Cleveland, hey thanks for coming out tonight. Heard any good cancer jokes lately? What, too soon? Actually, my wife asked the hospice nurse that on her first home visit. You know, I thought I should get counseling for all my grief baggage but this way you pay me to listen which is a lifesaver because my GoFundMe page is a joke. Hey, if your wife's death doesn't kill you, the cost of her funeral will. I jest, money means nothing. Last but not least my life has become a premise: so this guy whose wife dies walks into a bar. So this guy whose wife dies walks into another bar. And another. Knock knock, he says to the bartender. Who's there? My wife. My wife who? My wife who, near the end, says oh no dummy I am falling in love with you all over again because I kneel and lovingly pull her socks on for her every morning because she is too weak, and because she finds it humiliating, she wiggles her toes at me like they're saying hi. To be honest, being up here feels weird, feels wrong, because she was the funny one. Like, one day we're looking through her dresses, trying to pick what she'll wear to her funeral and – keep in mind she has lost so much weight I can carry her at this stage – she drapes this blue one against the length of her body and asks does this dress make me look fat? Speaking of sad jokes, who here has recently celebrated an anniversary? Can I get a show of hands? I see one, two ... well, you lovebirds remember to send me a postcard from your sixtieth, ok? And let me give you a bit of wisdom. The best way to remember your anniversary is to forget it ... just once. Ha, this dude in front knows what I'm talking about. Let me tell you, I was royally fucked and no amount of red roses or chocolate covered cherries could unfuck me. She lost her sense of humor that week. Entirely. When we finally make a move toward make-up sex, I am standing naked at the bedside and, pointing at my dick, she says oh look, you have a funny bone there, too. That was her way of saying she forgave me. Rim shot. Tequila shot. Whisky shot. So this guy whose wife dies walks into bars for the rest of his life because comedy is tragedy plus alcohol. When I should be working - remote jobs, hell yes - I go and sit by her grave and talk to her. Say things like can I get you anything ... a flashlight? Good one, I imagine she says back. Being among married people, non-grieving people, every day feels like a performance, and every night, alone, I'm listening hard for my heart, sad punchline. Are you there? I picture it in the smoky club of my chest, tap my ribs and wonder is this thing on.
