Josh Patten

(continued from part one)

In those last minutes before Ragnarock’s show, my anxiety took the form of a laundry list of “why nots”.  There were plenty of reasons I felt hesitant to do the show I had asked my teammates and the theater to do, from the mundane (a Harold that doesn’t even ask the audience for a suggestion?) to the frightening (I really expect myself to go out there and talk about my dad’s death in front of 150 people six hours after it happened?) to the self-conscious  (Isn’t this a downer, to talk about tragedy in front of people who just came out to drink a few beers and see some comedy?) to the self-doubting (This is selfish, right, to appropriate the incredible opportunity of performing on Harold Night to my personal feelings?).

I stopped our pre-show warmups. “Guys, thank you so, so much for agreeing to do this,” I said, arms flailing about in my inexplicable playing-violent-air-piano-while-talking nervous tic, “But let’s not hold anything back for my feelings.  We can do this and be funny and have fun and be merciless.”  The rest of Ragnarock (again, because they are some of, if not the, finest people I know) immediately re-assured me that YES, OF COURSE JOSH, OUR COMEDY SHOW WILL BE FUNNY and that we’d have each other’s backs and do what we do and make something wonderful happen.

With that reassurance and carrying a water bottle to look at and crunch around if I ever started to cry (Look, I didn’t have time to come up with a better plan), we took the stage.

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I’ve been doing improv for a little over five years now, and one of the things I’m only now getting the hang of is registering the audience’s reaction.  Most of the gradients of laughter and applause are lost on me, but I can recognize utter silence and loud applause.  Quite a skill to brag about, I know.

We took the stage like we always do, to a remix of Whitney Houston’s How Will I Know (we are adorable people). “Hey, we’re Ragnarock and tonight’s show is a little bit special, or a little bit different, than our normal show,” I said, anxiously playing with my water bottle, “And that’s because my dad died earlier today.”

Cue utter silence.  Uh-oh.

“And the reason I’m here is that I got a chance to speak with him a few hours before he died, and the last thing he said to me was that he loved me, but the second-to-last-thing he said to me was to have a good show tonight.”

Silence holds.  This is the part where I start to get a little choked up.  Not watching About A Boy-level choked up, but vocally wobbly enough to feel very, very uncomfortable.

“So that’s why I’m here,” I continued. “And, walking up to the theater tonight, I realized I couldn’t do what I thought he’d want me to do, to do an improv show and smile and play a teddy bear with a mean streak or a pirate with a heart of gold or whatever.  So you won’t be seeing that tonight.”

Silence.

“But here’s what we can do.  Normally we’d come out here and get a suggestion and do an opening as part of a Harold.  We’re still going to do a Harold—don’t worry!—but we don’t need a suggestion or anything.  Instead, I thought I’d tell some stories about my dad for our opening.”  I looked up at the audience for the first time of the night.  “So that’s the show we’re going to do today.”

Cue loud applause. Cue taking a deep breath. Cue a feeling I will never, ever forget.

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In the following days and weeks, the support you provided on that day carried over to me and my family.  (I’m going to use the generalized “you” here to include anybody who saw the show, or anyone who heard about it and sent me a email or text which I still probably haven’t returned, or anyone who just thought good thoughts about me at anytime over the past month or my friends and teammates who were there with immediate, unqualified support.) 

I called my sister Kristie and told her how your applause and support made everything okay. I called my brother Jason and told him about Winston’s scene with Emily as a son playing basketball against his Rascal-bound father.  I sat on my parents’ bed and brought my sister Jeanine to tears of laughter recounting our Post Office Family sexual innuendo beat.  I told my mom about the truthful pantomiming father game.  Their response to all of these stories was the same—Dad would have loved it and he would be incredibly proud.  But, I know that it wasn’t possible without your outpouring of support on that night, and I realize the inadequacy of words for properly conveying how deeply grateful I and my family are for your support and love.

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One of the improvisers I coach asked me on Wednesday how my year was going, and I, having given up long ago on all proper forms of small talk, listed the bad things and huge changes going on in my life right now, of which my dad’s death is just one part.  The improviser responded by saying, “Wow, you seem really put together with all of that going on.”  I laughed and said that improv was a nice outlet for me.

Thinking about that conversation prodded me to write this story, and to realize that I grossly understated the value of improv in my life.  The parallels between improv and life have always been blindingly obvious to me—Agree. Take Risks. Be Honest. Make Choices. And when you fail at these things, like we are always bound to do, find a way to forgive yourself, learn, and try again.  We can never be perfect at improv or life (Lord knows how much I struggle with living or improvising as well as I tell myself I’d like to), but we can try—that’s the fun, and the anguish, and the joy, and the pain. And that trying is what makes this time in my life a lot more bearable than it otherwise would’ve been.

I know how lucky and blessed I am, in a city as full of talented geniuses as New York is, to do what I love to do as often as I do it.  I perform improv at the best damn theater in the world, I get to coach others in how to get better and have more fun at improv, and I get to create with insanely talented people.  I try to realize this everyday, but sometimes I forget. 

One thing I can’t forget, though, is how lucky I am to be surrounded by people willing to support, to share, to give, and to laugh.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I can only promise to try to get your back in the same way you’ve had mine.