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FUNNY MAN
By Carol Mann
Denny Jackson practiced the opening lines of his comedy routine. The joke about the lazy pimp was going to fizzle like a cheap firecracker. He
needed something funnier. Tonight wasn’t the night to flop.
He reached for a grimy notebook on the truck seat beside him. Denny’s Babies, Jokes for The World’s
Greatest Comic. Flipping through the pages for something better, he saw it, an old routine about a golfer and a gopher, Caddy Shack style. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was perfect.
Satisfied, he relaxed, his thoughts on the evening ahead—Open Mike Night for Comics at the best casino in town. His dream of being a stand-up comic
like Jerry Seinfeld or Chris Rock was close. All he needed was a break. He’d give it everything he had or die trying. He was ready.
The tap of metal on glass startled him. He rolled down the window of his delivery rig. Behind him trucks waited in line. Their engines droned.
“Hey, Funny Man.” A voice like crushed gravel whooshed in with the day’s heat. “Pull your load of lumber down by those cement slabs so we can get
it unloaded.” Joe Fallon, the construction super, grasped a soiled clipboard. He checked off Denny’s truck.
The big rig idled at the construction entrance of Morgan Ranch, an exclusive housing development in the middle of sand and tumbleweed forty miles
east of Palm Springs. Denny wouldn’t live way out here, even if he had money. He needed the casino night life.
“Okay, Mr. Boss Man.” Denny grinned at Fallon’s red face, a roadmap of capillaries. Sweat pooled in the pock marks of the man’s cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah.” Fallon scratched his bulbous nose. “Hey, you know your load is leaning? Pull in before I got a pile of timber on my feet. We
gotta get that thing unloaded.”
Denny nodded, rolling up the window, fast. Late afternoon heat seared the sand and anything in between. At least the truck for the world’s lousiest
job came with air conditioning.
He pulled through the gates to wait. The load of lumber wouldn’t be going anywhere for the next five or ten minutes. Denny glanced at his watch. He
was going to be strapped for time. What a day to get stuck doing a late delivery.
When he was done, he had to get the truck back to Palm Springs, pick up his car, and race home. He wanted to run his act in front of the mirror, a
last chance to fine tune the timing and deadpan look. He’d hype himself up, then peak just right—for the Black Hawk Casino—the biggest night of his life.
His clothes were ready: the New York Yankee’s cap, the lucky Hawaiian shirt with palm trees and surfboards all over it, the jeans with the baggy
ass, the black high-top Keds.
The casino emcee’s voice played in his mind. “Introducing the Big D.J.—Denny Jackson, the King of Dyn-O-Mite Jokes.” Denny mouthed the words. The
name sounded good. Better than Dennis. Better than Denver, like his buddy suggested.
He’d be on a real stage where it counted, not in a meat market joint full of sloppy drunks. Important people would be in the audience. Maybe
tonight would land him a stand-up gig in the casino lounge. Or a chance to open a headliner’s act in the big room. He was right on the edge of something great. He could feel it.
The desert by night excited him. Hot chicks, big crowds, and bright lights. “Denny Jackson” pulsing in red neon on the casino marquee. He
could see it, taste it.
By day, the desert sucked him dry. If he wasn’t careful, the yellow polyester shirt with Desert Builders Supply stitched on the back would
squeeze him into a dead-end life of dust and dirt.
“Mama,” he said out loud, “this is the night your boy is gonna get noticed.”
He revved the engine. Matt Larsen, from Sunshine Plumbing, pulled in behind him with a haul of pipe. Larsen got out of his truck and stretched.
Denny hated to leave the air conditioning, but decided to get out. He hadn’t seen Larsen since the guy had his accident.
Within moments Denny felt the polyester shirt cling to his back and chest. He ran his hand over his shaved head. Sun’s rays beat like
drummer’s sticks on his scalp’s taut skin. Heat rippled from the raw desert floor, the Coral Mountains appearing hot to the touch.
“Summer in the desert’s a real bitch.” Larsen spat. He had a wiry build. His limp tilted him from side to side when he walked.
Denny nodded. “Glad to see you back on the job. How are you doing?”
“How do you think, Funny Man? I’m not running any races, am I? My boss don’t know it, but I’m gonna sue his sorry ass. His goddamned fault
the load of pipe rolled on me and broke my legs. That friggin’ old truck. The side rigging was shot. Then he makes nice, givin’ me a charity job drivin’ deliveries.” Larsen rubbed the back of his neck,
eying Denny’s new truck.
“Yeah, that was a bad deal.” Denny squared his shoulders.
Larsen looked him up and down, a sneer on his face. “You still tryin’ to be a comedian?”
Denny nodded.
“Must be kind of a come down, slummin’ with the construction apes.”
“Come on, Larsen.”
Larsen shook his head. “You know, I had some dreams. I wanted to run the Los Angeles Marathon. Then go to Boston for the big one. Hell, now I
got trouble chasin’ the dog.” He spat again and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Dreams have a way of bein’ crushed flat.”
“Sorry, man.” Denny looked away for a moment. “Hey, I’m doing an Open Mike at the Black Hawk tonight. Come on by. I’ll give you a few
laughs.” He wasn’t going to let Larsen pull him down. Might cheer the guy up.
“So, drivin’ truck ain’t good enough for you?” Larsen scowled, the line between his eyes a deep crag.
Denny caught his breath. Why was the guy always tight-wired, hard to handle? “It’s okay for now.”
“Last joke you told me stunk up a manure yard.”
“Hey, I’ve gotten a lot better, man.”
“Says you, says you.”
Denny didn’t get it. He’d never done anything to Larsen. What was the guy’s problem? He put his hands on his hips to air his armpits.
“Tonight is big for me. Hope we unload quick. I gotta get out of here.”
“In a hurry, huh, big man?” Larsen reached in his pants pocket and took out a knife. With a quick flip of his wrist, the blade flew open.
“Well, I’m just gonna slow you down, let you know what it feels like to be out of the race. To miss the big one.”
“Put that away. You crazy?”
“Like a genius, you fuckin’ asshole.”
Bright lights and fame, that’s what Denny wanted. Not a knife in the belly or worse. He wasn’t going to mess with the jealous bastard. What
happened to Larsen wasn’t his fault. He ran for the super’s shack.
Larsen stood where he was. Denny heard him yelling. The words blended into the din of workmen’s shouts and noisy truck engines. “Runnin’
away, Funny Man? Was a time I coulda caught you easy.”
Sweat rolled down Denny’s forehead. “Hey, Fallon, I need your help. Larsen is acting weird. He’s got a switchblade.”
“What the hell?” Fallon grabbed his safety helmet and motioned to a trucker crouched under a straggly palm. The man tossed his cigarette and
walked over.
Larson moved along the bed of Denny’s truck. He seemed to be fumbling with the heavy straps holding the load in place. What was he doing?
Alarmed, Denny ran toward him. Larsen was slashing the straps from the iron rings. If the load fell, he’d never make it to the casino on time.
“What the hell are you doing? Get outta there!”
Larsen’s feet kicked up dust as he scuffed around the rear of the truck, out of sight. He moved faster than Denny realized.
Fallon and the trucker ran toward Larsen. “Leave those straps alone. Get away from that truck.”
“Stuff it, Fallon. Stay away, losers, or I’ll cut you, too.”
“Grab him!”
Larsen scrambled back toward Denny. He chanted, “Funny Man, Funny Man.” His knife waved in front of him.
Denny wished he had a piece of 2 x 4 or a hammer. His heart pounded.
Fallon’s voice rose. “Catch that crazy bastard! Denny, get out of there!”
The other trucker lunged. Larsen side-stepped and, like an out of control car, swerved. Denny tried to jump out of range, but Larsen cannoned
into him. Denny lost his balance, falling back into the side of the truck. His head cracked against an iron ring. Dazed, he saw a blurry Larsen dance away. His knees folded under him.
The lumber rumbled, an avalanche of giant toothpicks tumbling from an open box. The wood pressed him into the pyre of sand. Flashes of light
zigzagged, burst, and faded. He couldn’t breathe.
A faint voice slipped with him into darkness.
“Okay, everybody, put those hands together! Give a Black Hawk welcome to Denny Jackson, the desert’s
number one Funny Man.”
Carol Mann of La Quinta, CA, has been published in the literary journal RiverSedge, The Desert Woman, and The Pen Woman, and received a first
place in the Palm Springs Writers Guild annual fiction contest and honorable mention in the Writer’s Digest 75th annual contest. She attended the Hassayampa Institute of Creative Writing and serves on
the board of the National League of American Pen Women, Palm Springs Branch.
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