The Last Laugh

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome to the stage, his first time in a while, the inimitable Anthony Giuliani. Who am I kidding? You and I, we call him … Tony… Geeeeeee!!!!!!”

Polite clapping ensues. I am at The Raw Bar, a comedy club, open mic night, appearing for the first time in a year, mainly because I got busted for DUI (fourth time), so I had to go to mandatory rehab. Six weeks turned into six months, mostly because I kept drinking, smoking weed, doing coke, whatever I could do, all but the last six weeks I was there. Six weeks is what they want. Six weeks is what I gave them. Eventually.

I walk out on-stage. “Yeah, that’s me, I’m Tony G.!” I sing-song, with a pipsqueak falsetto, and when I pause, I hear a murmur of laughter. “Tony G. from South Philly.” I continue my sing-song falsetto, “Don’t be thinking I’m a rapper.” Then I break into my normal speaking, actually, singing voice, “Or I’ll cap you on the knee,” finishing on the C scale down one step at a time.

A few people think that’s funny, and I recognize some regulars even though it has been a year. Mostly it’s an audience I don’t know. They don’t know my schtick, so I decide to disabuse them of any notion that I am a mobster. I don’t care much about this act. I just did it because I could fit it in before meeting a friend. I search for him, but cannot see past the front rows. The lights on stage are bright.

“I’m just kidding,” I speak, straight voice. “I am not a South Philly mobster guy. I mean I am Italian and from South Philly, but I am not in the mafia. I would not actually cap your knee. Crack your skull with a tire iron, maybe, but not cap your knee,” laughter brews. “Yeah, not my style. I don’t know, something about the idea of being a knee capper, it just seems like more of a Boston thing,” and then I do my Boston accent. “Hey they-ah Tony, I need yuh help. Ah, yeah, Mum, how can I help? I need yuh to become a knee cappah. A knee cappah? Yeah-ah, a knee cappah. Akay they-ay Mum, I’ll become a knee cappah. There’s me good bye. Are ya sayin’ good bye to me, your loving son the new knee cappah. No, I’m sayin’ that’s me good bye. Ye are me good bye. Like yer a bye not a goyle. Mum, I think you’ve gone from Boston to Ireland and back to Long Island (City, that is).”

Well that had some of the crowd in stitches because my accents really are pretty good, and I ham it up. But when I finished it was applause, not laughter. “No seriously, I mean, thank you very much. I just made that up.”

“We can tell!” I hear a heckler from the back.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, sir,” I quip, squinting into the lights to see who that is. The voice is familiar. I rarely get hecklers, and when I am in the groove with it, I almost don’t mind. But right now, tonight, I am not in the mood. Plus, my throat is getting dry, and I have cotton-mouth, the kind water doesn’t help. I probably should not have done that line before I got on stage.

“Anyway, it's good to be back. I just got out of rehab.” Crickets. “Wasn’t my first time. Probably won’t be my last.” Uncomfortable laughter. “The great thing about rehab is the food. I mean it’s not gourmet, but there are limited options.” Light laughter. “No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. No ‘wine, women and song.’ Anyway, that’s my vote.”

“What is this, a post-rehab customer satisfaction poll?” The heckler yells out. The audience actually laughs. Yikes, this has not happened to me since my first open mic night.

“So, literally, I’m clean and sober zero days.” Silence. I let it linger. “Some of you may be wondering how it’s possible to have zero days clean and sober if I just got out of rehab. I should have at least 45 days. That’s what they want. Six weeks. What that means is …”

“It means you did drugs or drank today.” The heckler interjects.

“That’s right.” I try to swallow. My throat is too dry. I need a drink. Scotch. “None of this is funny,” I say and walk offstage.

“Okay, big hand for Tony G. Tony feel better. Now please give a warm ‘Raw Bar’ welcome to …”

I walk off-stage and into the dressing room that countless of us share. It’s where I did the line, so it’s where I go after. I pull out my phone and call my friend. It rings twice. He picks up. “Frank, it’s me.”

“Rough night, huh?”

“You were there?”

“Uh, yeah, you didn’t see me? You were looking right at me.”

“It’s hard to tell with the lights.” All of a sudden a thought occurs to me. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Were you the one…”

“Heckling you?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking asshole. Why did you do that?”

“How about I buy you a drink to make it up to you?”

My anger suddenly melts away because all I really want at that moment is a drink. A double Johnny Walker Black in a pint glass filled with ice. “Uh, okay. Where are you?”

“I’m on the sidewalk out front. There’s a bar across the street, and my car is in the garage at the hotel. Everything is in a one block radius.”

“I’ll be right out.”

====================================================

“What were you doing, Frank?”

“Barkeep!”

“What do you fellas want?”

“Two double jack blacks, tall glasses, full of ice.”

“Like a Collins glass?”

“Sure. Or a pint glass.”

“I got you.”

“C’mon Frank, what was the big deal?”

“You know, Tony, it was nothing. I was just looking forward to seeing you.”

“It was a ten minute set.”

“I guess I’m just impatient.”

“I’ll say.” I pick up the drink the bartender has placed in front of me.

“Cheers,” Frank clinks his glass into mine.

We both swig from our glasses and place them back on cocktail napkins.

“Well, I’m here. Now you see me.”

“You look good, Tony. How long were you sober before today?”

“Six weeks inside rehab. Plus another nine days on the outside. Fifty, 55, something like that?”

“That’s cool.” Frank lit a cigarette and nodded approvingly.

Bartender appeared before us. “Sir, you can’t smoke in here.”

Frank raised an eyebrow, and then put out the tip of the cigarette on his boot heel.

“There’s an ashtray out front,” Bartender offered, wiping his hands on his apron, as he backed away to his stool under the television.

“Go ahead and smoke,” I tell Frank. He holds out the cigarette pack to me, and I shake my head. “I’ll be right here.” I motion towards the muted television, which caught my eye. Bartender sits beneath it, on a stool, reading. But for us, the bar is empty.

“Excuse me.” I wave, “Can you turn up the volume on the T.V.?”

“Sure.” He picks up a remote, points above his head, and presses. The volume increases. “Good?”

I nod.

“... police have indicated that the suspect is at large. Any tips should be provided to 1-800-SUSPECT. That’s 1-800-787-7328. Rob, can you put up the picture again? Yes, that the portrait artist did. Thank you. Again, there is an APB out for the suspect resembling the man in this picture. He should be considered armed and dangerous. From police headquarters in Springfield, this is Penelope Peters. Back to you, Rob.”

“Thank you, Penelope. Once again, anyone knowing the whereabouts of this person, please call the hotline dedicated to tracking down this dangerous individual. 1-800-SUSPECT. That’s 1-800-787-7328.”

I reach for my phone to take a picture of the person on the screen, but the image is gone before I can. I am struck by how much the person on screen appeared to resemble Frank.

“In other news, today marks the fiftieth anniversary of Springfield’s volunteer fire department. Come out this weekend to support the fund drive for the fire department’s new ladder truck! With more on this weekend’s festivities, here is local correspondent Abigail Stroehmann.”

I search for pictures that may have made it to the Internet. I don’t know what to type, so I start with 1-800-SUSPECT, which takes me to the website of a service for dedicated hotlines. It does not show any pictures, but it does offer to dial the number, which I accidentally do, then hang up, in the course of navigating the website on my phone.

Frank walks up. “Whatcha doing?”

I jump. “You startled me!”

“Jumpy much? What’s got you all jumpy, Tony? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, not a ghost. You just surprised me, that's all.”

“Yeah? Well, sorry about that. Not my intention. Anything good on T.V.?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Okay, well, I think I’m about ready to blow this clambake, what about you?”

I look at my glass. It is still three quarters full, and I have clearly not been drinking it. The ice is mostly melted.

“There’s plenty more of that where we’re headed.”

“Whose house is it?”

“It’s my aunt’s house. My cousin and I used to spend summers there. It’s empty now, so they let whoever wants to use it. I mean, you know, in the family.”

“Right, not just whoever.”

“But it has a fully-stocked bar. Also, the grocery in town is about twenty miles from the lake. It’s on the way, so we can pick up supplies.”

I listen to Frank. It’s almost 11:30. I doubt the store is open now, let alone when we will roll in tonight, which I’m guessing will be close to 2 a.m. at the earliest. I say none of this, opting instead for, “Did you close out?”

Frank nods.

Walking away, I am pretty sure we just stiffed the guy. He sits reading. Probably thinks we are coming back. We do not.

====================================================

Twenty minutes later, Frank and I are sitting in his car, a black Ford Mercury. He is driving, and I ride shotgun. Beyond the outskirts of town, past the clover leaf interstate exit plaza, which we bypass, it becomes rural in a hurry on this dimly lit, moonless midnight.

The roads: Paved cow paths wind along the river. Cabins hidden on heavily wooded hillsides. Forests, the flora for the woodland fauna. Canopy breaks. Clear cut rolling hills. Quilted patches, yellow and green, framed by foothills of the Allegheny Continental Divide.

None of this is visible. The only clue to our whereabouts, occasional whiffs of manure, signify the middle of nowhere.

Glowing dashboard light on Frank’s facial hair recalls the image, portrait artist’s drawing, of the suspect. Suspected for what? “Frank?” I break the silence.

“Yeah,” Frank, focused, uses cruise control, brakes on curves.

I wonder why we did not take the interstate. It seems like the interstate would be quicker. But then I realize, I do not actually know where we are going.

“How long of a drive —”

“To my aunt’s house?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Tony, that all depends on traffic.” Frank smiles.

“Is that supposed to be a joke? We haven’t seen a soul since we left Springfield.”

“I did mean it ironically.”

“So, seriously, how long of a drive do we have left?”

“Why, do you have some place else to be?”

“No.”

“Wanna stop and piss? I can pull over right now.” He starts veering to the side of the road.

“No, I don’t have to piss. I am just wondering how much longer we have.”

“Well, the honest answer is, I am not sure. I mean, it’s pretty far upstate, pretty close to the border.”

“Haven’t you been there before?”

“Yes, many times, but not for a long time. Besides, my mom or aunt would drive us.”

“Just ball park. Two hours? Four?”

“Something like that.”

“Which one?”

Looking at me, Frank puts his finger to his lips and makes a “Shhh!” sound.

Suddenly, CRASH!

The sounds: glass breaking, a thump, screeching. Car stops; horn blares.

I am able to make out Frank, bloody, facing me, head on steering wheel. His hand drops to the seat. I push his torso from the steering wheel. The blaring stops.

A massive deer lies, motionless, dead, I assume, on the hood of the car. I have never been this close to a deer before. I am thankful for the windshield between us. Its unblinking eyes, frozen open, stare right at me.

I check my hands. Both work, no pain. I move my toes, feet. Also working, no pain. Gingerly, I pull the door release. It pops open. I step out and stand. My left foot gives out, and I stumble, but steady myself on the car door, which starts to close from the force of my weight. Suddenly, my hand kills, “Ow, fuck!” I say as I realize I have slammed my hand in the door. “Motherfucker!”

I shift my balance to move my weight off the car door, so I can open it with my other hand, and release the trapped one.

Just then, Frank starts screaming, “Arrrrgghhh!!!!”

Before I can say anything, the deer starts moving, makes a gurgling sound as it whimpers. Blood covers the car.

“Hold on Frank, I’m coming for you!”

“Arrrgghhh!!!! Ow, ow, ow!!!”

I walk to the front of the car and before I can get around the passenger side corner, the deer starts moving and one of its front hooves kicks me in the groin, “Son of a bitch!” I yell. The deer keeps kicking, but it can’t get any traction. It is clearly badly injured, and the strike against my body only serves to angle it more awkwardly on the hood, rear hooves in the air, driver’s side.

Doubled over, I stand, give a wide berth to the beast, and stumble the long way around, behind the car. Passing the trunk of the car, I swear I hear thumping, but I cannot be sure. My head is pounding; the deer is moving.

Limping along the driver’s side, I open the door. Frank’s torso tilts towards me as I open the door, so I catch him, pull him out.

The deer starts flailing and the trunk resumes thumping. It becomes louder and louder until I cannot think or even hear anything else. I see the deer kicking, and I hear the trunk thumping, and I cannot stand it anymore.

“Frank!” I struggle to stand him up against the car. His eyes are closed; his face bloody, I think, but the source is unclear. Gently, I tap his face with my open hand. “Frank, I need you to wake up!”

Frank’s eyelids flutter. He opens his eyes. They flicker, then he closes them again.

“Frank, can you hear me?”

He nods.

“Is there something — or someone — in the trunk!”

Frank smiles.

“Frank, this isn’t a joke! What’s going on? Who is in there?”

Frank starts to speak. “My aunt…” He grabs his ribs and winces. I think he might pass out, so I hold him.

Please don’t tell me that your aunt is in the trunk, I think, but cannot bring myself to say.

“Your aunt. Yeah, keep going.”

He nods. “She asked me. To take.” He takes fast shallow breaths, wincing on the last. “Out. The trash.”

“Is it alive?”

Frank starts shaking his head, seems like he is starting to laugh, then falls to the ground, sliding down the side of the car, and lists forward, toward the hind legs of the deer, which start kicking again, walloping Frank’s head multiple times. I feel helpless to respond, but, to my surprise Frank yells, “Motherfucker!” and stands, grabbing his head, which appears to me to be bleeding profusely. He lets go of his head and starts pounding the deer, which gets closer to sliding from the hood to the ground with each strike. Finally, the deer stands and moves to bolt, but it stumbles, and, failing to launch, instead wobbles across the street and enters the woods, a trail of blood in its wake. I doubt it will survive the night.

Frank and I both look at each other. It is silent. Then, I swear, I hear another thump from the trunk.

Frank has somehow stopped the bleeding and his face now appears clean. Maybe, due to the darkness, I saw more blood than was actually there? I remain silent about the thump.

“C’mon, let’s see if the car still runs. I still need to take out the trash. For the family.”

We get in the car. A hub cap rolls off as we pull away. “Fuggetaboutit,” Frank says. As he lights a smoke, I wonder if I am seeing radiator steam. We won’t get very far if we overheat the car.

====================================================

At 3:45 a.m., Frank parks. “We’re here.” He presses a button to pop the trunk and motions for me to get out.

We both stand. Gravel crunches under our feet. We wobble our way to the trunk.

A person, bound and gagged, stares back at me.

Blinding lights go on, surrounding us. “Put your hands where we can see them!”

Officers swarm. One cuffs me, saying, “Thanks for the call. Never would have found you without the trace.” He pulls my phone from my pocket, shakes it at me, and walks away.

Frank, cuffed as well, facing me, says nothing.

The trunk thumps no more.

====================================================

We sit, cuffed, on soft ground.

They take the body, search the house.

Hours pass in darkness. Before sunrise it is darkest. And also perfectly quiet.

Then the sun rises. The lakeview surprises. Birds chirp.

“Grab the perps.” And off we go to the State Pen.

Parole violations.

The End