Past tragedy

It was just another boring night in the office. There was no audience and no one up in the nosebleeds, which was always the best seat in the house.

I was doing my routine, the same routine I had been doing for years. It was the same routine I was going to do tonight, too. It was the same routine I was doing every night, and all the audiences had become so accustomed to it, they began to pray they wouldn't have to hear it. I was a comedy actor, and I had been working as a stand-up comic for twenty years, proving my point that one doesn't have to be an actor to act. People laughed because I acted, not because I was funny.

I worked at a small publishing company that specialized in humor books. I made my living by writing humor books and then getting them published. Nobody believed humor was a viable form of writing. They had the same misconceptions they did when they thought no one would ever want to read a book about "one funny thing." But my books were selling well enough that I could quit my day job and focus on writing comedy. In the comedy world, nobody is supposed to be making much money.

I can't even tell you the number of jokes I had written, or how many people had requested I write their life stories as books. I had already seen everybody in the building, so I was just doing stand-up and writing in my head when the young guy in the office, who was still trying to make the company more cultural, walked into the office.

I had only spoken to him once and immediately disliked him, but my dislike of his dandruff lasted only twenty-four hours, and then I was amused by him. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a youthful face that made him seem like a kid who might be getting serious. He wore a lime green button-down shirt and dark-wash jeans that fit him perfectly and made me notice he was built. He was definitely attractive. But he was only twenty-one, which still made him a kid, when I was nearing forty.

He was skinny, about 120 pounds soaking wet. His blue eyes never stopped looking at me, and his face didn't. He was wearing a light blue, short-sleeved, button down shirt with a burgundy logo on the front that read "Hermes." I could tell this was a business shirt and he probably paid more than his employees, but still, I could tell he was a fashionista. His pants had a subtle crease to them from costing a lot of money. They looked athletic or like they could be worn to the gym easily. He was wearing pink socks that had little words printed on them.

"Blue is for the blind," he said in a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt and pink socks.

Even though I didn't think he was funny, I found myself amused by him.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I was wondering if you could tell me how to be funny," he replied.

"I've been wondering that for years," I replied and went back to writing in my head again. But he didn't leave.

"Can you tell that I'm funny?" he asked. Then he laughed at his own joke.

I looked back up at him.

"No," I said.

"I find that very funny," he replied.

"If you find your jokes funny..." I started to say.

"How do I make other people find my jokes funny?" he interrupted.

"That's not a question you need the answer to," I replied. Then I went back to writing in my head again.