The humor section is the last place an author wants to be. They

Host: The city evening was wet with the kind of rain that misted, not fell — a haze that blurred the lights of the bookstore window into dreamlike streaks of gold and blue. Inside, the air carried the scent of paper, ink, and rain-damp coats. The neon sign outside flickered softly, its hum a steady heartbeat for the night.

In a corner booth, Jack sat with his coat unbuttoned, tie loosened, and a half-empty cup of black coffee before him. His expression was one of restless amusement — a man half-entertained, half-exhausted by the absurdity of things.

Across from him, Jeeny held a book, flipping through it idly, the corners of her mouth curved in that gentle smile she wore when she was thinking about something deeply human.

She looked up, her voice carrying the ease of familiarity, and yet the spark of curiosity that always drew him in.

Jeeny: “David Sedaris once said, ‘The humor section is the last place an author wants to be. They put your stuff next to collections of Cathy cartoons.’”

Host: Jack’s eyebrow lifted. A short laugh escaped him — not the warm kind, but the dry, cynical one that revealed more than it concealed.

Jack: “He’s right. The moment you’re labeled ‘funny,’ you’re dismissed. Like your words can’t carry weight just because they made someone smile first.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because people think laughter is the opposite of depth. They don’t realize it’s often the doorway to it.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, rolling down the glass in slow rivers, fracturing the reflections of the streetlights. The bookstore clerk in the corner was stacking shelves, his movements quiet, almost invisible, like a ghost doing penance among the spines of forgotten novels.

Jack: “Humor’s treated like the cheap wine of writing. It’s what you serve before the serious stuff starts. People want to laugh, but they don’t want to admit it’s the only thing keeping them sane.”

Jeeny: “That’s because laughter makes you vulnerable. When you laugh, you let your guard down. You let the truth in, whether you want it or not.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t need a punchline, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes it needs one to be heard.”

Host: There was a pause, long and comfortable. Jack stared at the shelves, his eyes landing on a sign that read “Humor & Essays.” The row beneath it was a chaotic mix — bright covers, sarcastic titles, smiling faces. He smirked, almost to himself.

Jack: “Look at that. Humor next to self-help. It’s poetic. The two things people use to pretend they’re fine.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe that’s the point. Both are coping mechanisms — one laughs, one lectures. But only one lets you feel human while you’re falling apart.”

Host: Her tone softened. The light caught her face, highlighting her eyes, the way they seemed to hold light without keeping it — reflective, not possessive.

Jack: “You really think laughter can save people?”

Jeeny: “I think laughter doesn’t save — it rescues. Even for a second. When you laugh, the darkness blinks.”

Jack: “But it always comes back.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But so does the laughter. It’s a cycle. It’s how we survive without calling it survival.”

Host: The sound of the rain had become a kind of music, a gentle percussion against the windows. The bookstore lights reflected in the coffee cups, and the steam from Jack’s drink rose slowly, twisting like smoke from an old story.

Jack: “Sedaris knows what he’s talking about. He writes like someone who’s seen too much — but instead of bleeding, he laughs. That’s what I get. The humor’s just camouflage.”

Jeeny: “Camouflage for what?”

Jack: “For pain. For confusion. For not knowing what the hell the point of all this is. You laugh so you don’t have to scream.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you laugh so you can breathe again.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they cut through the room like a ray of light in fog.

Jack: “You always make it sound poetic. But you can’t convince me the world’s any less ridiculous just because you frame it with empathy.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t convince me that the world’s meaninglessness makes it unworthy of laughter. Even when it’s ugly, it can still be funny — beautifully funny. That’s the paradox. Humor isn’t an escape from life, Jack. It’s the mirror that lets us look at it without breaking.”

Host: The rain began to slow, turning from a downpour into a whisper. A passing car splashed through a puddle, its sound echoing like a memory across the glass.

Jack stirred his coffee, watching the ripples spread, his expression softening — not defeated, but thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, maybe Sedaris was being sarcastic. Maybe he wanted to be in the humor section — to sit right between the cartoons and the comedies, and show them what real humor looks like. The kind that’s half wound, half wink.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind that bleeds and bandages at the same time.”

Host: She closed the book, the sound of its pages coming together like a soft sigh.

Jeeny: “People underestimate what it takes to make someone laugh. It’s not easy to be the one holding a candle in a dark room. But humor — real humor — it’s not about being clever. It’s about being kind in disguise.”

Jack: “Kindness with punchlines.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. The most honest medicine there is.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the store closing for the night. The clerk began to stack chairs, the rain outside ceased, leaving a mirror of water along the pavement. Jack and Jeeny stood, the bookshelves towering around them like silent witnesses.

Jack: “Maybe the humor section isn’t the last place an author wants to be. Maybe it’s the first place we should look — because it’s where people go when they’ve already tried everything else.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because laughter, Jack, is where the broken go to meet without saying they’re broken.”

Host: He looked at her then, and the corner of his mouth lifted — not mockery, not defense, just a small surrender.

Jack: “You ever think we take life too seriously just because we’re afraid to laugh at it?”

Jeeny: “All the time. That’s why I keep laughing.”

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered one last time before the clerk switched it off. The room dimmed, but the warmth between them remained, soft, human, unlit but glowing.

The rain had stopped. The pavement glistened, reflecting the streetlights like fragments of laughter scattered across the earth.

And as they walked out together, the door bell chimed, bright and brief, as if the universe itself had let out a small, knowing laugh —
a gentle echo of David Sedaris’s truth:
that humor, even when misplaced, is never lesser art —
it’s just the art that saves you without asking permission.