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You Leave ’Em Laughing Man walks through the desert for four days, explains to the police that a mirage was the best he could hope for from life, so he might as well start looking. Girl walks through the desert for four minutes, man offers her a lift. “Don’t own a phone, but I’d be willing to take you as far as Beatty,” I say, figuring that she was headed south. I’d just come from Beatty but was double willing to double back when I got the chance to appraise her more thoroughly. I tend to go in circles when women are involved, but at least there aren’t any sharp edges. She’s a young girl: blonde, petite, and impressively revealing clothing, even for a desert. Cute as a button, as the saying goes. Question: What did the cute button say to the ugly one? Answer: “Christ, I didn’t know we could talk!” She says her car broke down two miles back. First thing I think: Can a car break up? When I tried to break down a fight I ended up on the floor, but at least I didn’t try breaking it up like a normal person. I might have ended up on the ceiling. She goes on about her troubles in a voice that seems too deep for her frame and with an impressive array of profanity. She talks about the injustice of it all. Never gives a name, either for herself or for injustice. When she’s done cursing out Fate I explain how a tow company’ll take a good two or three hours to arrive. I went to a tow company once. It smelled like feet. I went to a pinky company too, though they only handled smaller vehicles. Later I tried to toe the line. I took three right turns and ended up in the town square. Takes folks a few seconds to get that last joke.
She crawls into the passenger side without a word. Gone quiet all of the sudden, now that her complaints have been aired out long enough to soak up every last drop of cussing. Girl’s so skinny I imagine she’ll sink into the seat like a lost TV remote. I’ll get charged with kidnapping. The jeep rumbles up with her still not looking my way. She’s just sitting there, legs too far exposed by her short shorts and eyes fixed dead red on a saying I got taped to the front of my glove compartment: A sentence is a joke nobody laughs at. A drama is a comedy nobody gets. She thinks about it for a second. Doesn’t get it. “It’ll take about forty minutes,” I say because somebody’s got to say something at a time like this. She just nods. Baffling how two people speaking the same language can get lost in translation, but so it goes. I got lost in translation once. When I plugged in the GPS it said “Повернуть направо.” Five minutes later and the girl still doesn’t say anything. I tell her my name’s Dale and she just nods again. Looks like a student to me, high school or maybe even college. Majoring in communications with a minor in small talk. Not that I’m much better with small talk; I always think I’m going to trip over it. I tried small talk a few weeks ago but it didn’t fit. I had to go on a diet before I could try fat talk. I consider asking her what went wrong with society that two people can’t even talk to each other anymore. I’ve gotten somber even since I gave up joking; gotten cranky ever since I gave up smoking. I went to this desert as a lost traveler, I stumble upon a lost traveler, and yet someway somehow there isn’t a damn common thread between us. I tell everyone I meet that I came to Death Valley on account of the waters, but they never catch the reference. Just kidding. I don’t have anyone to tell it to. “I’m heading to Silver City,” she says, finally. She mentions a waitressing job promised by a friend of a friend, her myriad expectations of a better life slipping out in spite of the curtness she uses to conceal them. Even with a broken-down car, even with a stranger probably aiming to stick it to her on the side of Route 95, even with the Hand of the Lord Himself doing His best to swat her on her way, she’s still holding on to the notion that old Silver City will be sparkling sunshine and success by the time she saddles in. I’ve heard of fool’s gold, sure enough, but never fool’s silver. “Sounds nice,” I say, hoping to keep her talking, to open her up to the prospect of mutual assurance, just a fellow and a dame dreaming out loud. “Whatever,” she replies. And. So. It. Goes. We fall back to silence, the only sound coming from an iPod I have hooked up that plays songs by Joni Mitchell and only Joni Mitchell. I got bored of listening to music and wondering who was singing, so I thought I’d hedge my bets and stick with just the one possible answer. Girl doesn’t ask me who’s singing, though. Just asks me if we could listen to something else. Joni Mitchell was raised in Saskatchewan, Canada. She’d write more songs about Canada if it weren’t so difficult to rhyme. I’d tell more jokes about Canada if they weren’t so obvious. I mention the tow company in Amargosa that she’ll want to try calling and the motel in Beatty she’ll want to stay in and even the weather we’ve been having, though she’s still not talking yet. Weather, even. Got so bad I pulled out the flimsiest come on of all. I tried applying for a weather man job in Death Valley once but lost out to a cardboard sign with “Hot” written on it. When I get the feeling I’ve been jabbering too much I go back to listening to Joni and the girl goes back to her spot-on Harpo impression. Can’t hold it against her, being all bottled up like she is. She’s simply scared. Girl her size, lost in all this nothing. Probably thinks I’m aiming to rape her. She’s got nothing to worry about on that front; the least I’d ask for is a blowjob, but then I’d be stuck doing all the talking. I get blowing, but where does the job part come in? Do you have to file a W4 to get a blowjob? My resume was so scarce I put “half a blowjob” down under previous employment. When they asked me why only half I told them I was prematurely dismissed for falling asleep at work. They asked me if it was hard and I said no, but only because I had been drinking. I don’t share any of these jokes with her, especially not the ones about rape. Been a long time since I joked a joke out loud and been even longer since anyone laughed at one. Once knew a girl who told me she’d like me more if I talked about stuff that mattered so I opened up about loneliness and heartache and the life-long quest to truly communicate with someone on anything other than a superficial level. Afterwards she told me she preferred me better when I was joking. Another girl said the only reason she’d stuck with me so long was because I was a barrel full of laughs. Pity it came during an argument about our sex life. A barrel full of laughs. A crack formed in a barrel full of laughs and a few chuckles dripped out. Laughs would fit better in a keg than a barrel. Either way, the guy stuck carrying them around probably isn’t laughing. A third girl claimed that I used humor as a defense mechanism. “Oh yeah?” I said, “then why does it still hurt so much?” “Because none of your jokes are funny,” she replied. It’s already nightfall when we get to Beatty. Girl talks about checking around for another ride and hops out to leave a message with the tow company, thinking of gifting her car to the nearest junk heap, seems like. She must’ve lost a thank you or two during her trip, ’cause she certainly isn’t giving any of the spares out to me. There are certain times when I just need a drink — also known as night times. Bar man gives me something brown that tastes like something brown. Ever hear the joke about the drunk and the philosopher? What’s the difference, joke goes, between a drunk and a philosopher? Six letters. Even I don’t think that one’s funny. I turn my head with the clattering of the door and what do you know: Blonde walks into a bar. “Anyone going to Vegas?” she asks. Doesn’t so much as look my way. By now three other fellows, most of them either part drunk or all the way there, have spotted her too. Took ‘em some time on account of her size, I imagine. Finally the soberest and fattest of them all reckons she’s worth the detour. She leaves with him. Doesn’t say so long, doesn’t even say thanks, though I’ve grown used to that. They won’t make it to Vegas tonight. They’ll have to stop somewhere along the way, but at least they won’t be doing much talking. And so it goes. Only time I ever got a laugh? Some years ago, forgot how long, I was having one of those nights that make jokers of us all. The big zinger? “I used to wear my heart on my sleeve but I could never find anything that matched.” Well it must’ve been something in the delivery, ’cause I sure had that whole table in stitches. Beer spilling out of one guy’s nose and someone else chuckling so loudly it got the attention of a group of hen-nosed women a few tables over. A perfect wave of appreciation, the one-line punch-line I’d always imagined. If only it had been a joke.
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