Free Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac Page A

about.”
    But she was wrong. I kept telling her she was imagining the whole thing; I’d never said more than a few words to Rhonda.
    She gave me a look. “Don’t try to be funny with me, Bernie Mac.”
    â€œFunny? That’s what I am, woman. Funny.”
    This was back in the fall of 1975. And the reason I remember, see, is because that’s the year Saturday Night Live came on TV. I remember sitting in front of that TV at Geri’s house, glued to it, and promising myself I’d never miss a show. Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd, Garrett Morris, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman, Bill Murray. These were some seriously funny people.
    And I remember thinking, This is what I want to do with my life. What they’re doing. This is who I am.
    And it was, brother. But it was a long time comin’.

“BUT BROTHER, I COULDN’T GET THE LAUGHTER OUT OF MY HEAD. I KNEW IT WAS A SOUND I WANTED TO HEAR FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. COMEDY WASN’T A CAREER. IT WASN’T EVEN A CHOICE. COMEDY WAS A CALLING .”
05
COME BACK WHEN YOU’RE FUNNY, KID’
    I never did understand the senior prom. Seems like a lot of fuss about nothing. But Geri took it very seriously. And she wanted me to take it just as seriously; wanted to talk about the limo, and the kind of dress she was wearing, and would I buy her this and that, and when the hell was I going to get fitted for a tux?
    I got tired of hearing about it. What’d she want from me? I was working at Hillman’s Grocery, making two bucks an hour. I could only do so much.
    â€œYou don’t take nothin’ seriously, Bernard!” Geri snapped. “The prom is important to me.”
    â€œI know, baby.”
    â€œThen act like you know.”
    â€œI’m tryin’. Can’t we just relax about it? You gotta learn to relax, woman. You too nervous. Let’s go have a beer.”
    Man, she just lost it. Said all I ever wanted to do was hang out and make people laugh and be the life of the party. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, but she saw it different. And—just like that—she broke things off with me.
    I didn’t see it comin’. I ain’t lying. And I wasn’t happy about it. And when I thought about it later I figured maybe she never meant to be with me from the start. I wasn’t serious enough for her. She kept raggin’ me all the time about the future. Like, what did I think I was going to amount to, anyway?
    Richard Pryor? Ha!
    Â 
    Not long afterward, it’s Saturday night, and I don’t have a date. And I see how they’re doing open mike at the Regal. So I went up by myself and waited in line with everyone else. Some of those people ahead of me were funny, but most were painful to watch.
    My turn was coming up. Emcee looked at me—sees a big-eyed kid with an edge on him, cocky—and he wasn’t impressed.
    â€œWho think you funny?” he said. “Your mama?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “She used to.”
    I got up onstage and did my Michael Jackson impression. “I’m leaving this got-damn family! I’m the only one with any talent. Sick of you hangers-on.”
    Didn’t exactly knock them dead.
    â€œCome back when you’re funny, kid,” the emcee said.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Maybe I will. Surprise the hell out of you.”
    I felt bad inside, but I didn’t let it show. On the bus on my way home, I remembered another of my mother’s Mac-isms: Sometimes when you lose, you win, son. Failure is just life’s way of preparing you for success.
    A few weeks later, I got another chance to fail. It was a Tuesday. I heard they were doing Amateur Night at this place called the High Chaparral, on Stony Island Avenue. I went on my own.
    Guys were getting up there, most of them a lot older than me, and giving it a shot. Nothin’ but tired-ass jokes. Nobody in the audience even cracked a smile.