He's at the beginning of his laugh track
Have you heard the one about the teacher who actually gets two months off in the summer? No? Neither have I. You haven't heard it partly because ''summers off" is one of those teacher myths, right up there with ''teachers really only work from 8 to 3," and partly because I'm just beginning to build my stand-up routine and I'm not sure where to work that one in.
A few months ago, I went to the Hong Kong Restaurant in Harvard Square. Although many of the restaurant's patrons are there for the Scorpion Bowls, I trudged up to the third floor for my first comedy club experience.
Despite being nearly 30 years old, I had yet to set foot in a comedy club, let alone a comedy club on the third floor of an Asian restaurant. So I was wholly unaware of the fun to be had in the Comedy Studio, a room that Rick Jenkins, master of ceremonies, likens to ''your parents' basement, except that you can drink."
I first ventured into the Comedy Studio to see a 7-foot, 410-pound man. And, no. The vehicle carrying the circus freaks had not broken down in Harvard Square and resulted in them performing in random spots around Cambridge while Darrell from Oliver Stone's ''U Turn" fixed the vehicle's radiator hose.
The 7-foot, 410-pound man was a teammate of mine back in college. Given his size, you might wonder how big I am and whether we played football or basketball at Amherst College. I'm 5 foot 8, 140 pounds, and we didn't play football or basketball. We were on the swim team together. Can you imagine seeing a 7-foot, 410-pound man stuffed into a bathing suit the size of a handkerchief? Even if you can, I wouldn't concentrate on it too long lest you start to have a similar feeling to the one you have after drinking several Scorpion Bowls.
The first time I saw J.J. Leslie perform, I was nervous. I wasn't nervous because I thought he would pass out under the lights and kill someone by falling on them. I was nervous because I saw the stage before the show started. The set-up consisted of a microphone stand and a microphone. No stools, chairs, benches, or elaborate backdrops -- only the laughably simplistic 4-by-4-foot sign with ''The Comedy Studio" in black writing over neon orange and green colors. The spartan set design screamed, ''This is what it means to be alone in front of a roomful of people just staring at you." I was scared for J.J.
My fears for J.J. were warranted when he stood on stage and stumbled through his act. He got a laugh or two early on, but the laughter soon turned to silence and the occasional heckle. I added some guffaws of my own, but I felt the hot glare of the audience on me.
The glares shouted, ''How dare you laugh at a big man, a very big man, who is not funny!" J.J. was dying on stage, and I was dying for him.
When I learned that J.J. would be performing the entire month of March as the comedian-in-residence at the Comedy Studio, I knew I would play the part of the dutiful friend and go to support him. This time, I brought a few former teammates with me in case one of my gratuitous guffaws aroused the ire of the masses around me.
Much to my relief, J.J. was genuinely funny the second time I saw him. The audience laughed, and the stage didn't appear to be such a horribly lonely and stark place. In fact, I'm contemplating my own venture into the world of stand up. As a high school English teacher, I already give four shows a day, and I, like J.J., improve significantly the second time.
When not teaching English and grading his seniors' essays at Lexington High School, Nathan Johnson lives in Brookline and jots down ideas for the next great American screenplay. He can be reached at where_is_nathan@hotmail.com. 
