“It’s been a long year and this mess around me is finally clear; So can I have a moment; Just to say hello; Can you let your anger go; It’s been a long year; And I’m finally ready to be here”

He darts onto the stage like a star basketball player taking the court for the championship game. More than two-thousand fans cheer his entrance – claps and hollers feed his ego. The venue lights illuminate his larger-than-life presence. For a minute, I forget his little stature and am hypnotized by his colorful Nike swooshes.

He wears dark jeans, an Ivy cap, and a Chris Jericho graphic t-shirt. He’s dressed better than the majority of the audience who look like they came straight from a state fair.

He introduces himself and the jokes begin. I’m excited and hang onto every word, as best as I can hear. Two intoxicated women sit directly behind me and chat loudly. Their unfinished conversation during the previous two comedic performances is reaching its climax. They exaggerate their laughs, cackling like witches from a storybook. In an effort to outdo themselves, their volume increases despite harsh reactions from the strangers alongside me.

The show continues. Some jokes are recycled. Others are new. For some, I laugh, grateful for the experience to be in this light moment with friends who saved me during my darkest hours. Other anecdotes have me keeled over, trying to grasp a breath of air. Just one inhale. My cheeks hurt.

I discovered Brad Williams’ comedy last summer. One day, he appeared in my Facebook reels. I shared the clips with some of my best girlfriends. One video at a time. Then, sometimes more. Soon, it became a daily ritual. I learned his tour stopped in Springfield and assembled my crew. I purchased the tickets, not knowing if I’d be able to afford my bills that month.

When the show ended, I found nirvana – the peace that had seemed just beyond my grasp in my recent months, despite so many achievements.

In the following days, I decided to write Mr. Williams a thank you note and invite him to my upcoming shindig. First, I needed a valid email.

One question led to another and I willingly jumped into the proverbial rabbit hole, digging for answers. Then, I saw it.

“Rape by deception.”

Oh.

No.

I knocked him off the step-stool pedestal in my mind and buried myself neck deep in the dirt. No. This can’t be. It’s like the heartbreak of the Dave Grohl news all over again.

Wait, what does that mean? What is “rape by deception?”

A new search ensued with silent prayers that it’s wrong. I don’t have bandwidth for that word. The stress weighs me down. A throat punch. I’m sinking in the dirt. Quick sand. I can’t remember how to escape it, despite being a child of the eighties.

My beloved AI explains it to me and the legal connotation. I play devil’s advocate, quickly deciding “rape by deception” might be the dumbest legal term I’ve heard. It might have been introduced around the same time as participation trophies.

The weight lifts from my shoulders. The dirt dissipates. I’m standing on my own two feet and crawling out of the hole.

Now somber, I work to balance my mindset and come to a new conclusion. Brad Williams is human. He never pretended to be anything else. In fact, he admits to mistakes, disastrous encounters, and bizarre memories. He’s not much different from me. Just shorter, better known, and probably bigger paychecks.

I don’t know if I can return him to a pedestal or if anyone would want that responsibility. I can certainly appreciate his humor and for that, I am grateful.

He can still anticipate an invite to my upcoming shindig, but not Dave Grohl.