Hope Idiotic | Part 21
Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.
AT THAT MOMENT, LOU HAD $8,500 TO HIS NAME. Give or take the few bucks from his unemployment checks that would be left after trying to pay his credit card bills. Looking at the statement, it felt good having all of that money staring back at him. He didn’t want to ever spend it. But it was already as good as gone.
The day after he and Michelle returned from their cruise, he booked a reservation at Ginger & Homestead, the city’s hottest restaurant — Asian–farm-fresh fusion. And although his gut was wrapping itself in knots and my words to him about freedom were still clanging in his head, Lou drove to Goldberg Jewelers in Skokie and spent $8,064 on Michelle’s engagement ring.
“Congratulations,” said Art, shaking Lou’s hand.
“Thanks.”
In the parking lot by his car, Lou threw up.
After performing on the cruise, Lou was certain that he wanted to get back into stand-up comedy. And he was even more certain that he wanted to write for a living, not teach. Over the phone, Chuck was supportive.
“I’m not sure how Michelle is going to take it,” Lou said. “The planets need to be perfectly aligned for her to be supportive sometimes.”
“Wait until you propose, then tell her. She’ll be so happy that she’s getting married that she won’t care one bit about your stupid career.”
“Oh, no. No, she’ll see through that real quick.”
Michelle wasn’t jumping up and down with excitement when he told her his plans to stay true to his intended mission, but she must have found it pointless to argue. Maybe she sensed the commitment in his voice. Maybe she recognized that his small victory at sea was just the fuel he needed to make all of his — and their — dreams happen.
Since no company would hire Lou, he decided that it would be best to become his own company. He spent hours every day researching the freelance-writing business. He wanted to do more than just review restaurants and bars for shit money, he wanted to build a career as a one-stop-shop writer for hire. By incorporating all of his experiences with writing and marketing and broadcasting and advertising, he created a personal brand that he thought would be approachable and beneficial to small businesses.
Companies like to fire the creatives first when things get rough. But it’s those creatives that are needed to rebuild and communicate those companies’ offerings. Lou would be that creative. And as a contractor, the companies didn’t have to make any long-term financial commitments, which made the need for someone of Lou’s skill set easier for the company accountant to justify.
Also in his favor was that a recession is the time when most new businesses start up. Cast-aside workers start looking for a reason to get out of bed in the morning and a paycheck to afford their habits and one-time spoils. Frustrated with the current climate that ruined their plans for early retirement, they become the thinking and thrumming power of economic change. They have seen what doesn’t work and aim to improve their situation and everyone else’s through innovation and out-of-the-box thinking. Those are the very words and phrases that can quickly become the marketing buzz, hype and then the norm. And so begins again the productive economic cycle.
There were a lot of laid-off writers fishing the murky waters of The Great Recession for work. And what they had in already established relationships, Lou made up for by being able to charge next to nothing for his services. He was more desperate than anyone else could have been. His ego had long since been snuffed out. All he needed was the contacts. Work begets work. Just one would be enough. Just one.
✶
HE MET MARK CAVANAUGH AT AN OPEN MIC IN THE BASEMENT OF A LINCOLN PARK BAR. Mark was a good comic—the perfect mixture of immaturity and sentimentality. He referred to his sets as being “dick-and-fart jokes for smart people.” Comedy was a passion. He had been training with the Improv Studio for a while, and having completed the acting classes, he was now in the writing program. Mark had everything needed to make it big on whichever coast he would eventually end up. He was tall and good-looking. He had an ironclad work ethic along with charm and wit to spare.
His background was perfect Americana: He grew up in a small town in central Illinois, where he helped his dad on the farm harvesting No. 2 yellow corn and tending to a small collection of livestock. His boyhood pet was a cow named Harriet. He didn’t have a lot of friends growing up because there weren’t any kids around to be friends with, so he spent a lot of time walking his family’s acreage with Harriet, daydreaming about growing up and becoming a famous boy. He went to college at Illinois University where he was his fraternity’s president. He got laid for the first time when he was 20. He graduated with a marketing degree. He moved to Chicago where he earned his MBA at the Moorehouse School of Business at Chicago University. He could have run for president of the United States on that background. And won.
He had his own website and a blog that people actually read and found funny, or so the comments said. And unlike nearly every other would-be and wannabe comedian/actor in Chicago, Mark wasn’t broke. He had a great day job as the midwest marketing director at Simms Laboratories, which allowed him to bring home about $90,000 annually. Mark Cavanaugh was a god—impervious to the market and bad luck.
Mark and Lou became fast friends. They were fascinated by each other’s stories, and their individual comedic styles worked well together.
“We should write something,” Mark said at an open mic on the city’s North Side.
“Like what?” Lou asked.
“A sketch show. Something we can pitch to Improv Studio. There’s that smaller stage, the Balcony. They’ll take amateur stuff.”
“I’m a professional, buddy.”
“Not yet you’re not.”
“Fair enough. But I could bang out a dozen scenes about this recession in my sleep.”
“Funny ones?”
“Probably not. But it’ll be a start. Yeah, let’s write a show about the recession. Call it The Greatest Recession Ever!.”
“Love it.” Mark finished the dregs in his pint of beer. “We’re going to be fucking stars.”
“As long as it pays.”
