Read Online Exit Laughing by Victoria Zackheim - Free Book Online

a distinct head and body, whereas mine had not, having gotten stuck somewhere along the way and never forming into anything past a small, fuzzy blob.
    I felt weak. My hands shook, and I had to muster every last bit of strength to squeak out two words: “Aw. Congratulations.”
    Downstairs, I filled Ron in on the news. He looked at me, trying to gauge my emotions so he could offer the appropriate response. “Well. That’s … neat?” he said.
    “I’m so happy,” I wailed. I buried my face in his shirt as he stroked my wet cheeks.
    That winter, I took a ski trip to Colorado with my other brother Adam. After a long weekend on the slopes, we were in the car heading back east, and our conversation stumbled upon the topic of Emily’s pregnancy.
    “How do you feel about that?” Adam asked. “I mean, are you okay with her baby and everything?”
    I was touched. Out of all the people in my family, Adam was the only one, other than Ron, who had been brave enough to ask how I was coping.
    “I’m fine about it now. I’m genuinely happy for them, and I’m excited to have a niece or nephew.”
    “Me, too. I just feel bad for you and Ron.”
    I sighed and leaned my head against the headrest. We still had a five-hour drive down to Santa Fe, and that would be just the first of three legs. The next day, and the one after that would be even longer. But the trip had been worth it. Skiing down steep slopes, through mounds of fresh powder in the Colorado sun. And at the end of the day, a salty margarita at a local hangout. For a moment, I told myself that, if I had been pregnant, I wouldn’t have been able to bum around with my brother for a ski vacation. And if I had a baby, I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford it. But no matter what I told myself, I knew that I’d trade a weekend skiing—or any type of vacation—and an icy margarita for a baby, any time.
    Sitting in that car, wanting to push away the pain of my reality, I thought of Wendy Miller and Jane. I thought about how the past few months had been difficult, as I struggled to accept the fact that I might only be an aunt—never a mother. As these thoughts began to well up, I remembered that there was a way out, if only temporarily.
    “Know any comedy routines?” I asked Adam.
    My brother’s face brightened up, and he veered off the highway and into the parking lot of a Barnes & Noble. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go buy a CD. It’s hilarious.”
    I groaned. I adore my brother, but our humor is so different. I was sure he was in the store rummaging through a pile of some sort of silly
South Park, The Simpsons
, or
Family Guy
type of nonsense, full of potty talk and lines about diarrhea.
    Adam climbed back into the car.
    “I’m not in the mood for fart jokes,” I said.
    “Trust me. You’ll like this,” he said.
    I examined the plastic case as he slid the CD into the player. Who was this pale white guy with a scruffy beard—this Jim Gaffigan?
    Turns out, he’s a very funny guy. He has the ability to take mundane events—riding an escalator, eating a waffle—and find the humor in them. He even dipped into some black comedy, like joking about the Old Testament story of Abraham climbing a mountain to sacrifice his son.
    Adam and I drove on, munching on cheap gas-station candy, watching the New Mexico sky turn pink, and listening to Jim Gaffigan. I was laughing so hard at times I had to wipe tears from my eyes. The good kind of tears.

CLEAVON VICTORIOUS
— Michael Tucker —
    In the fall of 1992, my wife, Jill, and I got a call from a close friend of Cleavon Little, telling us that Cleavon had decided to take his hospice care at home. She said that friends would be stopping over through the week and that he had asked for us to be included. The sad news was not a surprise—when I had worked with him in Toronto not nine months before, the cancer had already been taking its toll.
    The night we went to his house, there were six or seven other