The ballroom is silent, so I tell another joke. Somewhere near the back, a woman titters, slowly, maybe a bit uncomfortable. I slip into my next bit, perfectly mirroring the accent of an older Asian man. Again, no one laughs, so I speak louder, emphasizing my misplaced consonants, twisting my face into a shit-eating grin.
No one laughs, and I cringe inside. I am funny, that is my calling. All I can do is tell these jokes, over and over, but nothing. My time is not close to up, and if I leave now, I won’t get paid. I press on, imitation after imitation, feeling the chill as the crowd loses all interest.
Slowly, the noise picks up as ladies shift in their seats, the whispers of fabric joining together into a cascade of sound, the symphony of fidgeting because no one cares to listen to what I have to say. My observations pass through them undigested. At the back of the room, someone walks out. Seconds later, another follows, chasing after the first. I am alone on stage, driving the people around me away. Nothing I do or say matters anymore, nothing will bring joy or laughter. Just the silence of knowing that I am not enough, the silence that will settle around me later tonight in the hotel, when I find myself alone, in an empty room where no one is laughing.
wordspill 