Amal, filming, had to grab Henry’s phone with both hands to stop it shaking. Few people in the Chandler Comedy Club could contain themselves. The moment Amal caught on a phone; where Representative Fulton just repeated a crass (and worse yet, outdated) meme; had the makings of a classic. Well, as classic as Internet Videos could be, according to Amal.
All the twenty-somethings still at the bar found different ways to laugh. Some quaked. Some chortled. One odd woman beat her chest and howled. A man with pink hair took out his phone, and fiddled with its buttons. The only people not laughing were the bouncer (dragging Frederick away) and Fulton (watching his credibility slip away).
No Republican bill could be as red as Representative Fulton’s face then. Amal struggled to find words for it— beet-red? Almost purple? Like if Rudolph’s nose grew tumorous and metastasized? He stopped thinking about it soon. While everyone else was still laughing, Fulton locked eyes with Amal, and then with the phone.
Fulton, for an old man, took enormous steps towards Amal, knocking over chairs in his stride. The giggling fell silent.
“Give it over,” demanded Fulton, pointing to the phone. “You have no right… it is, plainly stated, not right for you to violate my privacy…”
As Fulton muttered those last words, Amal took a deep breath to steady himself. Henry looked at the two, his friend and his target. Amal sensed the spirit of Henry coursing through his mind, cutting through all the smoke and mirror tactics Amal threw into his stand-up, to find the perfect comeback to smoke Fulton with.
“If you cared about your, or anyone’s privacy rights… sir, you would not have help draft any part of the TATTLE Act.”
The crowd ooo’ed. The crowd cheered. The ooo’s outweighed the cheers.
Representative Fulton huffed. He looked around the room— the usual clubgoers were jeering, and his guests had left the building. Fulton directed a sinister eye towards Amal, and then took the straight path to the double doors and out of the Chandler Comedy Club. As he left, Henry shouted to him, “Don’t ever speak to my boyfriend again!”
Chandler Comedy Club always looked drab, but the lively crowd always made up for it. The crowd chanted, for Henry and Amal. The chant grew only a little, before Amal’s manager arrived from backstage. She told the crowd they those still here in 5 minutes would unofficially join the janitorial crew. She meant it. Amal was one of the first people to rush out the door.
Amal took a large step outside. The dark morning air hit Amal like a slap, and he breathed it in. Even a flat town like Chandler looked like a painting, with dancing lights and smooth sidewalks and the smell of desert all around, at 12:30 in the morning. It was morning… and after tonight, Amal could never practice for what comes next.
Amal looked to his left. Henry was on the bench with Frederick. Frederick looked pleased— he had played his part well. Amal would have to reveal something important to Henry during their hangout tonight, and somehow say “I must be dead honest with you now,” without Henry making joke about Amal’s “latent gayness.” But in the meantime, he contented himself with watching Henry, discretely, pass the blue-dye vodka glass to a proud Frederick.
