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The auditorium, packed to standing room, erupted in laughter as the up- and- coming comedian raised his hand in gratitude. 

“Keep Smiling, folks,” he urged them all as he spryly walked off stage.

“Great set Mac,”came congratulations from a pant-suited brunette he made his way toward offstage. 

“Thanks Bruce,” the comedian replied.

Lucille Bruce would be awarded victory in an olympian prize fighting bout for the effort she had put toward Christopher Carl’s career, and her own. This was no mean feat in the late 1950’s, now the beginning of the 1960’s. Judging by those in attendance tonight, and what they had shelled out for tickets, their work had paid off. This odd couple of comedian and manager had done it; they’d hit the big time.

A couple hours later the same pair stood in the last open bar in the city decompressing and celebrating. It had been Carl’s biggest night ever. The neon lights of the club refracted through the countless cocktail glasses strewn about the room. Some glasses in hand, others on table top. Light bounced through bottles containing various styles and qualities of the liquids for sale. Mac, as Lucille had always called him, made note of the colors dancing around and thought there was a joke in it somewhere. He had always thought he could, or rather should, be able to get a joke out of just about anything. 

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow Bruce,” the comedian assured as he closed the door on the cab his manager had just gotten into.

He took his time meandering home, attempting to etch into his mind life at the moment, and how he perceived the changes upon the horizon. 

“I won’t be able to do this for much longer- just stroll around,” he thought to himself about his inevitable fame.

His phone was ringing as he entered his apartment, a strange occurrence for 2:28 in the morning. He ignored it, poured himself a nightcap, and slouched down in his only easy chair, finally loosing his tie. The phone rang again. This time he answered. 

“Your friendly neighborhood bakery,” he jokingly answered.

“Mac…” it was the voice of his manager.

“Yeah?” 

“…It’s your mother.” 

The comedian’s glass fell from his hand and shattered against the ground. The incandescent light of his small stand up lamp splintered off the brown liquid now seeping into the wood of the floorboards, mirroring the refraction he’d so embraced just earlier this evening. A moment of bliss- now turned to horror. 

He heard the words Bruce had to say, but as a bystander. He heard them as a person this wasn’t happening to. He was transported to the first time he had used laughter as medicine. His mother was crying. She tried to hide it when he came into the room, but he could still tell. Although only seven years old, he could always tell. His joke had the desired outcome- she smiled, laughed even. Mascara so slightly run, still she laughed. That was the moment, consciously or unconsciously, Christopher Carl decided to make people laugh for a living.

“Mac, you’ve got a gig tonight,” Bruce repeated. 

It was just days later. 

“I’ll be there,” he acknowledged. 

The next day the headline of the Entertainment section read: ‘Christopher Carl, Not All He’s Cracked Up To Be?’

“Mac, you can’t cancel all these dates… I know. I know it hurts. But we’re right here- this is the tipping point, everything we’ve worked for…” Lucille pleaded with her sole client at his request to halt all future plans.

“I just don’t have it anymore. There’s no smiling through this…” he refuted her.

“Listen to me, I get it, but think of how much joy you brought to your mother- how proud she was of you. She would want you to keep making others smile. What you have to say- it brings people joy. It helps with the parts of life that seem overwhelming, like we’re not going to make it. You offer reprieve from those. If you give up on this dream the world is going to be all that darker of a place. She’d want your success. She’d want you to make yourself smile- more than you wanted it for her.” The manager’s reassurance was met with continued silence. “I love you Mac, and I’ll move some dates around for you, but we can’t just give up on this thing; it's not been just for you, not just for me, but for your mother as well.”

“Thanks Bruce. Just give me a little time to think. I’ll get back to you within the week.” 

He opened the door to his mother’s apartment. The same place she’d lived his entire life and now never would again. There was one thing sitting on the dining room table, a record. A record who’s refrain had given him his catchphrase of “keep smiling folks.” A record which was about continuing to smile through all the pain life has to offer. He picked it up and held it to his chest.

“Okay mom,” Christopher said aloud with a tear and a smile.

Two nights later in an auditorium with less room than ever, with an audience come to see what Christopher Carl was going to do, the comedian walked out onto the stage.

“Wow. There are a lot of you out there tonight…” the comedian shielded his eyes and feigned surprise. “Did anyone happen to see the headlines in that little rag of a newspaper- what do they call it? The Times? Okay, by a show of hands, who thinks I could get away with saying this was all a publicity stunt?” Countless attendees raised their hands in agreement and defiance. “Okay, that’s a few more hands than the zero I was expecting. Thank you. Yes, yes I’m back up here. We’ll see if I’m still funny- I’ll leave that bit up to you. It seems as though my last show was not my best. Apparently it’s difficult to be funny in the midst of loss? Someone should have warned me.

So my mother died- yeah, yeah, it's sad. And you may be saying to yourself, so did mine, Chris, but I kept it together. Well, we never know what’s going to make us fall to pieces do we? Or we’d just avoid that thing. Unless, of course, you like being in pieces, in which case I’ve got a few stories about my dog dying and my wife leaving me, taking the kids, and emptying my bank account. See me after the show about those. I’m just kidding, I’m kidding- I don’t have a wife… or kids… or any money.

But here’s a tip- if you’re looking for answers to life- they’re not at the bottom of a bottle. At least not at the bottom of the bottles I was looking in. I can’t be sure about all bottles- I didn’t ask ketchup’s opinion. But Whiskey, no, whiskey does not know why the people we love have to leave. 

Speaking of leaving- my pop didn’t think we were worth sticking around for, and my mother, I’d catch her sobbing. We had no money- nothing new there- but we had each other and all I wanted to do was see her smile. Now I don’t get to see that again- at least not without a shovel and some serious smelling salts. Didn’t they just make a movie about that? So in completely unrelated news, I think I’m going to give up the comedian life. I think I’ll open up a little motel. Get a house on a hill above it, somewhere mother and I… I mean I, I can live- somewhere I can live… alone. We’ll have guests… I mean I will have guests. Just I will… Yeah, that’s a good idea. My manager is currently shaking her head off stage.

You know I had nightmares about this little metal thing right here,” he gestured toward the microphone he’d been speaking into. “It became so daunting. Do you know how many times I’ve confronted this thing with no fear? No fear at all! Not since the first couple of years in my act have I been as afraid of it as I am tonight. But look at it…” He stands back and pretends to size up the microphone while making a few quick jabs and imitating a boxer’s footwork. “It’s got nothin. Thin as a, well, a microphone stand. We’re not even in the same weight class.

There’s something mothers are always concerned about, right? Our weight. ‘You’re too skinny,’ or, ‘honey you could stand to lose a few pounds.’ It’s forcing more potatoes onto your plate than any human could eat in a single sitting, or being made to feel uncomfortable soon as you walk in the door. It's always a surprise. Which is a hell of a word- surprise. It sounds so optimistic. Most of it is comprised of ‘prize.’ As in, ‘oh, what did I win?’ Well as it pertains to me right now- congratulations you’ve just won the rest of your life being changed for the worse. Thank you, ‘surprise,’ but no thank you. But, just like my mother using her spit to slick down my hair well into adulthood, you don’t get the option to refuse it.

There is a bright side to all of this- at least I won’t ever have to pretend to like her infamous bean salad ever again. Does anyone know where this originated? How the word ‘salad’ became a catch- all term for a multitude of things that involve no lettuce whatsoever? Or, go with me here, perhaps it was lettuce that was late to the game and salads of all varieties came first? I’ll have to ask my mom.. oh, wait. No. That’s not going to work anymore. You know what, I’ve got it- does any one have a bottle of ketchup we could ask? 

You’ve been a wonderful audience- try to keep smiling… through all of it,” Christopher Carl urged with a grin and a tear as he strolled off stage.