Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac Page B

it hurt me to see the mess he was making of his life. He had a child with this girl from high school, and he said he wanted to be a good father. But he didn’t want to marry the girl,and he started going over less and less. He said he was too busy—he was studying to be a carpenter—and I didn’t know what to say about that. I had pretty strong opinions on the subject of fatherhood, but he wasn’t asking for them.
    In the fall, I signed up for a couple of classes at Kennedy King Community College, over on Olive and Harvey. My mother had urged me to try to get into social services. She felt I had the personality for it. But I wasn’t so sure. It seemed so glum. Just talking about it weighed me down. I thought a comedian would for sure bring a lot more joy into people’s lives than any damn social worker, but I felt I owed it to her—and to myself—to give this college thing a try.
    One evening, though, heading back from class on the El, I looked around and saw all these tired, miserable faces, and I decided to lighten things up. I picked out the most tired-looking guy and I said, “My friend, women are going to be the death of you.” He looked up at me, confused. Other people were listening. “You look like you’re gettin’ too much. ”
    He laughed—what man’s not gonna laugh when you’re tellin’ the world he’s gettin’ more than his share of booty?—and other people laughed right along with him. I told a few more jokes but kept it clean on account of the children on the train, and pretty soon I had them roaring.
    As we came up on my stop, an old lady shuffled over, slow as my grandma, and handed me a five-dollar bill. I just took it. Not even thinking, really. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, and I waved and left the train.
    â€œFive dollars?” Rhonda said later, cuddling on the couch. “For telling jokes?”
    â€œGo figure,” I said.
    Next time I got on the El, I did it again. I brightened up all those sorrowful faces. And the time after that, I gave them more. Pretty soon, it was like they were waiting for me on the train. “There he is! That’s the funny guy I told you about!”
    And suddenly I’m thinking, “Man, this comedy stuff is sweet. ” But other times someone’d be handing me a crumpled dollar bill—“Here, boy”—and I felt like a panhandler.
    It wasn’t a good feeling. I wanted to be legitimized.
    I began to think, This nigger needs a stage.
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    â€œI don’t know about this community college stuff anymore,” I told Rhonda one night.
    â€œGive it time, Bern.”
    â€œI think I’m more of a funny person,” I said. “Billy Staples says I’m a born comedian.”
    â€œYou are funny, Bern. But you’re also smart. Real smart. Working and school and everything. I got myself a smart smart man here.”
    â€œWhy you repeatin’ everything four times?” I said. “Sound like Grandpa Thurman.”
    She laughed. She knew I was just messing with her. We’d cuddle up harder. Life was good. I had a fine woman, and she had a man with a job, a car, and academic aspirations. Didn’t get any better than that, right?
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    We were watching TV one night when Cosby came on. I told her about the time I walked into my house, five years old, and saw my mother sitting in front of the tube, crying. Told her how Cosby had made my mama laugh to bust a gut. Told her what I’d said: “That’s what I want to be, Mama. A comedian. Make you laugh like that, maybe you never cry again.”
    Rhonda thought it was a nice story, and she smiled at me. But it was one of those worried smiles. Maybe she was hoping I wouldn’t do anything crazy, like quitting college or something. I didn’t say anything, but the only part of college I enjoyed was the trip there and back, when I got to do my standup on the