The Jokes, section 5: I Don't Know What You Want, Tell Me

After that nose-be-gin-blossomed clown kicked him out the aged man pulled himself up by his boot straps, acknowledging the physical impracticality but harboring no fear of the impossible. Years he spent smashing his craft against every barrier that stood in his way until there was but one barrier left, the one separating him from the big time. Now, kicked out by a clown, pulled up by himself and proverbial bootstraps, the aged man stands tall. He has no idea where to go. If all is well in this world the clown will die an inebriated death in his own sick. But that may be too much to hope for. He stands for some hours, staring down the door. He remembers this door from many decades before when he'd been on a comedy tour which for him amounted to little more than pageboy chores. He was the runt of the comedy group, an apprentice who'd made a name for himself in smallhand in the margins of the real stars' signatures. His act consisted of knock knock jokes told slanted. This was the avante garde back then and he was doing things leagues ahead of his supposed mentors. Never before or since has he been so little understood.

Knock Knock! Who's There? Second Base!

In his later years he mellowed out. He lost his nerve some might say if anyone knew who he was or were familiar enough with the turns his comedic career was taking to say something to that effect.

Knock Knock! Who's There? Who's There? Knock! Knock!

But looking at this door he still sees snow packed along the sides of the step and still feels slush seeping into his torn and worn out loafers. If he leans forward and stares at the door close enough he thinks he can see his initials carved into the paint, but of course that was several hundred coats of paint ago.

Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange you glad I didn't say pornography ::whirro whirro whirro::

And then he feels the door and then he hears steps behind him. "Yoodley Hoo" goes a familiar voice. It was on their tour that he opened all those years before. They've followed him? "Hey, fruitfly, make like a student and stop being stupid. And maybe, hey why not, get out of our way maybe?"

Knock Knock! Who's There? Orange! Orange who? Orange! Orange Orange who? Orange! orange orange orange....

Everyone died off, he thought. Did, did they have the same gift as him? He'd always felt so alone all those years. In his later years, after the mellowing, after the sobering, after finding faith in the everyday he hosted a radio show, a local show on KNCP in Tucson, Arizona. He found his voice, his calling, and his love all in one day. He married the kindest, most wonderful world in all of Arizona. She was his treasure every second of everyday until the day she died. Already his radio career was dying. His fans forgot about him. All the kids who grew up with him fled. His whimsy was increasingly wasted on pot-addled teens and hipster college kids. He retired at the age of 75. It was a different world. Busier but so empty. So much disconnection. And everyone he knew and cared for dead. He began sleeping for weeks at a time. Months. Before he knew it he was over 179 years old. God had granted him an infinity. But now it was coming to a close. And he wasn't going to experience the end of the world alone. Davey Ratchko and Alfred Beechum Ritter, the Dirtbag Duo.

Orange! Knock Knock! Knock Knock who? Knock Knock I didn't say bananana??

The Dirtbags hated him so thoroughly that he didn't even mind when they knocked him off his feet with their canes, each to a turn. They always make it look so easy, striding into a studio like they own the joint. Oh, and they were heavy pot smokers back before cocaine became the comedic drug of choice. The aged man sighs, wonders how God's grace can be so capricious. The Dirtbags are blessed with eternal life, living to experience the rapture while his wife died childless and distant, disease coarsing through her flesh and bones like locusts. They have time to enjoy the pleasure of the act even after he's been branded a bum and tossed to the cold. To the snow hardened spring time of his own fading emmories. He circles the building over and over. He counts his strides, he counts his complete revolutions. He coughts the number of times his wife laughed at his jokes. He remembers fewer and fewer laughs the older he lives. His days on the radio, making life exciting for kids and adults alike with some gags, some guests, puppets and music. His knack, his gift. He hardly remembers any of it now. Time is fading. He continues to circle the studio, knowing of no where else to go. And then he remembers his favorite joke.

Knock Knock! Who's There? Delores. Delores who? Delores my shephard I shall not want. He maketh me....He maketh me lie down.....He....Whooo boy (thump)

TO BE CONTINUED...