12 Forever

This story is by Michael Pinkus and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Roger considered himself a student of the dark arts: comedy.

“The Dark Arts isn’t comedy, you idiot, it’s magic. Like in Harry Potter,” his brother Steve once said, when Roger had confided in him. That was a mistake.

Roger called them “the dark arts” because he liked his humor dark. The blacker the better, and timing was everything. It was never too soon, or too dark, to make light.

“Why you always gotta be like that?” His brother Steve asked.

“I’m gonna be a comedian one day,” he replied.

“You’re 55 and hate public speaking.”

And that was true. When Steve got married, Roger refused to deliver a toast. When their father passed, Roger declined to eulogize. “I’d rather be in the box, then in front of all those people,” he said. When his mom passed two weeks ago, he offered a few ill-timed jokes to his nieces and nephews. They looked at him strangely and ran back to their mother. All but Kathy. She giggled.

Kathy, the precocious 12-year-old, stood there, covered her mouth, and giggled. Roger popped off a few more of his favorite death jokes. Kathy giggled more. “You’re funny, Uncle Roger.”

Steve walked over to fetch his daughter.

“What the hell are you saying to my kids, Roger?”

“Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“It’s a funeral. Roger, for Christ’s sake. Nathan came back to me crying. Said you made some off-color remark about Grandma’s pacemaker.”

“It’s six months old. She’s not using it. We could pawn it.”

“That’s sick Roger. Especially here.”

“Just trying to put the fun back in funeral …”

Kathy watched the back and forth between the brothers. For 12 she took a great interest in adult conversations.

“Uncle Roger is funny,” she interrupted.

Steve bent down. His face close to his daughter’s. “He’s not darling. Don’t encourage him.”

Kathy stomped her foot. “Are you saying a woman can’t have her own opinion?”

All eyes in the room turned towards them. Roger had never seen Steve so embarrassed; his face beet red. Inside, he cheered Kathy on. Outside, he feigned shock. Steve looked at the crowd. His wife, Miranda, shot eye-darts at him, then walked over at a quick pace. Everyone in the room went back to their conversation. Miranda would handle this; she always did. Everyone called her “The Child Whisperer” because of her calming prowess.

“What are you three talking about?” She said. Her hand touched Steve’s arm. A forced smile on her face. She acknowledged Roger. “What have you said this time?” she says through gritted teeth.

“Why are you both so mean to Uncle Roger?” Kathy said, this time her voice softer.

Steve leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear.

“Why are you not … Answering me,” Kathy said, the last two words spoken louder than the first four. The crowd quieted. They watched Miranda crouch down to be face-to-face with her daughter. She had this handled; everyone knew it. The crouch was Miranda’s signature move with children … It never failed.

“I was discussing what to do with you.” Miranda pinched Kathy’s nose.

“Now I’m chattel? You intend to sell me to my uncle?” Kathy exclaimed, her voice rising again.

God, this kid is good, Roger thought; and not afraid of an audience. How he wished he had her … hutzpah. He’d heard the word from Billy Crystal once; it fit.

“Kathy, let’s turn down the volume a little,” Miranda said. “You are not a bird in a cage here to entertain everyone.”

“I will not go back to my cage when we get home,” Kathy said. “Uncle Roger, help.”

The crowd stopped again and looked askance at Miranda. A wave of chatter rippled through.

“Why don’t I try dealing with the child,” Roger said, looking directly at Steve and Miranda.

“I’d appreciate the adult supervision,” Kathy said. Her hand shot up and clutched her uncle’s; she pulled him away.

“We’re just going to let those two walk off like that?” Steve said to Miranda.

“I don’t want to deal with her right now, do you?”

#

“You know you’re probably in trouble,” Roger said to Kathy as they walk outside in the funeral home parking lot.

“I know,” Kathy says. “But I’ve been watching you, Uncle Roger. You’re funny. At least you try to be; but you’re afraid to project. If you did, you might find you have a more welcoming audience.”

Roger stopped walking, surprised these words have come from a 12-year-old. “How old are you?”

“Age is a number. You need to find your audience. You still drive?” Her talk rapid fire.

“Yes, I still drive.”

They walked to Roger’s car. “Can we go for a drive. I don’t need the Gestapo coming after me just yet.”

Roger rarely saw eye-to-eye with his brother and Miranda, but felt his niece was out of line. He said as much. Kathy mumbled an apology as she gets into his car. They drove aimlessly.

“When you are alone Uncle Roger, who are you?”

Roger shrugs.

“I mean, who blocked you from being who you wanted to be?”

Roger wonders where this pint-sized therapist came from, was she really his niece. He decided to play along.

“I wasn’t listened to much when I was your age; middle child rarely is. Not well-liked either – your father saw to that. Had to entertain myself. I was also not allowed to express myself, and was teased mercilessly if I did. I kept it all inside. One day I decided if I wanna be noticed, I should be funny. Maybe then people would pay attention.”

“So be funny Uncle Roger. You are, but very quietly. You’re an adult. Be yourself. No one is stopping you now. You have one life, use it or lose it.”

Roger’s mouth is agape. At first he wondered why he had opened up so much; but now …

“Pull in here,” Kathy says.

Roger makes a right into a plaza driveway where at Toys r Us looms large. Roger looks at his niece.

“We’re going in and you’re gonna make me laugh.” She gets out of the car and walks towards the entrance. Roger lacks options. He follows her.

The doors slide open and Roger stares at 20,000 square feet of toys and games.

Kathy spreads her arms. “Find your inspiration, but play only to me; don’t worry about the others.”

They walk up and down the aisles. Roger picks things up and makes off-handed comments. Most cause Kathy to chuckle, three made her laugh out loud.

In the stuffed animal aisle, Roger finds a parrot and a plastic cage. He performs the dead parrot sketch from Monty Python. Kathy loves it, laughs uproariously in all the right places. By the time Roger finishes, six other children and four adults have joined in to watch – he’d barely noticed – his focus on Kathy. Their applause brings him back. He takes a bow.

“Not your own, but a good start,” Kathy said as they approach the checkout.

“You know Python?”

Kathy looks at him askance. “What kind of Philistine do you take me for?”

Roger muffles his own laughter.

“You’re buying that.” Kathy says, pointing to the bird and cage in his hand. “A reminder, you can do it.”

Roger hesitates; but buys the fake bluebird and the beige plastic cage.

“Now where to?”

“We need to go and put the fun back in funeral,”

“Hey … that’s my line.”

“I know, I’ve been listening, and I’m 14. Just short for my age. Let’s me get away with … stuff.” She winks at him. “How do you not know how old your nieces and nephews are?”

“Didn’t much care; until now. You’re pretty wise for 14.”

“Not wise enough. I’ve made a real mess with Mom and Dad.”

“I might be able …”

“Please don’t. I wanna see 15.”

#

That night, sitting at home, alone. Rogers stared at the stuffed bird and the cage on his coffee table. He replayed the day in his head. Smiling. Smart kid. There’s one thing she said that pin-balled around in his brain: you have one life, use it or lose it. Roger picked up the phone and booked in for an amateur night at his favourite comedy club.

#

As he sits and reminisces there’s a knock on his door.

“Two minutes Uncle Roger, you go on in two minutes.”

Roger’s face breaks into a smile. Kathy not only gave him the confidence-boost, she also, inadvertently, gave him his stage name too. Smart kid.

“Ready,” he shouts at the door. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says quietly to himself and the picture of Kathy he carries with him tonight, for good luck. He’ll place the picture on the stool and play to her, as she requested.

He springs from the chair, slapping the arms on the way up. “Damn right,” he says aloud; thinking: I should call the act ‘Lessons I leaned from a 12-year-old’ – it just sounds better than 14.