Almost One Last Laugh

This is a story I submitted this week to Chicken Soup for the Soul. We all have a little bit of George Bailey in us; I found that out...

What the hell was I doing? I really didn't know. I was twenty-four and I was a standup comedian. Like I said, I didn't know what I was doing. I mean, what was the point? Was I having any impact on anything? Sure, I was having a lot of fun making people laugh, but so what? I wasn't really contributing to society or people. I was just making patrons laugh so that a bar could peddle a few more drinks.

Such were the thoughts harassing my mind back in 1996. I was seriously considering quitting standup, a job I had started at age eighteen while in college, and maintained as full-time work once I graduated.

I didn't mind that my friends were starting to make real money in real careers. I didn't mind tirelessly driving across the continent. I didn't mind the loneliness (back then there wasn't email and I didn't have a cell). I didn't mind not being in one place long enough to date. I even didn't mind living out of a suitcase.

What bothered me was the fact that I wasn't doing anything of any real value. I didn't contribute to society. I didn't affect peoples' lives or make a difference. I just made people laugh like crazy. I was good at it, there was no doubt about that, but "that" didn't mean squat. It was time to quit.

I was seriously thinking about it; quitting. I didn't know what else I would do, but I knew I needed to find something that contributed to society. I was bummed because I loved doing standup but it wasn't enough.

I pulled into the hotel parking lot in Columbus, Nebraska, several hundred miles away from my home in Chicago. I was near the end of a twenty week tour, tired and depressed that I would be quitting standup soon.

It was a Saturday night and I headed down to the hotel bar, where I had two shows to do. After the first show, a bunch of audience members asked to buy me drinks. (This is quite common for audience members to do when they like an act. Between ages nineteen and thirty, I never once paid for a drink. I was later shocked to learn how expensive alcohol was at a bar!)

When people buy a comedian a drink, they want the comedian to drink it with them. That night, an unusually large number of people bought me booze. Normally, in such a situation, I would simply drink two of the drinks and explain to the patrons that while I appreciated their generosity, I had a second show to do and I would be hammered, unable to perform, if I drank all the drinks.

But I was tired and depressed and didn't care. So I downed seven pint beers along with several shots. I was far more depressed than I was when I started. Sure, everyone was telling me how great I was and how much they loved my comedy, but I didn't care. They could have carried me around on their shoulders and I wouldn't have cared. Comedy was an empty gig in an empty life.

Somehow I got through the second show. I don't remember anything about it, I was so groggily drunk. Fortunately, I had done enough shows to operate on autopilot when needed. Afterwards, I collapsed in a booth in the back of the club, unable to work up enough strength to head up to my room. People filed out the other side of the bar, glancing back at me. They knew I didn't want to talk (a rarity for me; I always chatted it up with audiences after shows, grateful to them for coming out to support live comedy).

One guy remained in his seat. He just stared at me. He was a year younger than me, maybe two. He sat in his seat until everyone else left the bar. When the waitress approached and told him he had to leave, that the club was closing, he whispered something to her. She nodded her head and walked over to me.

"Ian, this guy wants to talk to you. He says it will only take a second. Do you mind?"

"Sure, whatever." I couldn't go anywhere in my current state, so why not? I just hoped he didn't want to buy me a beer...

The waitress summoned him, then walked away to wipe-down tables. He came over.

"Hi."

"How ya doing?"

"Um... I just wanted to tell you that you will really funny. I loved your show."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

"I almost didn't come out tonight."

"I'm glad you did."

"Yeah."

I could see something was on his mind but he was struggling with it.

"What's up, man? Seems like something's on your mind."

"You'll think it's weird."

"The last time I was in Nebraska, I was in North Platte. After the show, two guys spent the entire night telling me stories about how they go raccoon hunting once a week and how the coons outsmart them every time. Some trips they shot themselves in the foot, others they drove their truck into a lake or ravine. I spent hours listening to the stories. So tell me whatever you want. Believe me, it won't sound weird."

He smiled, then became deathly serious. "I was going to kill myself tonight."

I was stunned. I had nothing to say.

"I had it all figured out, everything in place by this afternoon. Then I heard on the radio that you were in town tonight. The last time you were here, a guy at work saw you and told me you were hilarious. I figured I'd come out for one last laugh, then go home and do it."

I still had nothing. He could see it and kept going.

"But in your show, you talked about so many of the things that were bothering me, things that I wanted to... end things over. But you laughed at them. You laughed at them all. You made jokes about the things that upset me so much."

Tears started to swell up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

"You made me so mad. How could you take these things so lightly? They weren't funny. My life is not a joke. But you kept at it. And as I listened, I couldn't help but laugh. By the end, I forgot why I was so upset. I couldn't be further from wanting to end things now. Thank you."

I just nodded once.

"Well, I should go."

He turned to walk away.

"You didn't tell me your name."

He turned back.

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah."

He told me while I signaled the waitress for some comped drinks. We sat in the bar for the next two hours, him laughing and me listening. Before he left, after swallowing my last swig of beer, I looked at him.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

I told him how I had been thinking about quitting, that I wasn't doing anything of value. He vehemently shook his head.

"Oh no, don't do that. You do a lot of good. Making people laugh... it's big... it's real big. People need it, believe me. They need it. You have a real gift."

Remarkably, on two other occasions after that I had someone tell me after a show that they had decided to commit suicide and that my comedy stopped them.

I still don't know what to think about that. I don't analyze, I don't feel important because of it. I'm just glad I could help and that I stayed in comedy, where I was able to make a difference; able to affect people.