Day 8 - Only Laugh - Chapter 8 - (1152 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 7

“Is this how it's going to be now?”

“Brilliance, man just brilliance.”

“You can't keep this up every time, save some for when you need it.”

“I'm sure these are not life threatening, yes... but that's not”

“When are you going to be happy?”

“You need to rest, time to heal.”

“The demand is huge, the money and offers are rolling in. The sales on that clip, the new one.”

“What will it take?”

The voices swam through a thickened syrup in his head, swirled around the haze inside of him. Faces and expressions were in high detail, over expressed in his mind. Voices were tunnelling through that, echoes of what they should be and disconnected from the associated speaker.

He ignored it all and focussed on a single point in time.

Tony had not had a moment's peace since he woke the next day. Coming off the stage he was buzzed and high from the reactions he got and dazed and stunned by the after effects, the shock that followed head trauma. He was warned and cautioned about concussion obviously and he obliterated the memory of the speech he got on self harm from the doctor.

It was a precautionary measure more to cover procedure than to protect Tony.

He was doing his job, such as it was and Tony was doing his. Mostly everyone was accepting of what was happening to Tony, the risks were ones he took knowingly and it was a magical occurrence that people were so accepting of this.

On the face of it it seemed wrong and cruel. To those involved, to those watching and those wanting to see it was a different set of physics that guided their realities. A thrall in which they willing surrendered to approval without guilt. It was impossible to explain why, though many tried.

The opposition to him and what he was doing grew louder, and the more intense and vociferous that opposing view became, the more dismissed it was by the general public. There was no railing against the contrary opinion, no voiced arguments. They were ignored.

The further to the right the criticism was, the more they quoted and mis-quoted Tony's act. The blasphemy connection was good fodder.

“Here is a sick and twisted individual who has the temerity to equate himself with our Lord!” The swelling face engorged with rage pauses and then fills in the name as if it were in doubt “Jesus!” And then he claims that rape should be pay-per-view entertainment?”

Incredulous and shocked responses come back to him from his supporters, but no one adds any extra weight to his indignation.

“What kind of example are we setting for our children?”

“Would Jesus laugh at a rape joke? Would he? NO! So why are you?”

There were a few more and even his fans criticised his material, offering opinion and meaning to the line which was a throwaway one, not even trying to be funny. Comment was everywhere. You tube was filled with analysis, effusive praise and suggestions.

There was a website set up to place bets, not for money of course, just for the kudos of guessing ahead of time, where he would be injured next. The smart money was on the arm or hands, and the weapon of choice was a blunt instrument of any kind. The spread of suggestions ranged from the lowest form labelled “cowardice, backing down – no injury” to the nuclear option of death by bullet to the head, live on stage.

No one was voting for the more extreme, a few edge dwellers who trolled for reactions made the suggestions, but eventually they became more noise and the question of what would he do next, what COULD he do next loomed large.

Jane was not happy. She more than anyone thought of his death.She saw down the road, but unlike everyone else she did not want Tony to go there, did not want to see how far he would go.

“Stop it, please.” She was pleading.

“I didn't start this.” Tony replies, only barely registering the question, batting it away with a half answer half deflection.

“It doesn't matter who started it, you can finish it.”

“There's nothing to finish. I didn't stab myself.”

But I did reopen the wound.

“I didn't know I was going to hit the ground that hard, it was an accident.”

I don't mind it, it didn't hurt that much.

“I didn't really try to hurt myself, it was harder than I thought. I wasn't trying to hurt myself.”

Not this time anyway.

“Then stop it now. Please?” Jane persisted.

“There's nothing to stop. I am not doing anything. It's … well people think they know, they think they want... they don't really know. I don't really know either.” Tony was shaking his head, he could feel his brain rattling around inside his skull, touching the sides.

Tony reached for her and pulled her closer than he felt was needed and then the conversation ended. They sat in silence for a few more minutes and then moved on with their days.

At 3 a.m. Tony woke up.

The room was lit barely in moonlight through a hole in the curtain and the shadows played from the breeze in the trees outside their apartment. It was quiet and the stillness was complete. Each moved of the bedclothes was a long drawn our rasp of friction. Jane slept through the cacophony, while Tony's head pounded in a painless headache. Each pulse of the blood flowing through his temples was beating a counted time in his head.

He was wide awake and his head was throbbing, but it was like he was not connected to it in any real way. Not like a real headache, but the dream of a migraine. When you dream or remembered pain, you don't recall the sensation itself, you remembered the reaction to it. That's what Tony was doing at 3 a.m., recalling the general feeling of a really bad migraine, but with none of the associated fire burning his nerve endings.

He sat that way for an hour, head pumping blood, the cotton wool, dipped in wax feelings not changing, uncertainly not good but not bad either. Not really in the world of the living, and not asleep either. Not dreaming.

Not funny.

That was his next big problem. What the hell could he do next. He was a comedian, a professional being paid to make people laugh. He had found his audience but lost his sense of humour.

Casual observations, would make all his people, all the surrounded and listening laughed. Sometimes uncontrollably, but he had no idea why. Nothing seemed funny to him anymore.

Is this concussion? I'm sure I used to laugh more at things.