this was written a very long time ago.
"Let's take a shot," said Mowbray, slapping his hand on the table then turning towards the bar.
"No, I can't," I said. "I've already had enough and I have to go to work in the morning."
"Ahhh" he scolded. "You'll never make it in business with that attitude, Cupps."
Ben Mowbray was teaching me more about comedy than the act itself. This kind of drinking took place every Monday night for most comedians. Open Mic would end around midnight and then everyone would trickle over to another bar and drink heavily until 2am. The excuse, "I have to work in the morning" didn't mean anything to most of them. This was a Monday night, Houston comedy ritual, so drink up, shut up and save the whining for Tuesday morning.
Well, I wasn't good at it yet. I was suffering. It was 8 months into my first professional Graphic Design job out of college when I started doing stand-up comedy regularly. My first time on stage was during college and I enjoyed it for a few months, but had to stop for it was affecting my school work. After graduating and establishing myself at a reputable firm, I started writing jokes again and hitting the open mics and doing small shows around town.
I was also newly single and living on my own for the first time and having a blast. Probably too much of a blast. An irresponsible kind of blast. I had not yet tamed the double life of professional by day, comedian by night. Actually, the comedian by night life was winning. I was writing and performing all the time and my actual graphic design work was suffering. It was hard to focus on a hangover.
"Don't go to work, tomorrow" says Mowbray. "Call in sick."
"I can't." I whined. "I've called in sick too much this year. I feel bad about it."
"Come on." He said. "We'll make tomorrow a fun day. We'll sleep off the hangovers and go find some fun in this stinking town. Think of something you want to do but never have time for. We'll can go to Frankel's and try on Halloween costumes. We can…"
"Ohhhh," I perked up, "You know what I want to do? I want to go to the Orange Show! I've been itching to go there forever and no one will go with me and…"
It didn't take much for me to change my mind. I told Mowbray to make that two jaegers and to help me make up an excuse to get out of work.
I needed a good one. No colds. I had already used the allotted two colds, cramps, "tummy issues" and dentist appointments' anyone should have in one year. This had to be serious, but not too serious.
After ruling out stolen car, family death, and hysterical blindness we decided on something simple, yet powerful. The next morning I would wake up with Pink Eye.
Why? Because you don't have to disguise your voice for Pink Eye. You don't have to hold your nose so that you sound stopped-up like with a cold. You don't have to have whimper like an old man when you complain of all night "stomach/restroom" issues. With Pink Eye you just have to sound slightly annoyed and say you are going to the doctor. No one wants you in the office when you have Pink Eye because it is highly contagious. The same thing goes for leprosy and if that was a common overnight virus caught in America and cured with an inexpensive clinic visit and a prescription for drops, I would have used that instead.
After my morning phone call I slept until 10am. It was a beautiful October Tuesday. I called Mowbray and asked where we were going first. I made coffee, got dressed and waited for him to come pick me up.
The Orange Show was as strange as I hoped it would be. It's hard to describe. It's like an abandoned carnival attraction. It's free to the public, I think. We just walked right in and looked around. I know I'm being vague in describing it to those who have no idea what I'm talking about and I'm doing this on purpose. I never knew exactly what it was before I went and I don't want anyone else to either. We'll leave it at that. Trust me; it's not the important part of this story.
On the way to Frankel's to try on costumes I received a phone call from work. I didn't answer it. I was at the Doctor, right? I ignored it, but started to feel a little nervous in the stomach. I lowered myself in the seat of Mowbray's car. Surely, no one saw me. The fear of being busted is nauseating and I didn't want to think about it.
At the costume store, Mowbray bought a cheap, plastic cigarette holder. Think Audrey Hepburn. He began using it immediately. I think I bought fake skin make-up.
In the car again it was a little past noon and I think we were headed to a bar when I got another phone call from work. I decided to answer it.
It was Debbie, the receptionist. She told me that Jerry, my boss, needed me to come in today. It was very important. Our company had scheduled a photographer to come out and take pictures of us for a book that was being published about Graphic Designer's in Houston. This was the only day the photographer could be there and I had to be there for the photo.
I had completely forgotten about this.
I knew I couldn't get out of it. The Pink Eye wouldn't matter. Anyone at my company can use Photoshop to retouch a photo. I could be photographed at an angle that hid the eye. They just wanted me to show up and take the photo and then I could leave again.
I was in deep shit.
I was panicking, but calmly told her I was just leaving the Doctor's office and I needed to change clothes and put on make-up and that I'd be there in an hour.
I hung up the phone and turned to Mowbray with a look of fear. He was already on the phone and leaving a message for his friend, Mark Babbit, a well known previous owner of the Laff Stop. I won't say he's a bad man, but let's just say he was probably a good person to call in a situation like this.
"Babbit, this is Ben. I have 45 minutes to give Dianne Cupps Pink Eye. Call me back."
Click.
Babbit never called back. We made a quick stop at CVS where Mowbray ran inside the store looking on the backs of bottles for the words: Don't get near your eyes. I sat in the car thinking about resumes and job interviews. He came out with a small bottle of lotion.
We got to my house and I changed clothes. I didn't have much time and needed to work fast. Before squirting lotion into my eyes I decided to see what I could do with make-up. I dabbed pink blush around the lids of my eyes and it looked really great – except that the powder had shimmers and flakes that glistened in the light. I needed hospital Pink Eye, not Studio 54 Pink Eye. I washed it off.
Next, we stood on my front porch and Mowbray smoked an entire cigarette as I peeled back my top eyelid and made him blow the smoke directly into my eye.
This didn't do anything.
We went back inside and into the restroom to look for something else. I was looking inside my bathroom closet when he walked up close behind me. I turned around and stared right into the nozzle of a bottle of Lysol spray.
"NO!" I screamed, and ducked and hid my eyes. "You'll BLIND me!"
He put the bottle back.
We looked some more.
"Soap" he finally said. "You're going to have to rub soap in your eye."
I felt like crying.
We both stared at the bar of soap sitting on the sink. Mowbray turned on the water faucet and wet the tip of his middle finger.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He rubbed his wet finger over the bar of Dove a few times and said, "I can't let you do this alone."
And with that he looked in the mirror, stretched open his upper eyelid, looked down and smeared his soapy finger across the upper white part of his eyeball.
He dropped to his knees. I could tell he was holding in a scream. His entire palm was pressed to his eye and his face was turning inside itself. After a few deep breaths's he stood up, removed his hand and looked into the mirror. His trembling, wincing eye was dripping with tears. It was swollen…and it was pink.
"Fuck it, here I go." I said.
I had about 10 minutes to get to work. I followed his steps.
Wet the finger.
Run the finger on the soap.
Pull open the eyelid.
Rub the soap in the eye.
Scream.
Cup my hand under the faucet and fill it with water.
Tilt my head sideways and throw water in it.
Try to fit head under faucet to flush eye.
"STOP!" yells Mowbray. "You can't wash it out or it won't turn pink!"
"I can't!" I cried. "It burns too bad! I'm freaking out! I can't do it!"
I relaxed and tried again, but to no avail. I kept washing it out.
It was time to go and I felt defeated. My eye was a little poofy, but still no pink. I got into my car and drove to work thinking of another lie to add on top of this one. I decided on a pretty good one. I would tell them that I thought I had pink eye, but was wrong. I had been irresponsibly sleeping in my contacts and had woken up with a bacterial infection. The Doctor gave me some eye drops and it would clear up quickly. That was believable and that's what I would say.
But I still made one last effort. In the two minute drive from my house to work I rubbed and poked and pulled on my eye like a crazy person convinced that the government had implanted a spy chip inside it. The closer I got to the office the harder I rubbed. I even allowed myself to scratch it a little with my finger nail. By the time I parked my car my eye felt swollen and sore.
I walked into the office and made sure to squint just slightly at everyone. I didn't overdo it. Just a pathetic little wink. One person told me my eye looked puffy and I told them my rehearsed lie about the bacterial infection. The photographer was set up and waiting for me. I turned my eye slightly away from the camera and we took the pictures.
I felt so busted. I knew in my heart that everyone knew I had lied. Maybe they didn't, but from that day forward I felt like the girl in the office that lied to get out of work and everyone knew it. What a loser.
I think it ruined me at that office. Seriously. I was already letting bad personal habits affect my work. For months they didn't trust me to take on any large projects of my own and I didn't blame them. I wasn't mentally focused at all. Then, on top of it all, I felt like the office liar. It eventually got better, I cleaned up my act and stopped partying late at night, but I ended up quitting a year later for a good reason.
It makes sense that something like that would happen to me. I think it "sums" me up. It makes sense that there's a hardbound book floating around Houston showcasing the top design firms in Houston and I'm in it. Proud. Smiling and trying to look professional, but actually a little hungover with a bungeye filled with cigarette smoke, soap and lies.
This will be a testament to the duality of my character, set in ink, forever.
I miss you Ben Mowbray. Thank you for a great story
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