Mic 25 Mrs. Hayes and the Vape Maverick
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Venue: One Star
Hosts: Bill Squire, Jimmy Kilius
Show: Fight for Your Right
Set Time: 3
I once had to go to the East Cleveland Police Department and they suggested I take an adult male with me.
Like I could just get one. Like I have them in a vending machine.
I mean I did. A4. Adult male.
When I used to push A4 I got the Marlboro Man. Now I get the Vape Maverick.
More human shield than bodyguard.
As far as open mics go, I like One Star. Tonight it was a little quiet. I started my set and felt ok about it — satisfied when it was done. A good workout.
One Star is new material only, so it is the place to bring thoughts and jokes — which is harmless and scary. Making me fearless and terrified.
I tried a new joke about the 40th reunion coming up.
"I went to 8 proms. I liked big dresses and quarterbacks."
I paddled around in that water a little longer, then ended my set early.
Something new happened. I got heckled.
Sort of.
I had finished my set, and the hosts decided they had follow-up questions. Not questions. Direction. Not direction — things they thought were funny and would get a laugh, that they could tag onto my jokes.
They were right.
It felt less like heckling and more like a live personal interview from the stage. Not so much tell us more about yourself as it was —
Come on Virginia, Catholic girls start much too late, Only the good die young. (Billy Joel's guide to teenage girls and jokes about perverted stereotypes.)
They were trying to guide me into a slightly trashy zone I try to stay about 50 feet away from at all times.
Don't get me wrong — it gets a laugh every time. Even this time.
But I felt a shift in the force.
There is a growing comfort — and discomfort — happening between me and the other comics.
I've realized I am the perfect trifecta for a target: confident, older, with an easy name. And they're younger, with things they've always wanted to say — to a teacher, an aunt, a friend of their mom's.
Somehow, I give them that space.
So I get this cocktail of entitlement, kindness, familiarity — a little vengeance, a little guilt — and just enough politeness to keep it confusing.
I feel like I'm being poked with a stick… and then immediately apologized to.
From the beginning I noticed there's a strange intimacy in comedy. People you barely know begin interacting with you like they've known you for years. The boundaries collapse fast. Everyone becomes familiar before they become trustworthy.
I do get caught up in collective effervescence — the shared energy of people trying to become something together. Unfortunately, that also means I occasionally forget these are near-strangers with microphones and unresolved authority issues.
Jimmy accidentally called me Mrs. Hayes, which tracks.
That title carries expectations.
A woman called Mrs. Hayes probably has a Band-Aid, a butterscotch, and a tissue in her purse. She probably will listen to your feelings. She probably will let you joke around right up until the exact moment she makes direct eye contact and the room shifts.
Without meaning to, I seem to give off that energy. Approachable. Familiar. Safe enough to test.
Like a substitute teacher with excellent posture and hidden emotional range.
Which, now that I think about it, may actually be the perfect energy for comedy.
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