I laugh all the time - at things, people, stuff, whatever. But, I

Host: The comedy club was half-lit, its air thick with the mingled scent of beer, electricity, and anticipation. The small neon sign that read “Open Mic” flickered uncertainly, like it wasn’t sure if it believed in itself. Rows of cheap wooden chairs faced the low stage, where a single microphone stood upright, a silver sentinel waiting for truth disguised as laughter.

Behind the curtain, Jack sat on a metal stool, his posture loose but his eyes sharp, the way a soldier looks before battle — outwardly calm, inwardly counting seconds. Jeeny leaned against the wall nearby, her small frame illuminated by a backstage bulb that buzzed softly, as if whispering that everything in life hums before it breaks.

Jeeny: “Steven Wright once said, ‘I laugh all the time — at things, people, stuff, whatever. But, I don’t laugh onstage because then it’s serious business.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, low voice) “Of course he did. The king of deadpan. He could tell you the world’s ending and you’d still think he’s joking.”

Jeeny: “Because he understood something most people don’t — that humor isn’t about laughing. It’s about listening.”

Host: The murmur of the crowd filtered through the curtain — restless, expectant. Glasses clinked, chairs scraped, and somewhere, someone coughed, the way people do when they’re nervous but pretending not to be.

Jack: “You really think comedy’s serious business?”

Jeeny: “It’s the most serious. The moment you can make people laugh at their own pain — you’re holding their hearts without permission.”

Jack: (chuckling) “So the joke’s a scalpel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every good comedian is a surgeon of sorrow. They open wounds to prove we all bleed the same color.”

Host: The host called out Jack’s name from beyond the curtain — a muffled announcement swallowed by applause. He didn’t move yet. He just watched the stage light through the slit in the curtain, that one beam of white slicing through smoke and darkness like an unblinking eye.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I first started, I laughed at my own jokes all the time. It felt honest — spontaneous. Then I realized it made the audience comfortable. Too comfortable.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t want them comfortable.”

Jack: “No. You want them awake. Laughter should hit like truth — unexpected, a little painful, but undeniable.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Wright meant. When he’s onstage, he’s not laughing because he’s not escaping. He’s creating the discomfort that makes laughter necessary.”

Host: The applause outside faded. Someone adjusted the mic stand — a faint metallic squeak that sounded almost like a sigh. The next performer was done. It was Jack’s turn. But still, he stayed, thinking.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think comedians are the only philosophers the world still listens to. Poets became academics. Painters got lost in galleries. But comics — they stand in the dark and confess.”

Jeeny: “And everyone pays to hear it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because laughter’s the one currency that still feels real.”

Host: The light from the stage spilled across the curtain now, casting a faint glow on Jack’s face. His gray eyes shifted, their usual cynicism softening into something more like reverence.

Jack: “You ever notice that the best comics don’t really tell jokes? They tell truths wrapped in absurdity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about punchlines — it’s about pressure valves. The world’s too heavy to carry without a few explosions of laughter.”

Jack: “Then why does it always feel heavier when you leave the stage?”

Jeeny: “Because the laughter stops. And what you were joking about — it’s still real.”

Host: A brief silence. The kind that hums with the weight of everything unsaid. Then, faintly, a laugh from the other side of the curtain — not forced, not loud, just human. Jack smiled, finally stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a ghost.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always admired Wright’s control. He never breaks. Never shows the emotion beneath the absurdity. But maybe that’s his art — the restraint.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the restraint is the joke. Maybe he laughs through stillness the way musicians cry through silence.”

Jack: “You think that’s what makes a great comedian?”

Jeeny: “No. What makes a great comedian is empathy sharpened into irony. To laugh onstage would dull the blade.”

Host: Jack stepped closer to the curtain now, his shadow merging with the light. The audience murmured, restless again. He could feel the rhythm of their impatience — that collective heartbeat of strangers waiting to be broken and rebuilt.

Jack: “You know, there’s a kind of holiness in it. Standing up there, saying the unsayable. Making pain funny — it’s like turning darkness into music.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And the silence after the laughter — that’s your applause from God.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “If He’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Oh, He’s always listening. He just doesn’t laugh onstage.”

Host: The curtain parted, and the light swallowed him whole. Jeeny watched as Jack walked to the mic — his face calm, his eyes alight with that paradoxical blend of detachment and total immersion. The spotlight glimmered against his features, drawing lines of irony and truth.

Jack: (into the mic, his voice low but clear) “Funny thing about laughter — it’s the only time people tell the truth without realizing it.”

Host: The audience laughed, the first wave — uncertain, curious. Jack paused, the silence between beats stretching, until the room leaned toward him.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The words carried the rhythm of something ancient — the echo of jesters and prophets, of all who had ever used humor as shield and sword.

Host: Backstage, Jeeny listened, her lips curved in a quiet, knowing smile.

Jeeny: (to herself) “He’s right. Laughter isn’t escape. It’s revelation.”

Host: And as Jack’s words spun through the air, laughter rose — bright, broken, real — the kind of laughter that doesn’t just fill a room, but empties it of pretense.

And in that moment, Steven Wright’s truth glowed through the haze of smoke and spotlight — not as irony, but as insight:

That comedy is no accident,
laughter no release,
but the precise, sacred labor
of those who dare to make the unbearable
sound funny —

and never laugh while doing it,
because it’s serious business
to teach the world
how to breathe again.