I once performed at a company’s Christmas party. It was my first real paying gig. A sum agreed upon beforehand—not a “pass the hat”-after-the-show sort of thing.

The owner of the company had reserved the backroom of a restaurant in Manhattan. His staff was pretty diverse in terms of age. The roster was a mixture of what looked like young professionals and their grandparents. There was no stage. No microphone setup. And I was supposed to do twenty to thirty minutes of stand-up.

The year before the boss booked a mentalist to entertain his staff. This year—thanks to a college professor of mine, Barry Goldsmith, who had recommended me—I was the act. Let’s just say they should have brought back the mentalist.

I bombed so hard that I have blacked out that Christmas set from memory. But the pain lingers. I have a hard time dealing with silence—the natural lulls in the day when it’s quiet in the country give me flashbacks.

What I do know is that when I was done with my set, I turned around and did a walk of shame away from the tables. I heard a few claps behind me—but maybe I’m making those up in post.

I had to wait around to be paid, you know. So I stood as far away from my audience as I could at the bar. The bartender was kind and helped me medicate with free drinks. A few of the company’s employees came up to me. The young ones said it was a weird crowd. A couple old ones said.... Well, I don’t know what they said.

What could they have possibly said to me at my own funeral?

When the boss finally gave me the check—it was for $500—I felt like the right thing to do was to give it back. Or keep it—but quit comedy.

But somehow I found the resolve to keep it and live to bomb—and sometimes kill—another day.

I don’t know how many normal people would make it through that. There are a lot more surefire ways to make a living in this world without being willing to humiliate yourself.