The bad thing about being a famous comedian is that every now and

Host: The comedy club was almost empty now — the last of the laughter still echoing faintly off the red brick walls. The stage lights flickered out one by one, leaving the room soaked in amber dust and the smell of spilled beer. It was closing time, the hour when jokes stop being funny and truth starts to speak in quieter tones.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, a microphone dangling loosely in his hand, his grey eyes lost somewhere between reflection and fatigue. He wasn’t a comedian, but tonight he had that look — the look of someone who’d just performed something for the world and wasn’t sure if it mattered.

Jeeny emerged from the dimly lit back corner, carrying two glasses of whiskey. She placed one beside him, then leaned against the piano, watching him in the half-light.

Jeeny: “You were good tonight.”

Jack: “No. I was loud tonight. There’s a difference.”

Host: A neon sign outside buzzed faintly — The Laughing Lantern — its light bleeding in through the curtains, flickering like a heartbeat that didn’t know whether to laugh or stop.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that comedians look more tired than anyone else in the room?”

Jack: “It’s because they spend their joy like currency. Every punchline’s a withdrawal.”

Jeeny: “Robin Williams once said something about that. ‘The bad thing about being a famous comedian is that every now and then someone approaches me to tell an old joke. Don’t tell me jokes — I have that. People also say the weirdest things, sometimes sarcastic things, and even evil things. They like to provoke to get a reaction.’”

Jack: “Yeah. Because people don’t see the man — they see the mirror. And mirrors are only good for reflection, not for empathy.”

Host: The room was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the bar. The stillness had weight — the kind that sits on the shoulders of performers after applause has faded.

Jeeny: “You think it’s like that for all artists?”

Jack: “For anyone who makes people feel something. The audience wants your light, not your shadow. But the shadow’s what makes the light visible.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people still try to provoke. To see if you’ll break the act.”

Jack: “Because it’s easier to poke the clown than to admit you envy his courage.”

Host: He took a slow sip from the glass, the whiskey burning like truth going down the wrong throat.

Jeeny: “Courage?”

Jack: “Yeah. Imagine standing up here, alone, trying to make a room full of strangers laugh — people with their own hurts, their own scars. You dance over the edge of tragedy just to give them a reason to forget. That’s courage. Or madness. Maybe both.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jack: “I have. Not as a comic. As a man trying to survive his own silence.”

Host: The light from the bar caught the edge of his face, revealing the faintest tremor in his smile — that familiar mask of someone who’s learned to perform normalcy.

Jeeny: “You know, I met Robin once.”

Jack: “No kidding?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Briefly. He was offstage, sitting alone after a show. Everyone else was laughing in the lobby. He looked up at me and said, ‘Funny thing about making people laugh — you start to forget how to do it for yourself.’”

Jack: “That sounds like him.”

Jeeny: “You could tell he wasn’t bitter. Just… tired.”

Host: The rain started outside, faint at first — soft enough to sound like applause from ghosts.

Jack: “You think fame makes it worse?”

Jeeny: “Fame just turns your reflection into currency. The more people love the version of you they see, the harder it is to remember who you are when the lights go out.”

Jack: “And they all want something. Even the kind ones. A selfie, a laugh, a piece of your humanity they can take home.”

Jeeny: “They forget that jokes come from pain. That laughter’s often a survival instinct.”

Jack: “Exactly. A man tells a joke about his heartbreak, and people clap. But nobody claps for the heartbreak itself.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windows in sync with the pulse of the dying neon sign.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think the funny ones are the saddest?”

Jack: “I don’t think — I know. Look at Chaplin. Pryor. Williams. They gave us joy, but it came from somewhere dark. You can’t mine laughter without digging through grief.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. That transformation. Turning pain into punchlines.”

Jack: “Until you can’t anymore.”

Host: His voice cracked — barely, but enough. The kind of crack that reveals the truth underneath.

Jeeny: “You mean until it stops working?”

Jack: “Until you realize people don’t want the man who hurts — they want the one who hides it well. They want the joke, not the silence between them.”

Host: She sat beside him on the stage, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The microphone still hung loosely in his hand, swaying slightly, like a pendulum counting down something unspoken.

Jeeny: “But the silence is where the art lives, Jack. The space after the laugh — that’s where truth waits.”

Jack: “You think truth’s funny?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s honest. And honesty, in a world addicted to masks, is its own kind of rebellion.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes but tries.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible comic.”

Jeeny: “Probably. I’d cry before the punchline.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what comedy really is — crying first, then learning how to time it.”

Host: The two of them sat there in the half-dark, the laughter from earlier now just a ghost in the rafters. The club felt sacred in its emptiness, like a confessional disguised in brick and velvet.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s why people provoke comedians. They want proof that the laughter’s real — that it’s not just armor.”

Jack: “And when they find out it’s both, they don’t know what to do with that.”

Jeeny: “They forget that clowns bleed too.”

Jack: “Yeah. We all do. Some just hide it behind better lighting.”

Host: The rain began to ease, leaving a trail of light along the windows. Somewhere in the back, the bartender switched off the last neon, leaving only the glow from the exit sign.

Jack placed the microphone gently on the stage.

Jack: “You know, maybe Robin had it right. The worst thing isn’t the bad jokes or the sarcasm. It’s the people who think making someone laugh means you’re invincible.”

Jeeny: “And you’re not.”

Jack: “None of us are.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside felt still, like it was holding its breath. Then Jeeny reached for his glass, took a sip, and placed it back beside him — a quiet communion between two souls who understood the strange weight of joy.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Even now, after everything… people still laugh. That means there’s still something worth saving.”

Jack: “Maybe laughter isn’t about forgetting pain. Maybe it’s about surviving it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The stage light flickered once, then went out completely, leaving them in soft darkness. Outside, the rain stopped, and the night exhaled.

And in that silence — heavy, fragile, human — two souls sat together, knowing that behind every laugh there was always a wound, and behind every wound, the quiet courage to make the world smile again.