Free Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac Page B

They were just sitting there, slouched in their seats, arms crossed, angry-ass looks on their faces—challenging you to entertain them.
    Emcee said, “Anyone makes a person laugh gets fifty bucks.”
    So I went up; told the emcee I’d like a shot.
    â€œNah,” the man said. “You’re just a kid. You can’t go up there.”
    But an old fella was sitting nearby, nursing a beer, and he started hasslin’ the man. “Let the boy up!” he’s hollering. “Ain’t nobody making anybody laugh anyway.”
    Other people picked it up. “Give the kid a got-damn chance already!”
    So the emcee shrugged, gestured. Go ahead, boy. Hang yourself.
    I got up there and did James Brown as a mailman. “YOU GOT MAIL! Whoa-oa-oa! Lots of mail. You got mail like I knew you would.”
    Some guy in the back row laughed. I kept going. I did Michael Jackson again—“See if you can get a got-damn record deal without me!”—and the crowd ate it up.
    I did The Dick Van Dyke Show, only Rob and Laura was black.
    â€œWhat you say, bitch?”
    Then I talked about old people. “When you see white folks retire, they truly retire. They go someplace warm and get them a nice house and fish and play golf just about every day. And they smile a lot. But us black people, we get old, we don’t go nowhere. When black folks retire, they hang out at the barbershop. Some of them even get another job. I knew this sumbitch had a job at the plant. Got old. Got sent home. A week later he’s working as a janitor at the bus depot.”
    By the time I got off the stage, the place was rocking. It was a rush, brother. Like high-octane fuel. But I kept real cool. I was smoof.
    Emcee was waiting for me in the wings. He didn’t even crack a smile. He pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off two twenties and a ten. “Not bad, kid,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. I took the money and walked out the back door, into the alley—I could still hear them laughing—and made my way down the street, toward the El. I was feeling good inside, but I was calm. I was sitting inside my own self, like my mama had taught me, sitting in the dark with my thoughts.
    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.
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    When I got home, I found my grandma at the kitchen table, with her magnifying glass, figuring out which bills needed payin’ first. “Where you been, son?” she asked.
    â€œNowhere,” I said. I wanted to go upstairs and sit quietly with my thoughts.
    â€œNowhere?” my grandma repeated.
    In our house, you couldn’t get away with that type of answer.
    â€œSit down, Bernard.”
    I did as I was told. She put the magnifying glass down and looked at me with those cloudy eyes.
    â€œI hear tell you ain’t got a date for the senior prom,” she said.
    My grandma, she knew everything. Couldn’t keep a secret from her. “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Looks like I’m going to miss the prom.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” she said. “What about that nice girl used to take a class with Geri?”
    â€œWhat nice girl?”
    â€œThe one that got her jealous that one time.”
    â€œRhonda?” I said.
    â€œYes. That’s her. Rhonda.”
    â€œI don’t hardly know her, Grandma.”
    â€œWell, that don’t matter. I think you should call her.”
    â€œWhy would she go with me, Grandma? She don’t know me, neither.”
    â€œBoy, you’re graduatin’ high school,” my grandma said. “This is important. You’re going to the prom.”
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    I didn’t want to call Rhonda. Made me nervous. I thought for sure she’d find the whole thing as strange as I did. So