30 Days 30 Stories, Installment 17, The Laughs Column

She was in charge of the laugh column in the newspaper (as well as a few other mundane ones, such as the cooking beat), but she wasn't really a humorous person, as it turned out. Her life wasn't made up of anything particularly laughable, except, perhaps, her need to constantly do a dish after she got it dirty. She mainly scanned through lesser newspapers, through comics, and sent things to print that she thought would appeal to the masses. It was not, actually, her sense of humor, but rather her knowledge of what was normal that made her a somewhat successful editor of the laughs column. Little stories, vignettes, cute and American things, things about silly dogs or cats (animals always went over well) and childhood mishaps, spilled soup. Nothing really important, nothing on the edge. Everything in its place.

Except one day she went home and everything was NOT in its place. She had been robbed, and everything had been stolen, everything. Her mother's silver, which she, being the last of her mother's line, had received, her computer, her tv, her other unimportant technologia, but many of her beautiful books, her vinyls which had been her father's, and a collection of lovely and somewhat valuable knick-knacks from her grandmother, as well as the one important piece of art she had ever owned; a small study by Monet, which she was quite sure was real.

She looked about, stupefied by the chaos, a chaos like she had never known before. Was it really possible, in HER apartment, in HER little corner of everything? She sat down by the telephone, and eventually called the police.

It was quite a few hours until the policeman came, and he wasn't very excited about it. He was actually a little rude. And his mustache bristled just like a policeman from those comics of the early 1900s. That was a little funny, she thought, as he stood there huffing like a giant rhino after climbing her steep steps. He really didn't care, and the travesty of it all struck her as rather funny. The next day, she wrote up a little description of what had happened, all rhino and thoughts of him in a bobby's hat with a large wooden club and running fruitlessly and angrily after her gang of poor, probably low-income thieves who were (most likely) fencing her few belongings for drugs. It struck her as rather funny, and she giggled to herself - a little bit of a rusty sound, really, but very pleasant in her throat - and then sent her email to the pagesetter with the day's column.

The next day, it was clear there had been a mixup. The wrong story had gone out, and instead of her gathered rights to story about a Christmas gone wrong, her story had been sent out. She was not pleased, and neither was her editor. However, noone said anything here or there, so she didn't worry about it much.

The next thing that happened was a little strange. She was unlocking her apartment door when a young man came up to her. He seemed awkward.
"Hey," he said, quietly.
"Hello," she replied, hoping very much that he wasn't going to try to sell her weed. Did she really look like the type? She held her purse imperceptibly closer.
"I... uh... I read that story."
"What?" she was quite shocked, really.
"I..." he looked up at her "you know, read your story, that weird column."
"Ah. And... um... what did you think?" She asked the question as if asking whether she should ask the question.
"Well, I think I know the guys who did it, you know - just telling you. Anyways, they're not around her anymore, but they used to live in this building."
"Ah," she didn't know what to say. Was there a reason he was telling her this story.
"I... just really liked your policeman."
"Ah," she said again. "um... well, would you think about maybe telling the police you have a tip? Or phoning one in anonymously?" she proffered.
"No way," he said. "I... don't think so, anyways." He turned, his hands in his pockets. He was the twenties caricature of a man, a young man, smoking hard, trying to be a man. His pants were baggy, his hands thrust into them as if trying to get out the bottom, like there might be gold underneath the pockets.
"Ok," she said. "Well - thanks!" She went up her steps, and then turned around, uncertain. "Hey - could I get your name?"
"uh... Steve," he said, noncommitally, and she didn't really believe him.

Another day, another column she wrote herself. This time, she didn't send it to the pagesetter. But she was approached at the end of the week by her section editor, asking her to pen another column. Apparently there had been vaguely positive feedback, which was a vast improvement on the completely nonexistant feedback before. She nodded, and quickly submitted her page on the poor boy with the grim, older-than-himself expression.

He came back the day after the column was printed. He was upset that she had written about their encounter, but she quickly apologized - she really hadn't anticipated he would care about it. Then he said something rather strange - he asked her if she wanted her little painting back. He had found it around the corner, where there were a few other of her things, dumped. She looked at him, dumbfounded. "Yes," she said without hesitation.

The painting was slightly begrimed, but generally not worse for wear. The next day she asked Steve to go out to coffee with her, and tell her about him. It wasn't long before she found him a good scholarship to college.

The laughs column dried up the next quarter - apparently not interesting enough with its drivel to really inspire anyone to keep it going. But she did get a chance to write more, as her set of bookend experiences - the old cop and the youth gang, the youth who resembled an older age - were bought by a magazine with the prospect of more in the same vein. She felt she could do that, perhaps. Especially now as she was sure to visit Stephen at college one of these days, to see how he was getting on in his dorm, and doubtlessly buy him a much-desired full meal.