“I’m sorry, I can’t pick you up Tuesday. I’m having coffee with a friend.”
“Which friend?” Andrew asked.
“She’s the person I met at the workshop and laughed out loud at my jokes,” I reminded him.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Have fun.”
“Anyway, Andrew, why do you need a ride?”
“I’m dropping my car off at the shop and having drinks with Mike.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like Mike.”
“Yesterday at our meeting, I made a joke and he was the only one who laughed. It turns out he’s pretty cool.”
“Makes sense. Have fun.”
Andrew and I didn’t need any more conversation. We had long ago agreed that it was impossible not to like someone who thought we were funny. In fact, we consider it a chief criterion in our relationships. We feel particularly warmly towards those who laugh at the witticisms that are deemed inappropriate by the rest of the group. We reward that type of bravery with a fierce loyalty.
Then there is that quip, that self-indulgent retort that alienates and offends. Under almost all circumstances I keep that one to myself. Except. Except when it is so perfectly witty, and it seems that the fates have given me a once in a lifetime opportunity for the perfect punchline, and I feel the stars aligning for me in that moment. I am aware of the consequences, yet it can be worth it.
For instance, there was that one time with my in-laws. No, I’d better not repeat that.
How about the day I was asked to give a speech in class? No, that offended even me.
Anyway, take my word for it. I was hi-larious.
Andrew & His Mom Sharing One of Our First Laughs