The Laugh Track

The last purple of a full dusk prepares for slumber. It revs me up. I find Charles and Young Mister W sitting on either side of a sixer of Guinness’ Belgian-style Wit on a bench in Meridian Hill park. “It’s our synthesis,” Charles says, “Can you guess who’s who?” I’m the Belgian. Charles’ the style. And I joke that YMW is the White. They’ve already worked through all the beer while waiting for me to pedal across the city. “YMW is making a play for style with those chains, is that a dog tag?” “It’s a tarot card.” YMW’s just come back from vacation. He shares stories of his travels. He tells of being propositioned by a local water skiing champion while at a deserted beach along the Pacific covered in dead pufferfish. While preoccupied with what might’ve caused the mass die-off, YMW missed the tack of the skier’s rambling: “Are you a homosexual?” “No?” “But do you ever fool around with guys and stuff, for fun?” Eventually the skier came to his point: “Can I hold your balls.” YMW declined.

YMW has promised a friend he’d show at his stand up event so Charles and I agree to tag along. It’s at Johnny Pistolas, a beater of an AdMo joint the local prep school crowd has adopted as a winter break watering hole. Tonight its nearly empty. Kumail, the host, starts warming up the crowd. He’s bombing hard: “I look like the token Black college republic, but I am Jamaican.” He goes off on a riff about the Apple Jacks cinnamon stick and media representation. None of the score or so people present are laughing. It’s a portentous omen. The following acts bomb harder. The jokes beat a familiar path. Trump. Deloitte. The virgin-pedophile mustache continuum, “if I’m the latter you better hope I’m the former too.” We can’t stand it and so make to dip. My frame makes any exit obvious. Kumail gets a laugh when he takes the mic and says “damn, even my friends are leaving!” Before stepping out, YMW wants to angle for the bartenders’ number, “I’m working on my social skills,” he says with a wink, so Charles and I escape onto the second-floor porch for some fresh air. There’s one guy out there, his back to us with his neck held in the palsied crook vapers believe makes their puffing surreptitious. YMW comes back with catch in hand so we step off to The Blaguard.

We stumble upon his new roommates—from a Facebook housing group—on the walk. We invite them along. The rest of the night passes fast. A draft pilsner, a jumbo slice. One of the roommates shares a familiar story no less painful for having been told before. He’s Mexican-American, born and raised in LA, and his family mercilessly mocked his poor Spanish, giving him an aversion to speaking, you know the cycle. The other exhibits a fascination with big penises. After more talk of anal elasticity and colons than Charles and I can stomach we take our leave of YMW and his new roommates and head back up into AdMo.

We duck into a basement hookah bar operated by African immigrants. We’re the only patrons. The air is thick with vapor. The Mystics game reflects of the wall-length mirrors to my left. We two reformed cig-slingers unlatch the garden gates of our friendship and invite each other in for a stroll. We speak of love and friendship and memory and China.

“It’s not early,” Charles says. “No, it’s not,” I say. So we hug and walk our own paths into the cool Thursday morning.