"You either work for Ron, or you've been fired by Ron."

Man, I don't know where to start. Some of you know Ron, but for those who've had the profound pleasure of never needing to associate themselves with that dipshit- I'll explain.

Ron is a booker based out of Long Island. I've never met the guy; he communicates exclusively on Facebook Messenger, acting almost as a malevolent Oz-type character sending desperate comedians (myself included) across the country on the worst run of shows they've ever done in their life. The last time I found myself on Long Island, I asked if he wanted to get lunch just to put a face to the name, to which he replied, "Absolutely not. Wanna do a run in New Hampshire?" 

He cold calls bars and wineries across the country, promising to fill their seats with paying customers for cheap, and he'll handle tickets and promotions. As he pitches it, the bar needs to do nothing but "slang drinks" because the comedian will even bring the sound equipment. 

Through profanity-laden, borderline illiterate texts, Ron will send the headliner a geographically impossible 'run.' The worst one he offered me included a Thursday night in Wyoming, and a Friday night in New England, ending with a night in Wyoming. I, of course, didn't take it; like a needy, impossible-to-please girlfriend, he erupted, saying, "We're through." Eventually, though, as they always do, he came crawling back.

I've done a handful of runs for Ron. It's like an abusive relationship. They start great, then progressively get shittier, and somehow it's your fault they suck. Luckily for him, I exclusively get involved in abusive relationships. Maybe if I do this gig in Montfort, Wisconsin, Ron will say he's proud of me.

This most recent run started as they all do- with him calling me the N-word. 

The run was more cohesive than most: Ashtabula, OH, Washington, PA, and Arkport, NY. I saw it and said nothing. I had decided a long time ago I was fuckin done with Ron. Then after a couple of hours realized that Friday would put me two hours away from Hershey, PA. Where Nick, Big Jay, Tim Dillon, and Shane Gillis would be performing their theater show. 

"Yeah, I can do the first two, man. Can't do the last one."

"Fuck you. I need all three."

I chalked it up as a loss. I then thought some more; this would be my chance to get one over on Ron before quitting. 

"Yeah, I'll do it." 

Thus began the most hellish run I've done to date. 

I packed my car- a Subaru Impreza with a custom-fitted bed in the back. Designed after Ron sent me to Kalamazoo, Michigan, and tried to book a hotel during what apparently must've been the biggest car show east of the Mississippi that had all the hotels booked full, leaving me to sleep in my car. 

With the car packed, I started my eleven-hour drive east. 

Ashtabula, Ohio, is a fine city. A shore town on the Great Lakes, apparently, known only for one of the deadliest train derailments in 1876. The bar owner was a stout, tatted-up metal band vocalist. About ten 70-year-olds sat around sipping craft beer while ambient metal music played, like a purgatory-style elevator on its way to hell. The opener was already there, a dude I'd met on my way to New York when I stopped in Cleveland. 

"They're real old, man. Maybe ease into your material."

He hit the stage and eventually jumped into the cancer material, then introduced me.

My set quickly devolved into crowd work when a dude who looked like an even smugger Chevy Chase walked a pen-scrawled napkin up to me that read "COW TIPPING." 

"Do something about that. You're from Wisconsin." 

He sat back down next to a woman on crutches. 

"What's with the crutches?" I asked.

"I'm not going to talk about it." 

This only further piqued my interest. I pressed the subject, but she stood firm while the rest of the people in the audience shot me eyes that read, "Don't ask." 

I left it alone and tried to keep my head above water the best I could for the rest of the set.

After the show, the bar owner walked up and said, "Yeah, that woman on crutches has cancer. She's got, like, two weeks left, I guess."

As it turned out, she had bone cancer, and that's what the crutches were about. I should've known- her hair was dyed purple. Typically old women only dye their hair when they're dying. 

I hope I'm not the last bit of entertainment she'll see before checking out. 

I paid out the opener, assuming Ron would pay me after the show.

I sent him a text letting him know the show had ended. He sent me a hotel reservation an additional hour and a half away from the venue, turning my eleven-hour drive into a twelve-and-a-half-hour drive. 

He then sends, "I pay out on Wednesdays now."

Fuck. Now my whole plan was turned on its head. I just paid the opener all the money I thought I would make back. Wholly demoralized, I left for the hotel. 

The lights of a Waffle House called my name. There's no better place to sit and contemplate your life than a Waffle House. Nothing absorbs tears better than a waffle. I went into my bag, took some mushrooms, and bellied up to the counter. I needed some sort of human connection, so I turned to the trucker playing Clash of Clans on his phone. 

"Nice base."

He turned, eyed me, and put in the other headphone. It's the closest I've come to quitting since I started comedy.

I started to imagine my life with the waitress. We could buy a trailer and have a couple of kids. I could even start drinking again and look back fondly on my attempt at 'making it.'

The mushrooms started to make me feel like my whole body was vibrating, so maybe another time I could start over, but right now, I had to get to the hotel before I couldn't drive anymore. 

I pulled up to the dilapidated roadside motel and checked in. The lobby had a sign that read, "DUE TO UNFORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES, SHOES OR SOCKS MUST BE WORN IN BREAKFAST AREA AT ALL TIMES." So exhausted the humor of that was lost on me. I was just excited they had breakfast. 

I requested a checkout time of 2 pm. Ron was going to pay me somehow.

Washington, Pennsylvania, seemed slightly nicer. I'd find soon that wasn't true. I got to the venue, and the owner's son was bearded and balding. 

"You got sound equipment?"

"No, I thought you brought that."

This meant a trip to Sam's Club to use my mom's Sam's card. 

"What's your return policy on electronics?"

The toothless woman turned to the other with slightly more teeth, "Tammy… Tammy! What's the return policy on electronics?"

"Just bring it back in 90 days." 

With that answer, I headed to the electronics department and bought a karaoke system.

I sat cross-legged at the venue, reading the instructions, getting the sound system set up. Once I plugged it in, the lights on it started flashing, with no option to turn them off.

Again. 70-year-olds started filing in— a repeat of last night. I felt like a prisoner watching the staff set up the chair for me. "I'm tired, boss."

The opener was recommended to me via another comic through Instagram. I give the guy props. He did the best he could. Before he went on, he said, "I might have to leave during your set. I have another show in Pittsburg."

True to his word, he left during my set. I felt like a dog in the pound watching my friend get adopted. He was off to live a better life. I still had to stand on my hind legs and amuse these people. The voice-activated lights were flashing, engulfing my silhouette in blinking pink lights. 

In my final words to the audience, I motioned to the tip bucket and threw the meekest Hail Mary, "I'm not getting paid for this. So, anything helps. Thank you, guys." 

Surprisingly, people came up and put money in. A guy directly gave me a hundred-dollar bill. 

With that, I walked out, tail between my legs, lugging the karaoke system to my car. In the parking lot, I walked beside a dude who watched my set. 

"Are you really not getting paid?"

"I don't think so, man."

He paused for a minute, "If you like doing it, that's what counts." He patted me on the shoulder and got into his truck. 

I got the hotel reservation from Ron. Rodeway Inn- another motel, 10 minutes away this time. 

I drove up to check-in. This place was significantly worse than the one I was in before. The barefoot clerk behind bulletproof glass gave me the key, and I swung the car up to the room. A loud mariachi-sounding horn blared from an open door two rooms down from mine. Dazed from the disbelief of the past 24 hours, I forgot the hotel room already. I slid the key in; it flashed red. I walked back up to the front desk, past the open door with the mariachi music. Inside sat seven shirtless Mexican guys playing cards on the bed covered in empty Modelo cans. I confirmed the room and walked back to my room. At this point, the door I tried to open before was open, and standing outside was a large black girl, "you lost, baby?"

"Yeah, sorry, I tried your room."

She walked back into her room, leaving the door open. I attempted to get into my room. The door wouldn't budge.

"You gotta push the handle up."

She was back outside now with 750 ml of barefoot wine.

"Thanks… what's your name?" I asked, opening the door. 

"Kiara, but everyone calls me Koko. What's your name?"

"Aidan."

"Do you like chocolate?"

Assuming the worst, I hesitantly said yes.

Koko went back into her room.

I took the opportunity to get into my room. 

"Aidan. Aidan!"

I came back outside. "What's up?"

She handed me a jar of chocolate peanut clusters. 

"I'm hanging out with you tonight. My roommate scares me."

Honestly, any other time I think I would've locked myself in my room and not come out, but after these gigs, I had nothing to lose. What's one more bad decision?