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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Humor on the Run

Humor is everywhere. It is a product of our daily lives and the element that keeps the gun from our heads. Without it, life is shallow, meaningless, what the existentialists and nihilists would call the void. What Durkheim would call anomie, the alienation from others of our species. Fortunately it arises spontaneously often enough to keep the handgun in its metaphorical holster.

We can all think of incidents, unplanned and unanticipated, that cause us to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I recall an evening party at Ken’s, which began as a dismal evening for Ken as Barbie had just left him for Mortimer. Apparently Mortimer had a secret weapon, something so long, thick and huge that made Ken’s attractive face irrelevant. We sat in silence, magical smoke emanating from pipes, hookahs and self-rolled compounds, when Kathy said, “Everybody keep quiet. I have to call my parents.”

We were stunned. We hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. First a giggle, then a guffaw, and by the time Kathy dialed her call, we were all in frantic laughter, hoots and “make the call, make the call.”  I wonder why she was grounded for two weeks?

Another example was Mack the Whale. For those survivors of the sixties, or those kids sitting on grandma’s knees endlessly bored by stories of the sixties, the youth population was divided into two groups:  those with hair falling below their asses, and those with enough Brylcream to make their hair touch the stars. We were freaks and greasers. And we did not get along.

I, along with two other freaks, pulled into a parking lot to tap our pipes. A male and female greaser approached; they seemed like good people. We hopped out of the car and engaged in diplomatic conversation, discussing how the tension between freaks and greasers was unnecessary. During this seemingly friendly conversation, however, they repetitively said, “You’re lucky Mack the Whale ain’t here.” We were about to ask about the mysterious Mack when he pulled into the lot with his Whale Mobile.

The Whale Mobile was a fifties Plymouth, stark gray with a few hundred purple glazed dents. It resembled its owner, about 6’ 10”, weighing about 280 pounds, with a few hundred purple glazed zits. We noticed our newfound greaser friends edge towards Mack as he stepped out of the Whale Mobile and they coalesced into a formidable line. We hopped back into our car.

Mack proved as erudite as he did handsome. “Deez freaks causin’ you detress, Flip and Eazy Zipper?”

“Yeah, Mack,” they responded, as if one. “Pound ‘em, Whale! Pound ‘em, Whale!”

Despite, or perhaps because of, a slight alteration in consciousness, I started my car and floored the pedal to the metal, deciding I’d rather spend a few days in the hospital due to an auto accident than a few months in the hospital due to a pounding by Mack. My friends concurred and we headed the fifteen miles to downtown Bethesda.

While I was negotiating the many country curves, my friends were throwing every object within the car at the pursuing Mack, Flip and Eazy Zipper. Cans, bottles, tools, even ripping off a few interior decorations. At one point Mack cut us off, and all three came running towards our car. Thank God for the ignorant, forgetting we had a reverse gear, for as soon as they reached the car, I slammed the car into reverse, staring at their befuddled faces, before again hitting first and flying away. We led them on a chase into Bethesda, running all red lights with our horn honking, before pulling in front of a gray masonite building, hopping out and running within. As we assumed, Mack and friends followed us in. We then screamed, “Arrest these people, officers! They’re trying to kill us!”

Mack, Flip and Eazy Zipper screeched to a halt when they realized we had led them to the cop shop. The cops surrounded them, as well as us, and led us to separate rooms. We were released within minutes of questioning. Considering Mack’s command of the language, I assume they are still there, with the exception of Eazy Zipper, who married the Captain and is mistress to all the lieutenants.

The lesson to be learned? Humor surrounds us. We cannot escape it, and thank the powers that be that we can’t. Without such incidents, events, accidental encounters and odd scenarios, I doubt if we could survive with any semblance of sanity. Such inanities break the monotony of our daily 9 to 5 jobs, school days or panhandling.

I miss the days when superhighways did not embrace the landscape and the monotony was alleviated by spaced signs ending with Burma Shave. Does Burma Shave even exist these days? Or have the corporate giants reduced it to a gnat’s eye? The days when a stranger in town was viewed not with suspicion but a “Howdy.”

I shall never forget a cross country trip taken on the spur of the moment, when three of us awakened in our communal house and said, “California or Bust!” We hopped in Paul’s ever reliable VW Bug. Ever reliable, that is, if you propped up the rear engine hood with a log to keep it from overheating. We arrived at a campsite in Casper, Wyoming, adjacent to a public park where the Democrats were holding a picnic. A woman immediately invited these three disheveled, long-haired hippies to the picnic, filling us with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, all the elements inherent in a picnic, and after some trepidation about our ages, even poured the wine. When the picnic was over, she packed the remaining food, which consisted of dozens of hot dogs, quarts of potato salad, everything that remained. We thanked her but couldn’t resist the question. “Why are you doing all this for complete strangers?” A part of our East Coast mentality, TANSTAAFL—There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. She smiled both kindly yet worried, saying she had a son on the road and hoped that people were helping him as she was helping us. We returned her smile and said we were certain her son was fine.

Later, a Child of the Sixties our age approached us. She handed us an address and a combination. “This is my family’s cabin about three hundred miles west from here and the combination to the lock. Make yourselves at home.” She turned and walked away.

Wow, we thought. What had started out as a humorous lark had turned into a profound insight into human nature. That is what humor is. A profound insight into human nature. What makes us laugh is a true reflection of who we are.


About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world's asylums.

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King. Or at the very least, a cookie.