Backstage at a Cheektowaga open mic, nerves are spring-loaded. Comics pace, shuffle notes, and sip room-temperature coffee. One winter, the ancient radiator popped so loudly it nearly upstaged the early acts. Anxiety threatened to turn the green room brittle - until Nikki, clutching her notepad, winked and let fly a throwaway line about surviving family Thanksgivings with "only three minor emotional casualties." For some reason, maybe the way her shoulders relaxed mid-deliver

The air in a green room gathers weight when the old names come up. I've watched comedians of every stripe—shy open-micers, workhorse club vets, hosts tap-dancing their nerves away—fall silent at the first mention of Richard Pryor, or Lucille Ball, or Carlin on the late show. Someone pulls aside a folding chair, and memories start unfurling: the first time they heard a Lenny Bruce bit sneak out over static radio, or the way Joan Rivers commandingly cut through cigar smoke and