I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some

Host: The rain tapped lightly against the windowpane, the kind of drizzle that softened the city’s noise into rhythm — steady, forgiving, tired. The café was nearly empty; the barista wiped the counter, and the faint smell of roasted beans mingled with the melancholy hum of jazz floating from the old radio.

Jack sat in the corner booth, coffee untouched, suit jacket draped over the seat beside him. His face carried the weight of a long day, the kind of exhaustion that seeps past bone and burrows into thought. Across from him, Jeeny stirred sugar into her cup, her movements slow, deliberate — as if time itself had slowed down to listen.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Frank A. Clark once said, ‘I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humor in it.’”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Humor, huh? Guess that’s the polite way to tell people to stop crying.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the universe’s reminder that pain isn’t the only response available.”

Jack: dryly “You ever try finding humor in a tax audit? Or a broken heart?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in the moment. But eventually, every tragedy turns into a story — and stories are just pain told with better timing.”

Host: The light flickered, the bulbs humming softly. Outside, the neon sign reflected on the wet pavement — Open Late, a quiet promise to the weary.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought humor is cowardice in disguise. The way people laugh to hide what’s breaking.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s sarcasm. Humor is the courage to acknowledge the break — and still keep laughing anyway.”

Jack: leaning back, smirking “You should put that on a mug. Maybe sell it next to the self-help books.”

Jeeny: “You joke, but think about it. When we laugh, even for a second, we stop being victims of the moment. We become witnesses. Observers. It’s a tiny rebellion — smiling at the thing that tried to take your peace.”

Host: The rain deepened, streams forming along the curb. Inside, the warm light made the small space feel like refuge, a pocket of calm in the storm’s low murmur.

Jack: after a pause “You ever notice how people laugh harder after they cry?”

Jeeny: “Because both are release. Crying is surrender; laughing is resurrection.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But you can’t laugh your way out of every problem.”

Jeeny: “Of course not. But humor’s not about escaping. It’s about surviving.”

Host: Jack watched the steam rising from his coffee, curling upward like fleeting thoughts. He spoke softly, his tone less defensive now, almost curious.

Jack: “You really believe in that — finding humor in everything?”

Jeeny: “Not in everything. But in enough. Enough to remind myself I’m still alive, still capable of joy — even when the world feels like it’s on fire.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s had practice.”

Jeeny: smiling “You could say that. My father used to tell jokes at funerals. My mother used to laugh through arguments. I grew up learning that laughter wasn’t denial — it was oxygen.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, the sound breaking the heaviness in the air. It wasn’t a full laugh, but it was real — the kind that came from recognition.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it. Humor doesn’t fix the problem — it just gives you enough distance to breathe around it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s like turning the monster into a cartoon. The fear’s still there, but it stops controlling you.”

Jack: “So laughter’s a form of perspective.”

Jeeny: “It’s the first step toward it.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapping more gently now, like fingers drumming thoughtfully on glass. The café door creaked as a late-night couple entered, laughing quietly, their voices soft, unguarded.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When things go wrong — really wrong — I always feel guilty when I find something funny. Like it’s disrespectful to the pain.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie we tell ourselves — that suffering deserves reverence. But it doesn’t. It deserves resilience. Humor doesn’t erase pain; it redeems it.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve made peace with the absurd.”

Jeeny: grinning “I had to. Life’s too ridiculous not to laugh at.”

Host: Jack laughed then, a full, warm sound — unexpected even to him. It hung in the air for a moment, sincere and cleansing.

Jeeny watched him, her smile widening, the kind of smile that knew victory when it saw it — not over another person, but over despair.

Jack: “You know, I used to think laughter was for people who hadn’t seen enough. But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe the ones who laugh the most are the ones who’ve survived the most.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Humor isn’t the absence of pain, Jack. It’s proof that you’ve made peace with it.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the gentle passing of their conversation into understanding. The barista yawned, turning off one of the lights near the counter.

Jack: smiling “You ever think that’s what Clark meant — that humor’s the next best thing to solving the problem because it reminds you that the problem doesn’t own you?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Because laughter is control — not over the situation, but over your spirit.”

Jack: “You’re good at this, you know. Turning broken things into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No. Just finding the punchline in the pain.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, the streets shining clean under the lamplight. Jack and Jeeny stood, grabbing their coats, their movements slow, deliberate — as though they didn’t want to break the moment’s fragile calm.

As they stepped outside, the air smelled of renewal — damp pavement, city air, and something faintly sweet.

Jack: “You think humor’s universal?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s human. It’s how we remind ourselves that even in chaos, we still have choice — to laugh, to live, to move forward.”

Jack: softly “The next best thing to solving a problem…”

Jeeny: “…is finding enough light to smile in the dark.”

Host: The streetlights reflected on the puddles like small constellations. Jeeny and Jack walked side by side, their shadows long, their laughter quiet but true.

And for a moment — in that gentle, silver-lit street — the world didn’t feel so heavy.

Because Frank A. Clark was right:
When you can’t fix the problem,
you can at least learn to laugh without breaking —
and sometimes, that’s how healing begins.