The Search of a Sixth Sense

            My mother comes home from her meeting with the psychic medium.  She looks at me as if she’s about to cry.  She tries to speak but just exhales dramatically.  Should I be worried?
            “A spirit has a message for you.”  She says.

            “Really?”  I respond dully.  I try to hide the fact that I don’t believe in psychic stuff.  I look up as if I’m interested.

            “Your sister came through.”  She says.

            “My sister?”

            “From the miscarriage I had before you were born.”

            “Oh.”

            “Apparently she’s your spiritual guide.”

            “Oh.”

            “She said she’s with you when you perform standup.”

            “What!?”  I holler.  My eyes widen, the hairs on my arms stand up, and my jaw drops slightly.  A lesser version of me would shit my pants.  “What the hell did the lady say?”

            “The lady said, ‘You’re younger son. . .he’s funny. . .he’s really funny. . .is he a standup comic?’  So I told her you were. . .”

            “She just asked you that out of the nowhere!?” 

            “Yes.  And then she said, ‘His older sister wants him to know that she’s always in his corner, cheering him on.’”

            “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”  I reply.

            “Why?  I thought that was really nice.”

            “How the hell did the lady know I was a standup comic!?”

            “Your sister told her.  She’s a psychic medium.”

            “But why would my sister care so much about my standup comedy!?”

            “You’re trying to make it your career, aren’t you?”

Five Months Later

            I get ready to take the stage for my first paid gig.  The club is filled with people.  Everyone is talking loudly.  There are people on dates, groups of friends, and super fans who’ve come alone.  They ooze the need for stimulation.  There are no comedians on stage.  Laughter can be heard, however.  The power of alcohol is champion.

            I take a deep breath.  I step out onto the stage.  Everyone stops laughing.  The power of booze is no more.  Comedy becomes my responsibility.

            I tell jokes.  People laugh.  It is a regular night.  I get applause for some, guffaws for others, giggles for the rest.  I try to stick to rehearsed material.  My confidence is articulate.

            Some audience members yell random crap at me.  I yell random funny shit back at them.  The crowd chuckles at the random crap I say.

            I get back to my rehearsed material.  My jokes get the laughter that they always do.  I drop them into the mic one by one like back-to-back home runs.   Finally, I get to the joke that’s not funny; the one I tell every set.

            The entire audience falls silent.  I pause to listen.  I hear no rouge laughter; no open-aired chuckles from a corner; no freestanding cheers. 

            Perhaps I should try to listen with my heart.