Comic Timing

He closed his eyes and was near-instantaneously transported to a place he knew as his own. He twitched his eyebrows funnily and smiled at the crowd as they expressed their approval with thunderous applause. They were calling out his name now, over and over again. It fed his ego, he felt good. Really good. He'd do anything to keep this going. He opened his eyes and worked furiously on his new script. He retrieved the crumpled post-it notes from his pocket, opened them up, and straightened them out with his fingers, holding the edges in place. He took a closer look at what he had scribbled - ideas that had occurred to him always went on post-it notes, to be put to use later when he actually got down to writing the script for his next show. His over critical gaze drank in the words over and over again, shredding them of all meaning and dignity. These days nothing could please him; his jokes didn't seem funny anymore. It was maddening. For a stand-up comedian who had people in splits all the time, he led a pretty miserable life. The applause at the end of his thirty minute show was his only moment of glory.

He bit on the end of the pencil nervously, his fingers trembling, a queer restlessness started to take control over his senses. Fame - it takes them down, it takes them all down; and the defeat seems like victory until the moment dawns, when you know better and it's too late. He strained his eyes on the piece of paper. He desperately wanted to come up with something that would send the audience into an unending fit of laughter, but he couldn't see the humor in anything anymore. He clutched a bottle of pills and opened it with great effort, his fingers trembling furiously, feeding the fear within, of losing his top spot. He thought toxic thoughts. Vulnerable with the increasing sense of defeat that he often masked with denial, he took solace in the little white pills - a temporary relief to a permanent problem.

Where was the humour? He grasped the notes in a frothing fit of rage, crumpled them until they could shrink no further and flung the ball to the far end of the room. Seconds later, he found himself running to that corner, in dark desperation, retrieving the ball, freeing it from dust bunnies. He opened it, his only thread of hope, and cried helplessly. Failing to make sense out of smudged pencil marks, he realized he didn't remember a word of what he'd spent more than an hour, analyzing. He ran to the window and looked around, at people, and waited impatiently for them to do something outrageously funny. He had an audience to please. They must love him. They must cheer for him and call out his name. He had an audience to please. They must love him like they loved him the last time. They must love him more.

Another futile attempt, there was no new script. He had been trying for weeks now. He felt...impotent. He donned the crisp clothes that the best designer in town had tailored for him, he held onto the last of the series of scripts he had written when the days were good. An air-conditioned Mustang escorted him to the venue. He felt priceless and worthless at the same time. He felt the pressure mounting and tried to brush aside thoughts of the elusive set of fresh scripts he had to work on after returning from the show. He had to keep this going, hear his name being called out by the frenzied crowd. Over, and over again. He pictured himself putting on that show of humility after the crowd cheered at the end of the show, that jovial "Get outta here!" with a dismissive flick of the hand.

Show-time. Loud cheering. He could see a few familiar faces. "What's up New York?” he greeted the crowd with his signature contortion of facial muscles followed by the cupping of his right ear with one hand that conveyed they weren't cheering loud enough. There was an immediate increase in the decibel level. They were now calling out his name. "So I was just thinking ...”, he began, as the crowd grew quiet to hear what he was saying, “…People are getting real suicidal these days, you know you hear these stories floating around, people killing themselves everywhere...I was just wondering...we could just make the whole affair a whole lot of fun by thinking up new and innovative ways of doing it, if you know what I mean. ..So I was just thinking up a few favorites, and somehow dying of suffocation in an elevator with Mariah Carey breathing in it hit the bottom of the list." He heard some distant guffaws while the rest of the crowd laughed politely."I mean come on, you deserve better than that, it's your life your ending and if you HAVE to end it, you need to do so in style!” he put on a pompous look and pretended that he was running a discourse on a topic of profound importance."You know… I'm an old fashioned guy when it comes to such things, and I love being this way. I mean, when it comes to topics like these I'm the guy who walks around with a sundial on his wrist while the rest of you sport the trendiest wrist-wear." The crowd laughed in unison. "So I'd like to go for the tried and tested traditional ways... I think I'd rather try a combination of all of 'em. You know what I'd do? I'd tie a rope to a tree at the top of a cliff ,and the other end around my neck. I'd also bring a gun to shoot myself while I'm falling and before I jump… I'd swallow poison," he joked, illustrating what he said with tying an imaginary rope around his neck, pulling out an imaginary gun and popping an imaginary pill, with a queer spaced-out expression on his face that struck the audience as funny. "As I jump off, I'd try to shoot myself in the head but I'd miss and I'd shoot through the rope. The free fall would make me sick and I'd throw up all the poison on the way down and land in a river." He kept a straight face throughout and continued to speak with wide eyed interest, at the same time he pretended that he was having a free fall which finally ended with a not so dignified dip in the river. "Having escaped all that, when I finally crawl out onto the back I'd curl up and die a few hours later from hypothermia." The audience hooted and cheered, they seemed to be having a good time."You know I think I'd enjoy it more to watch it happen. You know what my goal is? To be cloned. So if I'd want to commit suicide, I'd have options!" This time the hall reverberated with loud applause and laughter. "Heck, I was spring cleaning the other day and I happened to find my old Backstreet Boys record, when I realized that I'd spent the whole of my teenage committing suicide!", he jerked his neck violently with both his hands as the crowd went mad with laughter, looking at him teary eyed, wanting more... "Alright I've so run out of jokes right now…I think I'm gonna kill myself!" The crowd laughed uncontrollably, the pace and the momentum was just right. He closed his eyes and drew in the applause, savored it. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out a gun and shot himself. He lay in a pool of blood. People were still laughing. He always got the right comic timing.