Violet

"A priest, a rabbi, and a duck walk into a bar.  The bartender looks up at them and says, "Is this a joke?"

This is what it has taken me two hours to write.  A bad joke meant to mock the mother of  all bad jokes.  My name is Barry Chumble and, right now, I am sitting in the Des Plaines Public Library, preparing a stand-up routine for my first ever open mic.

The open mic is on Friday.  Today is Thursday.  I have, in my repertoire, a half-memorized monologue about the time I was mistaken for a street performer in Lincoln Park and a probably misogynistic rant against women who drive Smart cars.  It isn't great stuff, but my life doesn't afford me great material.  I'm Barry Chumble - hotel bartender by day, aspiring comedian by  night.  It worries me that I don't have enough anxiety in my life.

The fluorescent lights in this room are making me sick. How many Republicans does it take to change a lightbulb?  Change?  Why change?

I should stop staring at the ceiling.  It isn't helping me think.

Across from me, three tables down, clad in a violet suit jacket and rosate khaki shorts, Bill Murray is reading a magazine.

It takes a moment for that to register and I begin to realize that I have been sitting in this room for at least an hour with one of my comedy idols, as if this were an every day occurrence.

He looks thoughtful and I can't quite see the title of the publication he's reading, but  I'm sure that, whatever it is, I want to be reading it too.

Nearby to my chicken scratch notes, full of the fruits of "As-Seen-On-TV" comedy classes, there is the dog-eared copy of National Geographic. Its cover article is about the South American snapping turtle.

If a turtle doesn't have a shell, is he homeless or naked?

This is a disaster.  Focus.  Maybe it's not the seminal star of Ghosbusters and Caddyshack  after all.

I sneak another glance.  It's definitely him.

What is Bill Murray doing in Des Plaines?

Doesn't matter.  I need to speak to him.  How many aspiring comedians would kill for this opportunity?

Then it hits me.  I come up with an ice-breaker line - just obscure enough to show that I'm a true fan, but not so obscure that Murray himself wouldn't get the reference.  Maybe something from Meatballs or Stripes?  Definitely nothing after 1993.  Any movie made after Groundhog Day isn't vintage Murray.  I say the line to Murray and he laughs and shakes my hand.  Or maybe he doesn't.  Maybe he cruelly and viciously puts me down with the caustic arrogance of a Hollywood star.  Either way, I have a story, a real story, from which to build my act.

Bill Murray has fixed my writer's block.

All right, Barry.  Take a deep breath.  Get up from that chair.  Today is the day for decisive action! ...or is it?