Written and Performed by Graham Kay
Soho Playhouse | 15 Vandam Street, NYC
July 9 - August 3
From the moment the lights rise on Graham Kay, a comic in command of both stage and sentiment, it becomes clear that Pete and Me: A Non-Depressing Look at Autism and Family is not merely a stand-up set—it is a delicately structured odyssey through brotherhood, obligation, identity, and the inescapable pull of familial love. With the deft hand of a seasoned storyteller and the open heart of a devoted sibling, Kay invites us into a narrative scaffolded with wit, pathos, and impeccable comic timing, offering a work as hilarious as it is profoundly human.
At the center of this tapestry lies a thorny, unflinching question faced by many families with an autistic child: What happens when the parents are gone? Who will care, who will shoulder the invisible weight, who will—quite simply—be there? For Kay, this inquiry is no abstract concept; it is personal, urgent, and viscerally real. His brother Pete, whose developmental age hovers around six, is no burden—Kay affirms this with poignant clarity—but the emotional, logistical, and existential implications of stepping into the role of caretaker are heavy. Would he have to abandon the career he has so meticulously and relentlessly built over fifteen years in the cutthroat comedy crucible of New York City? The question looms over the performance, never melodramatically, but with quiet, relentless presence.
Kay does not preach. He performs with a mix of emotional candor and comedic alchemy that keeps the show from ever veering into self-pity or sentimentality. Instead, he leads the audience down a path carved by shared memories—both madcap and moving—of life with Pete: a boy who loves Spiderman, obscure 1980s cartoons, beer, and calling his brother every single morning in character as Ernie from Sesame Street. (Naturally, Kay replies as the dry, exasperated Bert—a role he inhabits with affection and precision.)
There is, throughout the show, a beguiling tension between absurdity and truth. Take, for instance, a deliciously layered anecdote from their childhood, in which Kay explains how a compulsive clicking sound—his personal tic—became the scapegoat for his family’s frequent expulsions from restaurants. In a flourish of psychological excavation that’s both theatrically ornate and psychologically astute, Kay links this tic to his childhood yearning to become Michael Jordan, building a Rube Goldberg machine of obsessive logic (three times or nine times!) only a young, anxiety-ridden boy could construct. The resulting monologue is a masterclass in comic neurosis: a riotously exaggerated confessional delivered with just enough sincerity to crack your heart.
He is quick to assign blame—to his younger self. Never mind that Pete might be spinning in a corner, or that their towering, vocally enthusiastic father might be mid-tirade at the waiter. No, young Graham was the clicking kid, the unwitting disruptor, the tragicomic hero of his own misunderstood melodrama. The self-deprecating humor never undercuts the gravity of the family’s struggles—it elevates them, transmuting chaos into catharsis, personal shame into communal release.
When the narrative arc lifts Kay from Ottawa to New York City, it does not abandon Pete. Far from it. In Pete’s earnest worldview, his brother’s housing situation—crammed in with roommates—makes little sense. Why can’t he live alone in a sleek downtown apartment? It’s a childlike logic that slices straight through adult rationalizations. Pete himself lives semi-independently in assisted living, but without regular visits from their parents during the pandemic, a cavern of loneliness opened before him. It was Graham who filled that void. Every morning: Pete as Ernie, Graham as Bert. The bit is sweet. It is also heartbreaking. It is, in essence, family. And when Graham fails to pick up—perhaps due to the perils of late-night comedy, or an evening of spirited libations—it is Pete who follows up. One such voicemail, played to the audience, captures Pete’s earnest concern, but more than that: it captures his astonishing timing. As a comic, Kay knows that comedy lives in rhythm, and Pete—whether through instinct or osmosis—has it in spades.
So there’s this one moment where the entire room, previously riding the gentle swells of Graham Kay’s bittersweet storytelling, was suddenly pitched headlong into a gale-force fit of collective, breathless laughter…the utterly riotous tale of Pete and the Fish Tank—a comedic set piece so precisely pitched, so immaculately delivered, it makes one give pause, followed by a moment of existential reflection on whether it is indeed possible to die of laughter.
Kay introduces the story with the kind of earnest naiveté that sets you up perfectly for the punch to the gut. “We gave my brother a fish tank,” he begins, his tone laden with the good intentions and unsuspecting optimism of a family trying to provide their autistic loved one with a meaningful, manageable responsibility. A therapeutic gesture. A calming hobby. A portal into the Zen-like serenity of aquatic life. But oh, how quickly those waters are muddied—both metaphorically and, quite literally, biologically. What unfolds is a magnificent comedic unraveling. “It’s way more involved than we thought,” Kay confesses with the exasperated wisdom of someone who’s been to war with filter cartridges and algae blooms. “There’s like water pumps and filters... so basically, he owns a swamp.” The line hits like a thunderclap, and you can feel the audience dissolve—first into chuckles, then chortles, and finally that primal, uncontrollable laughter that makes your ribs ache. And then comes the pièce de résistance, a line so outrageous, so disarmingly vivid, it left the audience gasping for oxygen: “He puts the fish in there and they’re like, ‘What the f*** is this?’ and then they die.”
It is delivery honed to perfection. A line that—like so much of Kay’s material—walks the tightrope between affectionate mockery and deep, abiding love. He does not mock Pete. He celebrates his peculiarities, his efforts, and, yes, his track record with tropical fish. But he doesn’t stop there. Oh no. With the sort of comic escalation that borders on the Shakespearean, Kay continues: Pete, it seems, has become a “regular” at the pet shop. A familiar face. A known entity. But not in the way one might hope. “He’s become the angel of death,” Kay says with a beat so exquisite it deserves its own standing ovation. And just when you think the joke has reached its apex, he tops it—effortlessly. “No, he doesn’t wear a cloak and sickle,” Kay deadpans. “He wears a tucked-in Spiderman t-shirt.”
It is in these moments that Kay’s genius crystallizes. He has taken a tale of failed aquarium husbandry and transformed it into a miniaturized epic of love, loss, and aquatic casualties. It’s absurd. It’s dark. It’s affectionate. And above all—it’s ferociously funny. Theater, in its highest form, reminds us of what it means to be human. Comedy, when done with this level of precision and care, does something even more rare: it makes us laugh at the chaos of our lives, while simultaneously holding it in reverence. The story of Pete’s fish tank is not a mere aside. It is a masterclass in tone, timing, and comic empathy—a swirling, sloshing metaphor for the messy, hilarious beauty of caregiving, siblinghood, and good intentions gone gloriously awry.
The piece crescendos with a moment that could tip into farce if it weren’t so perfectly emblematic of Kay’s dynamic with Pete. Following an alcohol-fueled escapade, Kay finds himself behind bars, marooned in a jail cell for four full days. Upon his release, his phone reveals a barren wasteland of communication—except, of course, for one voicemail. One voice. Pete’s. It is, in the most unvarnished, unassuming way, a declaration of devotion.
The final moments of the show offer a contemplative coda. Kay broaches, with a philosopher’s melancholy and a comedian’s bite, the inevitability of death. Why do people have children? he muses. To avoid dying alone. But Kay, who may or may not ever become a father, acknowledges this existential fear with a newfound clarity: He will never be alone. He has Pete. He will always have Pete..
This closing soliloquy—raw, intimate, and edged with humor—is not just a statement of fact, but an invocation of love. It encapsulates what makes this production not merely enjoyable, but important. For here is a performer who is not just telling jokes; he is telling the truth—about family, about responsibility, about the eternal, maddening, miraculous mess of being a brother.
If there is any justice in the theatrical world, Pete and Me will continue to find audiences far and wide. It is a rare gem of a show—disarmingly funny, unexpectedly profound, and utterly unforgettable.
Pete and Me ran through August 3.
Review by Tony Marinelli.
Published by Theatre Beyond Broadway on August 3, 2025. All rights reserved.