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Illustration by Drew Shannon
“Good evening, my name is Hart Shouldice and I am immensely proud of my heritage. Of course, by ‘my heritage’ I mean that I come from a long line of Dodge Caravan owners.”
A few polite chuckles.
“I’m a third-generation Dodge Caravan owner. Sometimes I’ll back my Caravan into a spot without using the rear-view camera because I think it’s important to honour the ways of my ancestors.”
That one did a little better.
“The minivan is a good vehicle for me because I’ve been middle-aged since birth. As an example: In high school I didn’t need a curfew, because my parents knew I had a burning desire to get home in time to watch The National. I’d go running out the door and they would yell after me ‘Hang on a second! Who’s going to get you home safely?’”
“‘Peter Mansbridge!’”
And away we go. So begins another night in the offbeat world of small-time stand-up comedy.
Tonight’s show is at a diner in Ottawa. It’s a Tuesday and I’m one of a handful of local comics doing 10 minutes at the front of the restaurant while ambivalent pedestrians and cocooned motorists pass by the picture window that serves as a backdrop. The crowd populates a few tables in the middle of the room, while empty booths line the sides. An elderly man sits alone and shuffles toward the door after the show’s host engages him in banter that gets a little too personal. The microphone feels more like a prop than a necessity.
I’ve been doing stand-up in earnest for a little over two years. In addition to comedy clubs, there have been shows in arcades and dive bars and anywhere else that has chairs and a liquor license. I’ll wear a suit for Saturday nights in upscale venues and flannel for Monday nights in basements. I’ve done sets in Toronto and Montreal and resorted to Zoom shows when that was the only option. I’m jealous of comics who have never had to ask the audience to unmute.
The time-honoured way to hone one’s stand-up chops is to get behind a mic multiple nights a week. After all, the conventional wisdom is that the comic doesn’t decide what’s funny, the audience does. And the only way to know what audiences find funny is to get up in front of them over and over and over. Stand-up is different from other creative endeavours in that feedback from a live audience is integral to the craft, and said feedback is the only surefire tool with which we can sharpen our material.
The problem for me is that going out four nights a week isn’t feasible, at least not every week. With two young kids and a job that requires frequent after-hours attention, I’m at a different stage in life than most people are when they start stand-up. Doing sets on consecutive nights is an infrequent indulgence. So when I can’t get out to shows I focus on writing, scribbling in notebooks at a living room desk long after the rest of my house has fallen asleep. Alternatively, I’ll stay up past my bedtime to study stand-up specials like I’m an undergrad cramming for finals, trying to understand the structure and timing of each joke and the pacing of longer sets. I record all of my own sets, relistening with a critical ear and soliciting feedback from a couple of text threads. My wife has been a patient and thoughtful sounding board, and I talk out jokes during solo skis and bike rides.
Back at the diner, I settle into a true story about my dog eating my neighbour’s, um, jazz cabbage, and very much feeling the effects. “She was high for three days,” I explain. “She’s completely recovered now, except that she will not stop trying to talk to me about Joe Rogan.” That one lands, but the sound of the laughter has to compete with the jet-engine hum of an industrial blender behind the bar.
Because my stage time is limited relative to that of my peers, I have to treat each set like it counts. Whereas other up-and-comers can “write from the stage,” working things out in real-time and referring to notes as they go – all totally acceptable parts of the process – my practice is to deliver a curated set every time I go up. My hope is that this makes me look like I know what I’m doing, but I also know that sometimes a polished set is not what the show calls for, and playing to a crowd of three like I’m giving it my all on The Tonight Show has made me look like I can’t read a room. I’ve surfed atop big laughs in sold out venues, but I’ve also bombed. Hard.
Still, I’ve established a modest toehold in our local scene. Producers and bookers have become more generous as they’ve gotten to know me. Spots happen more consistently now and I’m enjoying an increase in paid work, which feels good even if my day job is safe for the time being. My reservoir of material has grown as well, with new jokes being worked in among older standbys and every bit being in a constant state of evolution based on the crowd’s instructions from night to night. The good sets get me pumped and the rough ones keep me hungry.
I punctuate my 10 minutes at the diner with a reliable call-back to the earlier material about my van. It doesn’t bring the house down, but it scares up as good a laugh as I’ll get tonight.
“Thanks so much! I’m Hart Shouldice, enjoy the rest of the show.”
Someone coughs as I leave the stage.
Hart Shouldice lives in Ottawa.
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