so that would actually not be surprising there

Richard was on the mic, the spotlight beamed solely from his neck up. All else was dark. He wasn't doing well.

Yes, even the lighting guy turned on him after a series of bad puns and ill timed elbow scratches. Was Richard once again doomed to bomb? Was his life as a rising comedic star to be dashed? He had to think fast.

And that was his problem. He was thinking. He should have been doing. He wasn't seasoned enough a working comedian. In fact, he only had one good line but it took him far and wide. One one minute joke, and then nine minutes of fluff he could do nothing with.

That one line, more a curse than blessing. For years he'd been doing open mics on the lower east side. The night before (sometimes the hour before) he'd write on a cocktail napkin the five things wrong with a selected topic, usually found in a newspaper, in the trash, near the cafe the open mic took place. The crumpled quality and creases could make funny word play out of any metro topic.

And he was tolerated. By those also thankful to at least be tolerated, they laughed, and with unease. It was a sickening five hour weekly ordeal for all those involved, like a waiting room to a dentist who only stole a tooth a visit till the once bright-eyed and bushy tailed–still remaining bright-eyed and bushy tailed–looked a little crazy with gaps in their radiant smile.

Somehow, Richard got hold of one good joke about dogs and it stuck. The first time used,an October Monday, he started with a smile and a pause and spat it out. There was a surprise chuckle from those seated which echoed to the back bar. The chuckles spread like the chuckles of the Irish, with a twist at the end as if questioning the light fare of the humor, like the first time as a child realizing you could hear yourself laugh in your head verse laughing out loud, and then experimenting with the feeling and sound.

It was so good a joke that Richard got standing handshakes coming off stage. The top jokers actually put down their notes, which they only consult in between acts, and looked him in the face. It was a look of hard-earned, begrudged respect. A crowd of ten elders gathered, funny men who legend had it had sold jokes to cable tv shows. They asked him to do it again next week. Richard was if anything curious. He agreed, but still had to compute in his head what he did right. "Why so funny?" he wondered.

The next week and the week that followed he could do no wrong. They all waited for the one joke within his otherwise horrific list of zingers based on the summer city heat index. Each set he placed this golden egg in different settings within the otherwise rotten eleven; the top, the end, the middle, the middle-end, the top-top. He got to be a real craftsmen devoted to creating an arc to his act, to looking cold and hard at his lists and ask aloud, "Is this shit?" He started tweaking everything.

And then he got the call from Warner Brothers. Not "the" Warner Brothers, but Joyce Brothers brothers Warner and Timmy. I should have written Warner and Timmy Brothers, come to think of it.

Anyway, they wanted to book the act they heard so much about, had come to see a few times themselves. So they did. Gotham! Phil's! Gerties'! Comedy Madness! All the big venues, Richard did his act. And the people kind of loved him? He at least got by. They didn't mind the stink as long as the one funny joke acted as a breeze, fresh air clearing out all the stale jokes left behind from the night, from the day, from their own jobs, lives, lies, license to laugh.

Richard, again, was, if anything, curious. And he couldn't really take being a one joke man, simply because he wanted to know why. Why was it funny? Why was the rest of the material so bad. What is the secret formula that can be tapped and applied to make shit into gold?

He'd been told one must steal, beat, and break to get inside a joke. And he tried it all. At home he'd shut off the lights, draw the curtains and take out a gun. He'd hold it into the air and address the joke. He'd make his demands for the secret. He'd pull the hammer back and wait. Ge got tired of the approach day after day and decided to bribe the joke. He held up ham sandwiches, bottles of brandy, girlie magazines (the joke sections), but still nothing.

He'd write down the joke and think about each word. He'd rearrange them, retranslate them, sub in one for another. Still nothing was illuminated. And another gig was only a day away. He started to sweat.

Yeah, so back to the top. The spotlight is a guillotine. Richard knows his time is up. He's over thinking. He was told not to, but he can't stop thinking about not over thinking. So he does what any sane person would do, he over-over thinks with the idea that if the engine in his mind goes fast enough he can transcend time and space.

He wakes up the next day in 1955. Oh wait, it was New Years Eve, by the way. Of the year 1954, so that would actually not be surprising there. I should really edit this.