Jamie Suka stood at the back of the club twirling around his shot glass of vodka. He did not like vodka. But scary Russians drank vodka - ALRIGHT JOEY - not red wine or lambic beers or those fruity drinks with the umbrellas. So. Jamie stood at the back of the club and twirled the shot glass around and round with the vodka somehow maintaining within the glass. The comedian was not getting many laughs. Some. But not many.
The comedian stood perfectly still. "Who am I?" he asked the crowd. "Michael J. Fox break dancing." Groans. A couple of boos. Muffled laughter. Jamie smiling from ear to ear.
"You think he's funny?"
It was the flowing red hair that had pressed the ceramic razor against his throat. The flowing red hair had come the closest of anyone other than Joey to ending his life. But unlike Joey, she had not smelled of fear. She had smelled of vanilla and chamomile. The blade, once the flowing red hair had removed it from his throat and placed it under his nose, had smelled like something else altogether. The blade had smelled of his sweat and something... else.
He looked at her and his nostrils flared in the memory. The hair, the red hair, the flowing red hair trailed down over her shoulder and came to a rest on the breast of her leather jacket. Other men would have noticed the tar black jeans and how they ran recklessly over her curves. Jamie could not take his eyes away from the flowing red hair. "He is funny enough. Smart. Too smart for most of them here. Too honest to."
"You think making fun of someone with a disease is funny?"
"You were offended?" He did not wait for a reply. "Do you know someone who suffers? Is that why suffering is not funny to you? Or do you care just too damn much?"
"I had an uncle with Parkinson's. It brought a very strong man low."
Jamie looked at the flowing red hair and imagined, no, knew he was not the first to be captured by that image. The shaking uncle had offered protection. Until the shaking had proven too great an impediment. He wondered how soon after the shaking uncle had been rendered ineffective before she had found blades. He picked up the shot between his thumb and forefinger and downed the vodka violently. No need to let her see how much she had let him see.
"You know," he said, "Most of the time, when someone accuses someone of going too far, of being obscene or inappropriate, the response is to condemn the accuser of not having a sense of humor. I think differently. I think the person who is offended is such a caring person, such a loving person, that they cannot find humor in the suffering of their fellow man. It is a sign of deep empathy that the pain of others registers so personally for them."
The flowing red hair stood before him in what could only be awe. She had not expected such depth from him. She turned her head slightly to the left and reached out and cupped his right elbow with her right hand.
He so enjoyed the look on her face as he said, "But I see the humor in everything."
End Chapter Eight
No comments:
Post a Comment