The Overnight Celebrity

I have been writing a lot of different kinds of stories lately. I base my writing on things that I have seen,  people I have known, my dreams etc. I hope that you enjoy the romps through my mind.  This story is about every comedian I've ever known. The ones who are famous and the ones who's genius is undiscovered.

It seemed like his career had exploded overnight.
He wasn't a comedian. 

He was just a nigga that like to smoke a little weed and talk shit.
Comedy didn't even sound like something Omar would do.
He was a day labor worker, who would get fucked up at the barber shop and talk shit. 

He was a two-time felon with six bullet holes in him.
He liked his 211 Steel Reserve and the stinky-est hydroponically grown marijuana available. 

He would work all day at the labor pool, smoke a blunt on the way back to the office, and as soon as he cashed his one-day paycheck he would buy two black cans of 211.

The barbershop was his stage.
 He would go there and tell funny story after funny story to whoever would listen.

 Just his stories, told his way, to release the pain. 

One day Omar was in rare form.
“Aye man look here. I'm glad to see Y'all niggas man. I was around nothing but white boys all day! Shit nigga I had to listen to Pac on the way back to get a lil bit of my nigganess back.”

 He would laugh and “Kick the Shit!” for a couple of hours and go get some sleep, just to do it all again the next day.

Omar was broke and broken. He was following a GPS and on cruise control.

He had been a husband and father. He had fucked that up.

He had once been a promising athlete headed for the NBA, and yup the big ‘Fuckola'.

He had been on tour with a Miami bass legend running his security and had managed to find a way to fuck things up.

However at “Laser Precision Cuts”, ‘home of the laser, razor, line up’ Omar was the day's entertainment.
 The fellas at the shop were his people.
They had been where he'd been.
They faced the struggle to survive each day, that all black men share. He could let his hair down there if he'd had any left that was.

It was in one of those moments of comfort that he had been “discovered.”
 Two ‘blunts’ and a can of 211 Steel Reserve, in and Omar was giving the few brothers, and a sister that looked like a brother his best show.
A well dressed, Dreadlock sporting, brother who was getting shaved, interrupted him. 

“Excuse me, big brother, I just wanted to say that you should be getting paid to do this.”
He handed Omar a card and had him performing at a lounge the next week. 

That first show Omar had just been Omar.
He smoked until he got comfortable enough that he was just O, from the barbershop. 

He had no idea he was being filmed.
 The tips for the free shows bought lots of weed and 211, that was all He cared about.

 He did three shows a week still doing day labor every day. 

Within a month he had millions of views on “Instagram’ ‘YouTube ‘ hits, Tweets, and retweets, he seemed to own the internet. His “Nery do well “ appeal seemed contagious.
He was the social media King. Even though he hadn't been on social media before, preferring to simply work and indulge his habits. 

The best part about the whole thing was that he just had to be himself.
At every venue, Omar would have his marijuana and his malt liquor.
 His tolerance was high so it was rare for him to ever get so inebriated that he couldn't ‘talk shit’. 

However, under the glaring lights, and knowing the cameras were there filming him for his own special he was scared shitless.

 He knew that the “Personal assistant” that he had been assigned was partially to keep him from getting “Too High.” London, the Dread head from the shop, and an executive with “So Fresh Inc.” had become Omar's manager and treated him with respect, and fairly.
He knew O’s predilections well. 

He had kept O from fucking this up thus far.
He inhaled the vapor from his cannabis vapor pen. He downed another two fingers of Kentucky sipping whiskey. 

He tried not to think about the crowd.
He just needed to do what he did. 

The staff of the production company had done a great job on his beard and bald head. He had dressed comfortably, Levi jeans, Clark dessert boots in oxblood, and a button-down shirt. 

“Two minutes Mr. Seaford.” One of the many stagehands announced.

 Omar ignored the large assistant who was holding out his hand for the vapor pen.
 “Bullshit, I can take this motherfucker with me, or we can fight and I am STILL gonna take it with me.”

 O held the bigger man’s eyes.

 He thought about all those days of showing up at the labor pool, earlier than everyone else.
 He thought about digging ditches, holding signs for tax companies, sweeping construction sites, and all manner of degrading jobs.
 All for about $32 a day after child support.

 He thought about the room that he lived in, the one with a shared bathroom, and kitchen.
 He wanted more, but $90 a week only gets so much.
He dug in deep.
 He grabbed his troubled childhood, the juvenile justice system, the adult just us system, fear of the police, being snubbed by black women, being hit on by older white women, any and everything that had brought him to this space.
 He straightened his jeans and belt.
 Pulled them up past his navel tucked in his shirt then pulled them down.
He stretched from side to side then touched the tip of his shoes.

Omar was ready.
 He stood at the curtain.
 He could hear the MC announce him.
 “Ladies and gentlemen the number one Shit talker in America Mr. Omar ‘Big O' Seaford!”

 Omar took the three steps up on to the stage.
 He winked at the bodyguard, who couldn't help but nod his head. “Get em ‘Big O'” the nod said.

 He pulled deeply on his vapor pen exhaling a huge cloud of ‘smoke’ as he gripped the microphone. His military brat who wound up down south accent rang through the concert hall.
 “What's really good Cali?”
He asked.
Eliciting screams, ‘hell yeahs', and a cat-call or two.

He looked around.
Omar laughed, as he moved the microphone stand to the far side of the stage. 

“Oh fuck, ‘Big O' sexy now?”
He posed like a model.

Before continuing through squeals and “I love you’s” Omar makes the packed theater a big barbershop in his mind.
“Aye man look I'm glad we are filming this special out cheer, cause Y'all got some good ass weed and I am nervous as a  motherfucker. On everything shawty for real.” 

The crowd roared. His truth. Their comedy.

 “Y'all think I'm bullshiting. But I couldn't have done this show anywhere else.”
He inhaled the vapor again. 

“So look I know I'm gonna get paid and all that shit but, you know what's the best part about doing this show?” 

He looked at the crowd and the camera as if he expected an answer. 

 Just as the silence was about to become awkward, he answered his own query
“Shit now that people know who I am 12 less likely to kick my ass. Y'all think I'm bullshiting! 

 He began to stroll back and forth slowly on the stage.
“So a few weeks ago…”
 He honestly didn't think of most of what he was saying as jokes. He just told his point of view of the world at large.

 As he recounted experience after experience and expressed his point of view the audience cried. 

Tears of mirth and raucous laughter reigned.

Omar talked about living in his car, he talked about hearing the supervisor at labor jobs calling him and the other day laborers “boys”.

 He talked about how it was easier to see a Dr in jail then while being free.

 He talked about child support, and his personal brushes with the law.
Or as he called them, 12.

He puts the entire audience inside his personal struggle, and makes them laugh about it.
Omar was a sensation. 

Omar was a celebrity. Overnight.