The Jokes, section 7: Subheading

Aged Man rests his head on the stoop as he's telling his jokes. Maybe the wind will pick them up, scatter them. There is no wind, but. Maybe the Dirtbags will let him in if he asks nicely. He spent the night walking around the building telling his jokes. Everything was acted out. Every emotion was realized. If anyone was close enough to make him out in the dark they'd see an old man in an ancient suit gesticulating madly, laughing to himself. If they stood at the corner by the engineer's entrance they'd see the aged man approach the cone of its light like a Cyclops groping blindly at the exit of the cave, oblivious of sheep and man. For a man his age his limbs were loose and his steps were lively but his voice a faucet dripping. More a matter of percussion than conversation. Hear the way his lips smack like a snare. And the clearing of his throat, the cymbal. The rhythm of his consonants slurred by a sibilant S. Yet the odd-metered bounce of his steps no less than the infinitely rehearsed toss of his arms serve well to punctuate his inflections, to keep the beat.

He'd lived a long time. Centuries by his own reckoning. Every man needs a gift from God. His was eternity and an audience. Around and around and around he walked. He hadn't written a new joke since his show was canceled. He'd relied on a gaggle of writers even then when he was youngish and creative to keep the show running. Not since his early days at half-filled Hoboken theaters and late night happenings with beat friends joking grass and his time with the Dirtbags simply there to make them look good, not since he was young has he felt funny. Turned out he was better suited to entertainment than to comedy. He wasn't a comic, no, he wasn't a humorist, a funnyman or a wit, not even by half. That was one he wrote but he's not telling that one. He's not telling the phantom-filled night his knock knocks or his one-liners. He made Davey laugh once with a flurry of one-liners along the lines of those old "How cold was it?" routines but his was "How bereft of sanity are you, old man?"

I'm so nutty I have to wear owl scent to fend off the squirrels.
I'm so loopy I got my foot stuck in my ear. Took three strong men to de-loop me. A loop de-looped.
I'm so screwy when I do the twist I lose my shoes.
I'm so off my rocker I .....um.....

He held tight to the building. There was warmth within. He could take some solace from the nearness of life and hearth and home as the night grew thicker, colder. Like a puppy nuzzled up against a bed he sat down by the stoop where he still remains.

Inside Dave and A.B. ran through a good 1/16 of their best routines. They'd made sure the engineer was getting it all on tape. Who cares who's listening live. If they make 'em laugh, that's great. That right there is what it is all about. But really it doesn't do a good damn thing for them. They have a legacy that is in dire need of some up-sprucing. No one is sure that things'll, how did the pundits put it when they owned the airwaves, stabilize? And Davey and A.B., they're not getting any younger. The cracks and creaky joints are showing. A.B.'s muffed his cue too goddamn many times and who knows if this schmendrik engineer knows how to splice tape.

The engineer suppresses a yawn and ingests a large volume of alcohol in one unending sip.

An Earth's diameter away a troupe of epicurean fanatics preach and practice the mutability of the flesh and the impermanence of human dignity. A preacher stands before a choir and stubs his toe on the dais and yea did the congregation laugh. Woe be unto them who cannot find the buried pleasure in mundane muck. Mere miles down the road a roving gang of fatalists mock st. solemnity and pragmatic stability. They know of no joy save in the shock that awaits all. The shock of the vulgar phallus and the rotting carcass and the dead baby. The pain. Not the pain of a stubbed toe. The pain of a stubbed soul. Frolic, they frolic and frolic. And as they frolic they hear across the Seine the amassed mumblings and shouts and muted deadpan of the third camp. The Observationalists observe.

The engineer takes another sip.

A young man and a young woman meet up once more before the war to end all wars begins. Potential jokes tussle in his head as they embrace. Every moment of every fighting day is an opportunity for a funny observation. They trained him to see everything through a veil of self-consciousness. Likewise, he knows to observe every social or psychological situation from every conceivable angle, knowing that only from the appropriate angle can the glint of a gem be seen. The trained Observationalist is a closet phenomonologist.

If everything's a blur you're going blind. Nothing is more vital than keeping your wits about you at all times. She knew this. He knew this. She wore a bit of ribbon in her hair. Not tied to anything. Just slipped underneath a lock and dangling down. She's worried that his objectivity is slipping. She cares about him, would hate to see him lose his identity. The loss of identity is like Nietzsche's loss of God. It's a frightful affair that shouldn't be blithely accepted or smugly celebrated. Idenity should be mourned. Wear black until you can transcend predicament, overcome anchoring acknowledging said anchoring. Abstracting from fixed position. Triangulating to a new location from your past locations. Humean synthesis of sorts. She's getting off on him and his neuroses. The mind is a terrible thing to misplace. A heart is a terrible thing to give away. She loves being terrible to herself. She is a teenager after all.

They embrace. The two of them look into each others eyes but maybe they only see the reflection. Who knows, it's hard to get into the heads of young lovers. He knows the jokes his friends are making. Were making, actually. If they knew he was still consorting with the enemy there would no longer be any time for jokes. The jokes would be "too soon." That's not cool, that's just wrong. That was her world where taste was not a factor. She could joke about his execution. Tragedy minus time equals raucous laughterland. They embrace and within seconds he feels shame.

They embrace. The two of them lost their childhoods, lost track, lost physically, lost as in wasted, unworn. Who knows how they've survived. Maybe with humor. Their gifts. Their superhuman ability to divorce themselves from reality. She knows how this works. She knows what it means to part with the positivist universe. It's no great skill. Even the observationalists can do it but they've never understood what it meant. To displace yourself with laughter is the greatest gift of all. She loves this man but she feels sorry for him. He's a victim of normativity. They embrace and within moments she steals a kiss.

The War is nigh upon us now. Air's oppression slows time's travails. And travels. And trivials. And so on...


TO BE CONTINUED...