in a nervous laugh to mask his manners, while Sandy scrawled his name.
There ya go.
Sandy passed the phone back to the youth, and turned to face his old friend.
What the fuck are you laughing at?
He asked with a wary temper.
Nah nothing, mate, nothing.
Sandy took his drink in hand and turned to face the bar. But Jackson did not leave. Sandy assumed their interaction was over, yet the youth remained. He stood there, without words, waiting for the comedian to notice him again. Sandy had to admit, the persistence was intriguing, and the flattery was welcome, although Sandy wasn’t in the mood.
Something else ya wanted, kid?
Jackson left a noticeable pause before begging the next proposition.
I’d like to talk about your act.
Mustering all his courage, Jackson delivered the line clearly and firmly as he recited those seemingly rehearsed words. It appeared all previous banter was mere patter for that line. All the prior inflects of uneasy charm were chiselled from the pitch, and his voice had swollen to a sturdy and concise tone, with all the poise and unfurled confidence of someone who’d planned a moment in their head and practiced time and again.