Committed

By A.L. Sutter

At forty, darkly funny stand-up comic Shawn Sullivan is in the throes of a midlife crisis. His fear of commitment and success leave him ripe for a prank played by his misogynistic older brother, who uses a picture doctored to make Shawn look like a woman to set up a blind date between him and an attractive bisexual woman named Lane Gold.

Lane, a thirty-five-year-old successful songwriter, has sworn off men. But the date turns into a stage performance as Shawn and Lane trade barbs. They are a hit comedy duo, and Shawn begs Lane to perform with him. She makes a deal with him: if he will attend gay and lesbian events to overcome his homophobia, she will be part of his comedy act. She also demands that Shawn help her and Dylan, her sixteen-year-old son, with his Eagle Scout project and various homophobic Boy Scout adventures. Over time, the three begin to develop into a family, much to Shawns surprise. But can he find it in him to commit a relationship, even one as unusual as his and Lanes?

This humorous novel tells the tale of two people who become intertwined by fate and random chaos, reaffirming the almost universal quest for a commitment to true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514473887

A.L. Sutter

A. L. Sutter has been a lawyer for thirty-seven years in Los Angeles County. She is also a musician with a bachelor’s degree in music from UCLA. She enjoys spending time with her family, making short documentaries and, writing books and screenplays. She currently lives with her significant other and Australian shepherd in Long Beach, California.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A Star Is Born

I t is an icy cold morning in Rochester, Minnesota in 1970. Shawn Sullivan and his brother Mick are bustled out of their morning reverie of dreams by June, their no-nonsense drill instructor mother. June does this drill every morning so that her boys will attend school and become someone someday. She, too, has to rush to get to her job as a cytologist at the Mayo Clinic. The boys are a handful of preadolescence, precocious enough to outsmart June at every opportunity.

A group of second-grade boys eat lunch on the school playground. The nuns patrol the long table. The boys talk excitedly. Shawn, eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich that June threw together that morning, sits at the head of the table like the Prodigal Son. He sticks carrots up his nose and an orange rind in his mouth covering his teeth. He pastes French fries on his eyebrows with ketchup. The other boys laugh uproariously. Shawn removes the orange rind.

I’m a new kid here, Shawn says with the poised charm of an experienced comic. My parents moved here to Rochester when I was three years old. I was six years old when I found them.

Another boy, Nick Jackman, drinks milk out of a five-cent carton. He laughs so hard that the milk comes out of his nose. A nun comes to the table and raps Shawn on the knuckles with a stick. Shawn, do not make me send you home to your parents. You are here to learn, not to be the class clown. It is springtime and you are walking on thin ice. You are about to fall through.

It is that very moment in time when Shawn decides that he wants to devote his life to making other people laugh. Laughter and clowning are his only relief from the harsh conditions at home, his parents’ nonstop fighting, and his father’s brutal beatings and insults. Shawn hates the cattle ranch that puts bread and butter on his family’s table. He hates his father and will do anything to get away from him and his daily insults.

The interior of the bleak unheated classroom causes the students to bundle up in layers of vests and jackets. Sister Mary, a plain Jane in her fifties wearing the traditional nun’s habit, speaks to the class. She holds a photograph of Mahatma Gandhi. Now class, I am going to teach you about great leaders of the world who did not believe in violence. Have any other students heard of Gandhi?

I’ve heard of Gumby, Shawn says with a straight face. Shawn reaches into his pocket and pulls out a green Gumby toy. He never likes to fight. He is a pacifist.

The other boys laugh, and Shawn stands up and takes a bow in an exaggerated ceremonious fashion. The French fries and ketchup settle on his clean white uniform.

Shawn, report to Sister Agnes’ office immediately.

Sister Agnes’ office is a stark chamber decorated with a solitary figure of Jesus on the cross on the wall behind her desk. The room is dark, dank, and cold with an array of paddles for inflicting corporal punishment on the misbehaving boys.

Shawn, I called your mother. You are going to have to leave our school if you do not take it seriously. You will not be a comedian on my watch. You will not disrupt the class. You will pay attention or you will be expelled, and you do not want that to happen, do you?

Actually, Shawn likes the idea of becoming a comedian. But not the part about working on his father’s ranch. He hates cows, he hates the bloody meat that his mother serves for dinner, and he hates his dirt-caked clothes and hands that work on the ranch makes inevitable.

I’m sorry, Sister Agnes. But I’ve decided that I want to become a comedian.

Oh, Sister Agnes says with a worried countenance. Have you discussed this with your parents?

They don’t approve. They want me to be a cattle farmer like my father and grandfather. And do you know how much cow poop I have to collect in a day? A cow produces 65 pounds of poop daily. That is 12 tons a year. A cow can poop up to 15 times a day. I mean how does this poop machine become sacred in India? I can’t settle for a lifetime of scooping poop! I never want to see a steak again!

Sister Agnes’ visage turns dark. She places her hand on Shawn’s chin and tilts his face to hers, making stern eye contact. Shawn, I was hoping that you would be an altar boy here at our church. Then perhaps the seminary. You can channel your sociability and enjoyment of performance into serving our Lord, welcoming new congregants, and warming the needy with your bright face and smile. You have so much of the Lord within you, Shawn. I have big dreams for you here with us. If you can behave in class and channel your clowning toward a higher purpose.

I like to make people laugh. I realized it just today, that making people laugh is all that matters to me. I need the group hug. I want to be a stand-up comic like the ones my dad watches on TV like Don Rickles, Jackie Gleason, Shelley Berman, Lucille Ball, Ricky, Ethel, and Fred. My brother, Mick, found an old tape of Lenny Bruce. That guy was brave because he went to jail over his comedy. My brother Mick has a secret stash of comics that he shares with me. I’m happiest when I laugh and when I can make others laugh. I gotta be me, and laughter is my calling, not the church. I’m sorry to let you down Sister Agnes. I’ll finish up here, and I promise not to cause you any more trouble. I appreciate that you are kind. Almost no one except my mom is kind to me. I’ll devote my first professional comic performance to you, Sister.

Sister Agnes rises and takes the only ornament in her office off of its hanger, Jesus on the cross wearing a crown of thorns. She walks to Shawn deliberately and purposefully. Shawn rises from his chair, and the Sister hands him the Jesus. A tear drops from her eyes, landing on Jesus’ crown of thorns. My dear Shawn, take this precious figure and keep it with you always. Let go and let God. Use Jesus as your compass in whatever you decide to do and wherever you go. I shall miss you when you graduate. You are a bright light, a joy, and Jesus loves you.

CHAPTER TWO

Reality Check

F lash forward 20 years and Shawn Sullivan is in his late twenties. He is five feet ten inches tall and muscular with a brown, curly mullet hairdo. He wears faded jeans, worn-out trainers, and a T-shirt autographed by Michael Stipe, the lead singer for the alternative rock band R.E.M. He talks to a man at the entrance of a dingy, low-scale comedy club on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood.

I’m sorry man, the club manager says with chagrin. I’ve replaced you with Bradbury, the new kid. You’re just not putting people in the seats anymore.

What are you talking about? Shawn says a little too loudly. It takes me a little while to get going, but … you can’t tell me that bit about my apartment isn’t funny. C’mon man, this is my thing, I love this gig, and it’s not about getting bookings with me. It’s not a money thing. It’s just doing what I love to do. What about you and me and those after-show parties, huh? I’m your wingman. You need me.

We’re not selling enough booze, replies the club manager. Try the cruise ship circuit. I can’t use you, man. I’m sorry. I think you’re way far out funny, but, well, you know … it’s about the bottom line at the end of the night. Don’t kill the messenger. I just take orders from the owner. And he takes orders from the bean counters. It’s a dollars and cents thing, buddy. The youngsters have this strange body humor that attracts their own kind, and they drink a lot. The children comics are all about farting, body dysmorphia, over personalization, and hanging with losers. Louis C.K. has it down. He has managed to appeal to these strange millennial technocrats.

Another man approaches and asks, Are you Shawn Sullivan?

Shawn smiles and extends his hand. He looks relieved that someone knows him and likes his act. Yours truly. And tell my friend here, the manager of this esteemed comedic establishment, that you are here to catch my act.

You’re in my parking spot. You’re blocking my car. Move it! the man barks impatiently.

CHAPTER THREE

Ten Years Later

I t is ten years later, and the marquee at the Terrace Theater in Long Beach California reads, The Comedy of Brian Regan. A rhythmically cascading fountain illuminated by footlights beckons the audience at the theater’s entrance. It is a starry night, and patrons arrive animated and excited. A red bus called the Passport pulls up in front of the theater, and Lane and Dylan Gold exit. Lane is a youthful, thirty-five year old hipster wearing leggings, a miniskirt, and outrageous stilettos, sporting long, curly, brunette/blonde highlighted hair. She is attractive with sea-green eyes. Dylan is sixteen and sports dark athletically short hair. He wears jeans, stylishly torn, and a non-preppy designer hoody. He is short, olive skinned, and muscular with a straight, strong nose, thick appealing lips, dark brown eyes, and thick intense eyebrows. They walk up the steps to the theater.

Lane speaks to Dylan in a thick New York accent. Who’s on first?

Dylan smiles and replies, Yes.

Lane persists. I mean the fellow’s name.

Dylan plays along. Who.

Lane continues, The guy playing …

Who is on first! Dylan giggles, also talking New York.

"I’m asking you who’s on first," says Lane also giggling.

That’s the man’s name, responds Dylan.

That’s whose name? Lane continues.

Yes, replies Dylan.

They both laugh as they climb the steps to the theater.

That was fun. Will there ever be another Abbott and Costello? You’re so good with accents. You should do comedy.

"You should hear me do you!" Dylan smiles slyly.

"Better save that impression for after your seventeenth birthday if you want a present.

Inside the dressing room backstage at the Terrace Theater, Shawn Sullivan, now thirty-nine years old and still handsome and boyish looking, snores loudly on a couch with his mouth agape. His longish, prematurely gray curly hair is wildly disarrayed. There are empty beer bottles littering the floor. A wall-mounted, flat-screened television is blaring the Discovery Channel on which a large Komodo dragon eats a wild boar in a jungle setting. A clock on the wall sandwiched between photos of theater performances says 7:50 P.M.

Shawn cries out in his sleep, Oh my God!

In the hallway outside Shawn’s dressing room, Enrique, a lean, Hispanic male in his late fifties wearing a ponytail and jeans knocks on the door. He opens