Day 3 - Only Laugh - Chapter 3 (1,251 Words)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

ONLY LAUGH WHEN IT HURTS

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 3

The lights were brighter than he remembered. There was a blackness to them, one that made everything blind at it's core.

Was it this cold last time?

Tony stood on the stage, looking out and desperately trying to think of what to say. None of the material was working, he knew his delivery was off, he could hear the shake in his own voice, and feel the sides of his brain rattling, touching inside his skull.

There were no boos, no heckles, but there was silence.

It had started well enough, he got some laughs and a fair amount sympathy as he referenced his last time on stage. Then he felt a twinge in his side and he thought twice about the punchline of the next joke and choked on it. He stopped mid-story and changed to a new line.

He knew it, the audience knew it and still he went on.

The pain killers had worn down, not all the way but enough to remind him he was as yet unhealed.

He stretched his arms above his head and then an awful tension started in his side.

What the fuck is that?

There was what he thought must have been audible, a pop and a releasing of that coiled spring in the wound.

He felt better already.

“Whoever said the first cut is the deepest has obviously never been on stage.” His confidence was shattered and he was not even trying to do his material. This was chatting.

There was a titter in the crowd.

Tony stretched again, and once more a little further until he heard and felt it give and then release. Like a morphine drip that release of tension drugged him into calming down. 

“I've always thought that the weather on TV was a waste of time. I mean what is the point right?”

The audience is holding it's breath. Is this a joke?

“Every day they spend time telling you what the weather was? Why do you need to do that?” Tony looks out and sees nothing, hears nothing but feels better. He massages his side where the tension was and it hurts. He winces, continues on.

“I mean if you were there you were in the weather, you know it was raining or sunny. If you weren't?”

He pauses and still feels nothing but the pain in his side, but this time a stretch is not relieving it. “What can you conceivably do with this information?” There is a gasp, an extended gasp, a run-on of people's reactions making a single unending intake of breath circulating through the crowd.

Someone starts to clap and it gets picked up. Tony raises his hand to finish his joke and then as he's talking he can feel something wet crawling down his hip.

Am I sweating? Then why am I cold? Is this a cold sweat?

“I mean, it's not like you can time-travel and put this information to use now can you?” His left arm is now feeling strange and he swivels his head, the microphone coming with it as he continues his bit. “If you could time-travel would you really check the weather and then go and... what? Sun-bathe because it was sunny in Kaikoura?”

What is that? Is that blood?

“If you could time-travel you'd not waste your time on weather, you'd hopefully do something more meaningful.” There's a pause and he sees the red jagged line of blood staining through his shirt. He's wearing a pale lemon colour and the blood seeping through it is shocking and wet. He can see it growing bigger, noticeably.

Jesus, why can't I feel that?

“Wouldn't you? I know I would go back and prevent something bad from happening.” He poked at the blood and it grew with the pressure, didn't make the re-opening of the wound any worse, just applied enough pressure to soak more into the cloth. He wasn’t trying to make it worse or look worse, he was detached from it.

Investigating.

“I mean there are so many things I would want to stop from happening, you know?” His hand is covered in blood now and he holds it up to the audience and smiles. They smile back, he can't see it, but he feels it.

“I mean I would change my life, for the better you know?”

Tony rub's his bloodied hand on his forehead in mock concentration.

“If I could just stop Celine Dion from being born! Oh my god! Imagine how good my life would be if I could do that?”

The laughter is loud and is followed by applause.

The bait and switch. Where did that come from? Is there more?

“I'd never have started watching Lost. I mean that's like 6 or 7 years of my life I'll never get back!” They love it, the wound punctuates each meaningless statement.

“So many things I would change to make life better, I would barely know where to start.” Poking at his side, and every now and then wincing at the pain that simply is not there. Tony finishes his set, the audience loves it all. Good, bad and plain enough – all irrelevant and irresistible now.

He's finishing up and the MC carries the applause on. There's calls for an encore but by now Tony has been bleeding for a few minutes and is standing in the wings. He feels faint.

“Tony! Tony! Tony!”

The Manager and his agent are arguing furiously about something. His perception is skewed, his head is ringing and spinning with loss of blood and gaining of applause.

He pushes whoever is near him aside, and trips a little on the way back to the stage. The clapping intensifies and he hears rather than sees the collective rustle of clothes, limbs and moving chairs as he gets a standing ovation. They start to bay and woop for him.

The MC stands aside, bowing slightly and showing him the mic, deferring to the talent and standing back joining in the applause.

“An Encore? Seriously?” The pain is back, but it's nothing near what he's getting from the desire emanating from the room. “Comedians die all the time on stage and they don't get encores! What do you want from me? Blood?” 

The laugh is loud, raucous and joyous.

They want me. Me.

“I mean come on guys, I'm not sure I have much more to give... I was at the Red Cross earlier, you'll have to forgive me...” The laugh is bigger than the joke deserves.

“I've already given enough today.” He waves a bloody hand and the appreciation continues.

They love it, they love me.

A wave of nausea hits him and he stumbles and barely manages to catch his fall on the microphone stand. The laughter stops as he wavers, his weight checking his ability to right himself. Perilously the pendulum effect of the stand against his grip and gravity wobbles and flicks but he regains equilibrium and stands once again.

The silence is over as he stands up straight, waves his bloody hand and walks very slowly and determinedly off stage through a thunder of hands.

His agent catches him as he stumbles out of sight of the audience.

He blacks out but the last thing he hears is his name being called.

Hundreds of people calling his name.

Calling my name.

My name.

Black.