcommunity that was so tolerant with black transgender undercover cab drivers but was still fond of arranged marriages. My travel partner didn’t look surprised at all.

“That’s too bad. I mean, it is great that you are a cab driver too, of course. I’m an actor, you know? Although not on Broadway. I cannot sing at all.”, he said.

“So what kind of actor are you, then?, she asked, forgetting her Indian accent.

“I’m an improviser. A comedian, you could say.”

“Oh, like Bill Cosby?”

“No, no, not like that”, he quickly clarified. “I work in small theaters. No script, just… improvising.”

“What do you mean improvising?”

“You have a team of actors, right? And then you get an idea or suggestion from the audience and start performing. Just no script”

“So you can say whatever? How do you make a real story, then?”, her Indian accent was definitely gone.

“Well, there are a few rules. You have to help your partner, build on, add to the story. You have to embrace everything, and always say yes.”

“If everybody says yes all the time, where’s the conflict? Where’s the argument, the storyline?”

“Well, there’s a storyline. But also, sometimes it doesn’t have to be a storyline. There’s just things happening. Fun things.”

“I like storylines. Have you seen Honey, I shrunk the kids? That’s fun”.

“Yes. It is fun”, he said, and changed the subject. “What about some Bollywood movies? Any to recommend”.

“Bollywood?… Oh, you mean Bollywood! Yes, lots of good ones too. I’ve seen so many Bollywood movies!, she said, recuperating her Indian accent, this time apparently from a different region. “Oh, look, here we are! Central Park. It would be seventeen fifty, please”.

“Here you are”, he said, handing her an invisible 20 dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you. Pleasure to meet you guys, I hope to catch one of your shows sometime.”

“Pleasure to meet you too. I hope to ride in your cab again sometime”, I said, seizing my last chance to participate in the conversation. As we went out, leaving the car behind, Matt looked at me and said:

“What a weird thing to say to a cab driver”. And he added: “Thank God we arrived. I was running out of ideas.”

We entered Central Park on West 96th street and took one of the paths going southwards. Halfway towards the main lake, we stepped on the grass to meet two people who were sitting there. They were a big red-faced man and a blond lady. They stood up when they saw us approaching, and my companion greeted them. When they got closer, I recognized the lady: she was Amy Poehler, star of Parks and Rec and Saturday Night Life. I was thrilled, paralyzed. There were so many things I wanted to say to her. So many thanks for the happiness she had provided me. But she went first.

“About fucking time, Charlie, you elusive bastard! We thought you had run away with all the money left”.

“Then we remembered there was actually nothing left”, added the other man, whose name was Ian. He was wearing a bold Hawaiian shirt. “Ok, now that we are all here, let’s figure out how to get our theater back.”

I followed Matt and the four of us stood on the grass. I suggested we sit, not sure what for, but they replied that standing serves the flow of ideas better.

“Well, Charlie, I don’t know if Matt filled you up already, but since you left we had to give up the Hell’s Kitchen lease because last time we looked there was just no money left in the bank”, Amy explained, looking at me. “We were hoping you could take a look at the books and come up with some sort of accountant magic trick to get it back”.

I wanted to explain to her that my name wasn’t Charlie and that I was no accountant of any kind, but I just couldn’t bring myself to disappoint Amy. I took the file she was handing to me. It consisted of several handwritten pages with irregularly recorded revenues and expenses. The three people were looking at me like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat about to jump off the flying trapeze. I started reading, and soon some of the annotated expenses catched my eye. “An industrial popcorn machine”, “A second-hand space suit”, “A Venetian Gondola”, ”A panic room”.

“What’s all this?” I asked.

“Sometimes scenes get very creative”, Amy replied. “And we just can’t say no”.

“Okay. So maybe for the future try to stick to low-budget acts”, intervened Ian. “But we need something to fix our immediate problem now. Fire up that big head of yours, numbers boy!”

“Yes, please”, said Amy. “I want my office back, I’m tired of holding meetings in this park. God, I hate parks!”

“Maybe we could reach out to the landlord and negotiate a discount”, I said.

After a short silence, Matt replied patiently: “We appreciate you trying, we really do. But even comedy has its limits. This is New York City, dude”.

“Ok, I’m sorry”, I conceded. “Then, maybe we could increase the price of the tickets for our shows”.

“Yes, and…, and… I mean who am I kidding, most of the people come to our shows because they don’t want to pay the two drinks minimum in Comedy Cellar.”, Ian said.

“C’mon Charlie. You must have learnt something in Princeton, apart from smoking pot out of a watermelon.“, Amy pressed on.

The world depended on me, and I couldn’t be less ready. It was my first day in show business and in accountancy. I had absolutely no confidence in myself, I was feeling ridiculous, and I just wanted to give up and go home. Then I saw him. He was a few meters apart, sitting next to a tree, observing us. The balding, red-headed man with the inspector-Clouseau mustache I had seen in Times Square. Then, something in my mind clicked.

“Brainwashed!”, I screamed inside my head. “Washing machine!”, “laundromat!”, “laundry!”. “I got it!”

“Money laundering!”, I shouted. “That’s the answer. We just need to partner up with some criminal enterprise, and offer to clean their profits through our theater. It doesn’t even have to be anything too evil, it can be weed trafficking or gambling or something like that. And I’m sure we can get a cash advance to pay for the first months.

They looked at me and at each other alternatively. You could tell they were searching for the appropriate words, and that nobody wanted to go first. Then, hawaiian Ian softly said:

“I don’t think he’s going to come up with anything better than that”.

Amy nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that could totally work”, she said, pulling one of those big, enthusiastic smiles that made her career. “In fact, I know a guy in LA. Let me call him right now.”

“You know a guy?”, Matt said.

“Yeah, I know a guy. I know people.”

“Scene!”, shouted a voice, interrupting us. “Scene!”

It was the red-headed Times Square man, who was coming towards us, clapping.

“It was not too bad, for a first timer.”, he said, looking at me. “I liked your association of ideas there, although maybe next time you want to try to keep it more simple. At least you didn’t go for hypnosis, like the last guy.”

“I’m sorry, who are you? And what is going on here?”, I said.

“Oh, don’t worry”, Amy said, “This is Mr. Matt Walsh, and this is all part of the plan to save our improv theater.”

“Oh, so there’s a plan? When will I be able to start my classes then?”“What do you think that was?”, she said. “That would be four hundred dollars, please”.

#Improv #newyork