My fifteen minutes
stand up routine is
grueling; the overrated
underarm deodorant
is failing me fast!
hands in crisp jeans’ pockets and
looks slyly toward the wings.
My fifteen minutes stand up routine
is gruelling; the overrated underarm
deodorant is failing me fast.
The crowd begins to cheer and chant.
Don’t lose your grip. You’re funny.
Look at them; they really like you!
“Direct from Yazoo, Mississippi-Mr.
Jerry Clower!”
With peripheral vision, I see the main
attraction arrive. It is my time to step
out of the spotlight.
He meanders to center stage as
multicolored floodlights enfold him.
“You’ve been a great crowd! My
mother thanks you; my father thanks
you. My creditors thank you, and I
thank you! Good night and God
bless.”
Turning his attention back toward
the waiting crowd, he pauses for a
second. Ceremonially, with
outstretched arms, he prepares to
introduce the night’s main Opry
attraction.
“Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”
I may have a bright future, but Jerry
has already reached the pinnacle of
success. Applauding, the crowd gives
the country boy a standing ovation.
Fans from a myriad of backgrounds
clap, stomp their feet, hoot-andholler. The man of the hour is about
The people packing the Ryman
Theater have not come to see me;
yet, their reception is warm.
Applause is addictive. I’ve received a
strong dose of admiration; an
adrenalin rush is heady. The stage
beneath my feet vibrates with music,
I dance a two-step, side stepping for
the celebrity.
The emcee courteously claps, then
points in my direction. “Let’s give her
a big hand!” Grinning, he puts his
JASMINE'S PLACE
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