I would watch 'The Ed Sullivan Show' and borrow a few lines here

Host: The curtain shimmered under the glow of amber lights, trembling as though it knew it was about to reveal something sacred — or foolish. The backstage air smelled of dust, greasepaint, and the faint echo of old laughter that refused to die. Through the cracked doorway of the club, one could hear the distant clink of glasses, a piano’s sigh, and the restless murmur of an audience half-drunk and half-dreaming.

In the corner, Jack sat hunched over a mirror surrounded by dim bulbs, his tie loosened, his eyes sharp but tired — the look of a man who had stared too long into both spotlight and shadow. Across from him, perched on a wooden stool, Jeeny adjusted the microphone, her reflection caught beside his — soft, composed, but with a kind of quiet fire in her gaze.

The quote — Norm Crosby’s words — had been printed on the wall of the green room: “I would watch The Ed Sullivan Show and borrow a few lines here and there… then I started getting invited to do political functions.” It gleamed faintly under the fluorescent hum, like an inscription left by a ghost who understood the price of laughter.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how comedy used to mean something, Jack? A man like Norm Crosby could start by borrowing lines and end up at a governor’s ball. It wasn’t about stealing. It was about learning — becoming part of a tradition.”

Jack: “Or maybe it was just adaptation, Jeeny. You borrow, you tweak, you make it work. That’s not art, that’s survival. You think Ed Sullivan’s guests cared if a kid copied a line or two? He was building himself — like every hustler does.”

Jeeny: “But there’s a difference between borrowing a spark and stealing a flame. Between imitation and inspiration.”

Jack: “Tell that to Hollywood. Or politics. Or Wall Street. Everyone’s repeating someone else’s act, just louder, just shinier.”

Host: A soft laughter drifted in from the main room — the muffled echo of another comic on stage, trying his best to charm the restless crowd. The light on Jack’s face flickered as the bulbs above his mirror buzzed faintly. His reflection looked older than he did — a man weathered by repetition.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like everything’s counterfeit. Don’t you believe there’s any authenticity left?”

Jack: “Authenticity? Sure — until it stops selling tickets. You think those jokes were just about laughter? Norm started doing governor’s dinners because laughter gets you invited to the table. You make them laugh, they trust you. You flatter their image of themselves.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying he compromised himself?”

Jack: “I’m saying he evolved. You start in smoke-filled bars trying to make drunks chuckle, then the same act gets polished enough for chandeliers and tuxedos. That’s how the world works. The truth gets edited for the audience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the best comedians never stopped telling the truth — they just found a way to make people hear it. Pryor, Carlin… even Crosby, in his own gentle way, reminded people of their absurdity.”

Jack: “And what did that get them? A few laughs, a few bans, a few broken contracts. People want to laugh at pain — not be reminded of their part in it.”

Host: The crowd’s applause rolled in waves, distant but alive, like surf hitting a quiet shore. The backstage light swayed slightly, casting moving shadows over Jeeny’s face. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were sad — the kind of sadness that comes from loving something the world keeps mocking.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter, Jack. Like you stopped believing in your own punchlines.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. Maybe I realized that humor’s just the polite face of despair. You make people laugh at what scares them, and they call you funny. But the moment you stop laughing yourself? You become dangerous.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Laughter can heal. It’s a bridge. Crosby didn’t start by mocking — he started by connecting. When he borrowed those lines, he wasn’t stealing — he was joining a conversation that stretched across generations. A kind of inheritance.”

Jack: “Inheritance? You mean repetition with applause.”

Jeeny: “No, I mean memory with meaning. You think about those old shows — Ed Sullivan, Red Buttons, Buddy Hackett — they weren’t perfect, but they made people feel human again after the war, after loss, after fear. That’s what comedy is supposed to do — to give pain a costume so it can walk among us without breaking down.”

Host: The door to the stage creaked open. A burst of laughter and light flooded in for a moment before the stagehand closed it again. The sound lingered in the air like a ghost of something pure.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his eyes catching Jeeny’s reflection in the mirror. There was something steady in her — something he couldn’t quite extinguish, no matter how sharp his words became.

Jack: “You ever notice how every joke dies the same way? Overuse. Familiarity. You tell it enough times and it stops being funny — even if it’s still true.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To keep reinventing it? Comedy’s not about the joke, Jack. It’s about the moment. The connection.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who forgot how to laugh.”

Jack: “Maybe I laugh less because I finally understand what the laughter’s hiding.”

Jeeny: “And maybe I laugh because I understand that’s the only way to keep from breaking.”

Host: Silence. The kind that fills the room right before the next act. The club manager’s voice drifted in faintly, calling out the next performer’s name. A young comic — nervous, ambitious — heading toward the same bright uncertainty that had once called to men like Crosby.

Jeeny: “You ever wish you could start again, Jack? Just go back to watching those old shows — before the bitterness, before the cynicism — just laugh without analysis?”

Jack: “Maybe once. But now, I see the machinery behind it all. The jokes, the lighting, the applause signs. The illusion that everyone’s in on it together when they’re just consuming it.”

Jeeny: “But that illusion is part of the magic. The trick isn’t lying to the audience — it’s making them believe in the truth beneath the illusion.”

Jack: “You’d make a good writer, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a good believer, if you’d let yourself.”

Host: The stage light flickered red — the universal cue. Jack’s turn was next. He adjusted his tie, stood up slowly, and looked once more into the mirror. Behind his reflection, Jeeny’s image lingered, small but unwavering — like conscience itself.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we all borrow a few lines from someone else. Maybe the real art is how we use them — to sell or to save.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe what matters isn’t whether the line is yours, but whether it’s true when you say it.”

Jack: “You think anyone cares about truth out there?”

Jeeny: “They will. If you make them laugh first.”

Host: Jack gave a dry smile, one that felt half-sincere, half-surrender. The stagehand signaled. The curtain trembled again, as though holding its breath.

He stepped forward — toward the light, toward the crowd, toward the ancient and foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, a borrowed line could still reveal something original.

Behind him, Jeeny whispered something — not loud enough to hear, but enough to echo in the silence of the wings.

Host: The spotlight bloomed. Smoke from a cigarette curled like a question mark into the beams. Jack stood still for a heartbeat, staring into the faceless sea of waiting eyes. Then he spoke — his voice low, cracked with years of cynicism and grace.

And when the first laughter rose from the crowd, it wasn’t mockery. It was recognition.

Somewhere in that sound, old ghosts — Crosby, Buttons, Hackett — might have smiled.

Host: The scene closed with a final, tender image — the comedian, framed in gold light, laughing softly to himself. Not because the world was easy. But because, even now, there was still a joke left worth telling.

A joke, perhaps, that belonged to everyone.