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Four: The Joke

Jim Meirose

    Montipartov shot straight from the black easy chair at the right of the room and went across and sat again in the overstuffed grey love seat at the left of the room, all the while keeping his .45 caliber squarely leveled at Solna.
    We aren’t leaving this room until this thing is settled, said Montipartov, waving the thick barrel. And if I have to settle it with a bullet, I will.
    Solna shifted in his straight backed wooden chair. He ran a shaking hand through his thin grey hair and once more appealed to Montipartov’s reason.
    This isn’t worth it—think before you do something stupid—
    I’ve already done plenty of stupid things, snapped Montipartov. The most stupid was counting you as my friend. Why stop now?
    In the center of the wall across the room, a plastic television droned too low to understand. A group of dancers cavorted across the screen before a rotund singer on a squat pedestal. Solna squirmed once more in the chair.
    Listen. I didn’t know she was your wife. I swear to God, it was a mistake and it’ll never happen again but what more can I do? I can’t turn back time—
    Montipartov thrust the gun toward Solna’s face and harshly interrupted.
    Listen. I don’t buy you didn’t know. I don’t want to hear that again—if the next thing out of your mouth isn’t the truth, then the last thing you’ll hear will be this gun going off.
    Solna opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it. He lowered his head into his thin-boned hands. His knees shook slightly. Montipartov glanced to the television. Golden words spread across the screen; WELCOME BACK to COMEDY TIME with PERN DIXON; then the words faded to a man in a loose suit standing tall before a heavy red curtain. He spoke quickly, holding one hand out. Muted sound drifted softly about the turned down television. The fake silver controls of the set glinted cheaply; the rounded off edges of the plastic case caught the glow of the tall floorlamp across in the corner. Solna’s fingers drummed nervously against his temples as Montipartov rose and went to the television, the gun still trained steadily at Solna. He spun up the volume knob, then sat back down. Solna took no notice.
    You know, I’m mad at the post office, said the comedian, flicking a hand. I went to all the trouble of sending in a suggestion to improve things and they just ignored it.
    Montipartov stared impassively at the set. Pern Dixon went on animatedly, pacing, his heels clicking on the stage.
    The idea would have revolutionized the whole postal industry, said Pern. It would have made me rich—I bet that’s why they didn’t write back. They’re going to steal my idea—what do you think? Think they’ll steal my idea?
    The unseen studio audience murmured and here and there a titter fluttered up.
    Want to know what the idea was? said Pern Dixon, raising an eyebrow. I mean, I’ve already told them. It’s not like it’s a secret or something.
    Several more voices urged Pern on. Montipartov chewed strongly at his lip. Solna raised his head and stared at the ceiling, his hands clenched bonily together in his lap.
    I told them to think about this; you know how wasteful and slow it is the way they deliver the mail? They’ve got to send mailmen out to walk from house to house putting all the letters in the mailboxes by hand—it takes a million mailmen all day long to get the letters in all the mailboxes. Too wasteful. Too slow. No wonder stamps cost so much—don’t you think?
    Pern held his hands out palms up and pulled a response from the audience; an affirming riffle of laughter played over the studio. Montipartov stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, and leaned back in the dark love seat. Solna blankly settled his gaze on the television. His knees shook harder. The heavy .45 lay cradled on Montipartov’s left forearm, its barrel pointed squarely at Solna’s face.
    Just think of all the gasoline they waste, said the comedian—you know how all the mailmen go out in the morning in those little white trucks to the neighborhoods where they go to walk around with all the letters? They drive the trucks, park them, get out, walk around to all the mailboxes, put in the mail, go back to the trucks, drive them a couple blocks, park them, get out, walk around, like that—lord god what a waste of gas and money. This is where the price of a stamp really goes, you know. Down the drain, just like that.
    The comedian smoothed his right suit sleeve. The audience fell silent; their overlapping murmer and scattered titters drained into the spaces beyond the walls. Montipartov coughed hoarsely into his hand and moved the gun from his right hand to his left. The comedian slapped his hands together and continued.
    Well, I pointed out all of this waste in my letter to the post office, and I gave them my idea how to cut it all out. Now what do you think my idea was? Can you guess? Go on, guess.
    Just mail the letters, said Solna softly.
    Come on—guess—let’s have some guesses—
    What? Montipartov snapped at Solna, straightening.
    Can’t guess? Okay, well here it is. I—
    Just mail the letters, Solna muttered. Then nobody has to walk around to all the houses and drive all the trucks and all that. They should just mail the letters.
    Solna looked away from the television and shifted in his chair as heavy laughter welled from the set. The comedian stepped back to the curtain, rubbed his hands together, and spoke loudly.
    So what do you think? Is that some idea or what?
    Wait—hey, said Montipartov, looking from Solna to the television and then back again. You made me miss the joke— the joke’s over—what’d he say?
    Just mail the letters, repeated Solna. That’s the only answer that makes sense.
    Damn you, snapped Montipartov, rising from the love seat. The gun waved.
    Wait, no—what’d I do, cried Solna, leaning back and cringing, hands raised.
    I told you to stay shut up unless you were going to come clean about my wife. But you opened your big mouth, made me miss the joke—god damn you Solna! God damn you!
    I didn’t mean it.
    You never mean it. That’s the problem. You sleep with my wife, and you don’t mean it. You make me miss the joke, and you don’t mean it. Is there anything you DO mean, Solna?
    Wait. Here—
    Montipartov rushed up and dug the steel barrel into the smaller man’s temple, pushing his head back and twisting his neck over the hard wooden seat back.
    Tell me Solna. Is there anything you DO mean?
    I—I don’t know what you want me to say, gasped Solna, his eyes closed. Montipartov pulled the gun back from Solna’s head and stomped back to his chair in disgust. Solna hunched forward, shoulders shaking. His shape cut through the glow barely showing around the dark drawn windowshade.
    I want to know the truth, damn you, said Montipartov. About my wife, about the joke—about every damned thing—you miserable lying fool.
    The television screen faded black; the comedian stepped off the soundstage into the softer light to the side of the studio and got up a fresh towel from a polished white stool and smoothly wiped his gleaming forehead. A young man in gold glasses and a narrow green tie came out from the shadows around the curtain.
    Washington wants to see you, Mr. Dixon, he said.
    Oh? About what?
    I don’t know. But he wants to see you now.
    Where?
    In his office.
    Fine.
    Pern Dixon turned and went around a corner, where he narrowly missed being run down by a quick tall man with a scarlet folder under his arm and a harsh scowl on his face. He watched the tall man disappear down the hall before passing under the large glossy light globes lining the ceiling and finally stepping through a thin black door into a slick-paneled office with a wooden desk set to one side. A broad swarthy man sat behind the desk in a high-backed chair, leaning forward on his elbows with his hands clenched tight together.
    You want to see me? said Pern Dixon, casually pushing his hand into his pocket and standing before a large painting of a sailing ship set in a shiny gold frame on the wall.
    Yes I do, said Washington, his eye trained on Dixon. I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while, and it really isn’t going to be very pleasant, but it needs to be said, so I’m going to say it.
    Dixon pushed a hand in his pocket.
    So—what is it?
    Washington rose tall behind the heavy desk. He tapped his thick fingers on the glossy fake marble desktop.
    Its about your style, he said. You’re not funny anymore. God, those jokes you told tonight—what was in your mind?
    Dixon pulled his hand from his pocket and the skin around his collar flushed; Washington flexed his powerful neck and smoothly ran a finger down his suit lapel.
    I—I don’t know, said Dixon. What’s always in my mind, I guess—but how long have you felt this way?
    I told you, said Washington, cocking his head. For a while now. I know what’s funny, and I know what’s not. What I need to know from you is, what will you do about it?
    I don’t know—I thought I was doing good—
    This might just be a local public access channel, said Washington—but our standards are really higher than that.
    Dixon stood with his mouth open, staring at a large chrome ashtray at the edge of the desktop.
    So what will you do? said Washington more strongly.
    I guess I’ll change.
    But how? When?
    Now I suppose—but can you give me more to go on? Exactly what is it you don’t think is funny?
    Washington leaned forward pointing at Dixon.
    Listen, he said. You’re the comedian—not me. You figure it out. Or we’ll have to cut you. I’m being honest. You ought to thank me for being as honest as I am.
    Okay—sure, said Dixon, half turning away. Thanks for telling me. I’ll do better.
    Washington leaned back, nodding thoughtfully.
    I know you’ll work it out, he said. Just work harder. Find better jokes. You know what I’m talking about—you’re not stupid. Hey listen. Thanks for coming in.
    Sure no problem.
    Pern Dixon went back into the hall. The smooth black tile floor moved past under him. The young man in the narrow green tie came at him again, from the side.
    Mr. Dixon? I’m sorry, but I’ve got another message. There’s a phone call for you. From a fan. You can take it in my office.
    Wordlessly Dixon went down the hall past the soundstage and into the young man’s cubicle. The curved plastic phone pressed hot in his hand.
    Pern Dixon here, he said abruptly. What is it?
    I need to know the punch line of the post office joke, interjected the caller. His voice was muted as through a thick wet haze.
    What joke? said Dixon, pressing a fingertip into the soft cloth cubicle wall.
    The post office joke—was the punch line just mail the letters?
    What?
    Was the punch line just mail the letters? We missed the punch line—I need to know the punch line—
    Oh go to hell, said Dixon, before ripping the phone away from his ear and slamming it down onto the receiver with a sharp crack that bounced the phone a foot across the desktop.
    Jokes, muttered Dixon, rising quickly. To hell with jokes. I give up.
    The young man in the green tie came into the cubicle, waving his folded glasses in his hand.
    What was that crash? Are you all right?
    Never mind, hissed Dixon. I’m having a bad day is all. And the call was a damned wrong number. That’s all.
    Oh.
    Dixon pushed his hair back from his eyes and went back into the hall and passed by Washington’s office door without a glance. He continued to the street and to his bus and toward wherever he’d end up next; while all the while Washington sat behind his desk idly ruffling through papers, his mind calm with satisfaction. The tall window beside the desk glowed warmly, the screen softening the view of the brick building across the street. He realized the agitation he’d felt an hour before had left him; the agitation caused by the tall man with the scarlet folder who’d come in earlier to try out. The man gazed glassily at Washington and swayed slightly, slowly telling a joke.
    You know how there’s electric guitars and electric pianos? muttered the man. I’m surprised nobody’s come up with something like—electric golf—
    Washington stared through and past his desktop as the tall man went on, waving the folder in time with his words.
    Like with the electric guitar—I can just hit the strings a LITTLE BIT and the sound can carry out across a whole stadium—a little sound where if it wasn’t electric you’d be lucky to hear it FIVE FEET away—
    Washington turned his wrist discreetly to see the time. The tall thin man’s words ran together annoyingly.
    So why can’t the same thing be done with golf? I mean, all golf right now is ACOUSTIC golf—like plain guitar is ACOUSTIC guitar—get it?
    The tall man tittered sharply; behind him, the painting of the sailing ship hung cutting through rough waters; Washington set his eye squarely on the prow. After clearing his throat with a gurgling sound, the tall thin man went on.
    Now what if somebody comes up with ELECTRIC golf. Imagine; a single hole of golf would take up the space of a township; a single golf green would span the length of two football fields; a MINIATURE golf course would take up about the same space as a standard golf course does today; PICTURE it—ELECTRIC golf. Hey? How ‘bout it?
    The grey shadows of the rolling waves before the prow of the clipper ship intersected sharply with the spot where the tall man’s neck met his shoulders.
    I say PICTURE it—so what do you think? Funny, eh?
    The ship and the joke swung to the side as Washington got to his feet, squared up a small stack of papers atop his desk, drew a blank look across his face, and answered.
    Sure. Your jokes are very funny. I’ll tell you what. Let me think this over a few days. How about I call you?
    The tall man’s face suddenly reddened.
    No, he said, gripping the folder. I want to know now.
    I can’t tell you now. I have to think about it.
    No you don’t. You’re just like all the rest. You know right now you’ll never call me don’t you?
    No. I don’t know that. I just always like to sleep on these things—
    The tall thin man cut the air with his hand and his dull eyes suddenly flashed.
    Why do you have to lie to me? Why can’t you just be honest and admit you think I stink?
    Washington leaned forward and waved a forefinger.
    No, no, he said. You don’t stink. Its just that I’ve already got a comedian on one show and—
    The tall man’s face twisted to the side and his bottom lip bulged as he strongly interrupted.
    See! You’ve already got a comedian! Then why did you waste my God-damned time having me down here? You’ve just got a shitty little fifth-rate public access channel anyway. What the hell do you think you’re running here—the NBC network?
    The tall thin man closed his eyes and coughed wetly into his hand. Washington’s broad hand raised palm out.
    I think you better leave, he said.
    No problem, gasped the tall man, thrusting the folder under his arm. I’ll leave. And don’t bother to call me—as if you ever would anyway. Listen—you’re stuck at the bottom, just like me—you little two bit creep. You don’t know what’s funny. You don’t know what’s good. I hope you rot here forever. So long creep, enjoy your two-bit channel.
    The man stormed out the door, coughing heavily. It swung back part closed as Washington stood red-faced, one hand formed into a meaty fist. The sailing ship on the wall hung solidly; this was no two-bit channel. Washington was somebody; he leaned, picked up the phone, and punched in an extension number.
    Send Pern Dixon in here, he told the young man in the narrow green tie who picked up the phone at the other end. As soon as he’s done on the air.
    The phone softly set down and he sat back down behind his desk, waiting, his eyes on the foam billowing motionlessly out beyond the thrusting prow of the tall masted clipper ship trapped within the narrow fake-gilt frame. Two blocks away past the narrow window the tall thin man with the scarlet folder caught his breath at last and mounted the steps of a dirty grey bus that would hustle him back toward his own side of town. He moved quickly up the aisle lined with downward-looking passengers and sat near the back. He laid his red folder on the torn seat beside him and gripped the cold chrome grab bar across the seatback in front. So he had been right after all—he knew it before he went. There’s never any use in going to see them; there’s never any chance to get out of the rat race and do what you want. No, no, no is the only word that applies; no, no, no, no, no ,no, no— he’d placed his hand on this same red folder that’d lain on the kitchen table this morning as his wife stood in the slanting light of the kitchen sink window, giving him her advice. The light fell muted through the sheer lace curtain and laid soft shadows in the hollows of her face.
    I see no reason why you shouldn’t go down to that cable station and see if you can get a show there, she said, wiping the rim of a small white cup. You could put on a better show than any of the other people they’ve got.
    Oh sure, said the tall thin man weakly. Better than any of the other people on the rinky dink little channel.
    No, she said, laying her dishtowel across her left forearm. It’s not rinky dink—its public access, you’re one of the public, that’s what stations like that are for—and at least somebody’ll hear your jokes.
    Sure, he said, pushing the red folder several inches across the formica tabletop. Two of us’ll hear the jokes—me and the one person who’ll maybe tune in.
    Peter, she said calmly, lowering her gaze into his and stepping from the sink through the soft bars of sunlight. Don’t be so down on yourself. You’re better than that.
    Okay—so, he said, standing straighter and forcing himself to brighten. You still really think something might come of this comedy stuff? Even after everything I’ve tried so far hasn’t panned out?
    The curtain lace broke the light into grains that settled halolike about her.
    It’s up to you how it comes out. But you’ll never know what’ll come of it for sure, if you quit.
    That’s true.
    And after all, she said, stepping slowly toward him. I love your jokes. You just need somebody to give you a break.
    Reaching him, she put her hand softly on his back; the light played around them as they kissed for just an instant; he pulled away slightly, but her hand stayed on his back between the shoulder blades.
    You know, he said more strongly—if I had a local show I could make it into something a whole lot different—you know like Crazy Gene’s hour—remember Crazy Gene’s variety hour? That was a good show—it’d be like that.
    No, she said smoothly, pressing his back harder. It’d be a whole lot better than that.
    Well—at least a TV camera can’t boo the shit out of me.
    Oh come on. Nobody at those amateur nights booed the shit out of you.
    Yes they did.
    No, they didn’t.
    You weren’t there.
    That’s true. But I don’t have to be there to know what you can do. Problem is—they’ve just got no taste.
    The yellow kitchen walls moved about them. She took her hand from him and went back to the sink and continued to dry the few dishes propped in the drainboard; their hard curved rims cast shadows over the countertop edge.
    That’s right, he said. They’ve got no taste.
    She closed the high cabinet over the last dish with a soft but certain crack and turned back to him.
    Just know whatever you decide to do, I love you, Peter.
    The tall thin man smiled and refocused his eyes through the grime-caked window of the grey bus. It rolled slightly pulling to the corner across the street from Solly’s bar and grille. OPEN said the white sign out front and the golden light beyond the door screen glowed invitingly. It was still afternoon; no reason not to have one or two before dinner; no reason not to. The tall thin man tucked the red folder back under his arm, rose and went to the front of the bus and got off at the corner under a red stop light. The bus began pulling away in a roar; the light stayed red. She’s right, they got no taste. No damned taste at all. He walked defiantly across against the light through a great mass of black fumes thrown up by the bus; maybe it’s time to give up this dream. Or maybe it’s not; she says its not; but no need to decide today, this afternoon, right now, again. The bus passed him by and left him behind and made its way slowly past a series of stops to the one he’d have taken had he gone straight home that afternoon; and once past that stop, the bus turned and made its way back down the route and back up and down again and over and over until it was dark and the OUT OF SERVICE sign scrolled up in the glass above the wide front window, and the next stop was the great brick and stone bus garage at the farthest spot of town from the tall thin man’s home, where his wife sat much later, preparing for bed. She was alone in the house with the front door tightly locked; he had his key. She sat erect, in her blue robe, before a vanity mirror, brushing out her brown hair. A small cream-colored television sat on the dresser at the side of the room, the sound turned too low to hear. Again, he’s not home, she thought. What’s the point, I ask myself. Twenty years, maybe twenty two—oh what difference does it make? Isn’t twenty long enough? Him and his crazy ideas. Comedy; he’s got a great job in a big company downtown, but still, he wants to write comedy. All the time and effort spent writing jokes and bits and sending things around and going to those awful amateur nights and all the boos and him coming home all sullen. Could have been put into something that’d pay. Could have been time and effort better spent, but he never gives up. Never. And I know where he is now. He’s having a few. So it didn’t go well, because if it’d gone well he’d have come home right away and told me all about it. But I’ve got to encourage him. I’m the only one he has who cares enough to go out of my way to encourage him. She got up from the chair and slipped off her robe and turned up the volume of the television set after placing her brush down beside a small pearl-white phone. Now to get in bed and watch the news and whatever. Her finger touched the timer. The set’ll switch off in an hour. And no matter what time he comes home tonight, he’ll be here beside me in the morning. Like always.
    The thin covers pulled to her neck. She flicked the remote. A tanned newsman read from a sheaf of copy.
    —A sad end this afternoon to a hostage situation on Heathclift street. We’ve been covering this all afternoon and into the evening and are sorry to inform you that—
    I am a saint, she thought, her mouth a tight line. No matter what, he will always get encouragement from me—
    —A Nicholas Montipartov, age 46, shot dead his long time friend Adnan Solna, after a tense afternoon of demands and threats and a standoff with police—
    Who else does he have; and see, see—there are much worse things happening in the world.
    —Apparently Mr. Solna was shot dead after failing to inform Montipartov of the punch line of a joke they had seen on TV earlier in the day. According to police Montipartov became enraged after he missed the punchline of the joke and demanded that Solna find it out for him—
    There are much worse things, see? Count your blessings. And I’ll have to tell Peter about it; it had to do with a joke. He’ll wonder what joke—
    —Also it appears there was ill will between the two because of an alleged affair Mr. Solna had had with Mr. Montipartov’s wife—
    There’s the real reason. See, that’s always the reason. First there are reasons and then there are real reasons and—
     —Mr. Montipartov is in custody. There appears to be no history of mental illness—
    The news story dissolved in a wash of sound and the sudden meaninglessness of it all jerked her head back up awake. She was too tired for any more TV. She placed the remote on the night table, and rolled over, eyes closed in the quiet dark room. Too much bad news, for one day at least. But see, that’s the use of bad news; to let you know things could be worse. Thank God she’d never be involved in such a thing. Thank God she was such a saint.

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