Punchline

By Talia Mago

Kevin Park always said he didn't believe in rock bottom. Not because he hadn’t hit it, but because he had built a condo there.

At 23, Kevin was a customer service representative by day and a wannabe comedian by night. He lived in a two-bedroom apartment with two roommates: Dani, his best friend, and Parker, Dani’s brother, along with an emotional support goldfish named Ryan Seacrest, who had seen things no goldfish should see.

Tonight was Kevin’s big chance, The Laugh Shack’s annual talent search. The winner would receive a real weekend slot, fifty bucks and a free nacho platter, which doubled as his grocery budget.

He adjusted his blazer, which smelled faintly of Febreze and cigarettes. He took a last-minute look at himself in the backstage mirror. He inhaled, held it and exhaled. The breath fogged the mirror up, making his reflection look like it was underwater.

“Kev,” said Dani. “You’re pacing like a Roomba that's on low battery. Breathe.”

“I am breathing” Kevin said. “Just...insufficiently.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ve bombed it before. Statistically, you’re due for one that is moderately comedic.”

“Comforting. That's why I keep you around.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Remember, tell the truth tonight. Be yourself. No hiding behind ramen jokes.”

Before Kevin could respond, the MC’s voice seeped through the wall like a radio, “Give it up for your next comic, local legend, emphasis on local, give it up for Kevin Park!”

“Legend?” Kevin said, “I bombed my last set so bad they re-graded this place as a historical site.”

Dani shoved him toward the curtain. “Go make them laugh before I do it myself.”

The stage lights were blinding, to keep the comics from seeing how small the crowd was. Kevin grabbed the mic stand, “Hey everyone, great to be here! It’s like American Idol if the contestants all owed their parents money.”

A wave of laughs. Good. The laughs washed over him, warm as stage light.

He followed up with a customer service joke. “You ever notice how customer service scripts are like slam poetry written by someone on the edge. ‘I understand your frustration’…more like ‘I’d rather wrestle with a raccoon than talk to you right now.’”

Bigger laughs. His shoulders loosened; he finally felt at ease.

Until he saw Mr. Chen, his boss.

Second table from the back, balding hair, collared shirt done up a button too tight and the facial expression of a man who had never once laughed voluntarily.

Kevin’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “Oh great,” he muttered into the mic. “And my boss is here. Perfect. I’ve always dreamed of getting fired mid set.”

The crowd laughed, assuming it was a joke. Mr. Chen did not.

Kevin tried to pivot. “Anyway, dating, huh?” he said, as his voice cracked. “I'm single. Not by choice but by popular vote.”

A woman in the front snorted.

“Last date I went on, she said she wanted someone ambitious. I said I once microwaved ramen without the instructions. She didn’t laugh. Which, honestly, was the first red flag.”

He hit a few good lines, but his rhythm kept slipping. His mind flickered to Dani’s words. He had to tell the truth.

“Okay,” he said, lowering the mic. “Real talk. I make jokes about my job, but the truth is... I’m terrified to quit. Without that headset, I’m just some guy with anxiety and no health insurance.”

Soft laughter and a few nods followed. Mr. Chen tilted his head, possibly reconsidering his life choices.

“I’ve been fired three times, one was technically a ‘creative difference.’ Apparently, you're not supposed to respond to customer complaints with an interpretive dance.”

Laughter again, real this time.

“I joke about being broke, but I’m at the point where my wallet doesn't even hold money, it just stores old punch cards from cafés that don't even exist anymore.”

The room leaned in. The fear in his gut shifted, not gone.

“My mom still asks when I’ll get a ‘real job.’ I told her comedy is a real job. She said, ‘Then why your fish have better health insurance?’”

The crowd exploded with laughter. Kevin grinned, dizzy with relief. He had found his own rhythm again.

“I was once asked what my secret talent is. Apologizing. I’m good at apologizing,” he continued. “Like Olympic level. I can apologize for things that haven’t even happened yet. ‘Hi, sorry for the inconvenience, in advance, of my personality.’”

A fuller laugh. Even Mr. Chen’s mouth twitched.

“And yeah, I joke about my boss, but he’s here tonight. Everyone say hi to Mr. Chen!”

Mr. Chen froze mid-sip. The audience whooped and cheered.

“This man has taught me everything I know, mostly about the limits of human patience. He once told me, and I quote ‘Kevin, your humour is... unconventional.’ Which, in corporate language, means ‘I can’t legally fire you for being weird.’

Mr. Chen cracked half a smile. Kevin wanted to frame it.

When the MC waved the flashlight for “time’s up,” Kevin wrapped it up.

“Thanks, everyone! I'm Kevin Park, professional apology technician. You can find me at the bar later, apologizing.”

Applause rumbled through the crowd; it was real and warm.

He ducked backstage to the sound of thunderous clapping.

Dani met him in the hallway, her eyes gleaming. “You killed it!”

“I didn’t even faint! My therapist owes me five bucks.”

“You were honest,” said Dani. “See what happens when you drop the ramen bit?”

He grinned. “I’ll still keep the ramen bit.”

Then came the unmistakable sound of expensive shoes: Mr. Chen.

“Mr. Park,” he said, adjusting his tie. “That was... unexpected.”

“Thank you?” Kevin said, unsure whether to bow or run.

“I heard you had mentioned having ideas about improving our customer call flow.” Mr. Chen handed him a business card. “Be in my office Monday. Ten minutes. Impress me.”

Kevin blinked. “Wait... you’re not firing me?”

“Not yet, but don’t tell your coworkers I laughed at one of your jokes.”

“I’ll consider that constructive feedback,” Kevin said, trying to hold back his smile.

Later, Kevin and Dani sat at the sticky bar, sipping the cheapest drinks on the menu.

“To survival,” Dani said, clinking glasses.

“To responsibility,” Kevin said. “The world's longest inside joke that nobody explained to me.”

They laughed. Across the room, the winner of tonight’s contest posed for photos. Kevin didn’t mind. Winning suddenly seemed less important that not choking on his own panic for five minutes.

“Hey, you know what you did up there?”

“Had a mild cardiac event?” Kevin chuckled.

“You connected. You were real. That’s comedy.”

Kevin raised his glass. “Then here’s to being accidentally sincere.”

Mr. Chen appeared again, unexpectedly, holding two plates of nachos. “You forgot your prize,” he said, sliding a plate over. “You may not have won, but you earned this. And,” he added, “please fill out your time-off request forms before attending shows.”

Kevin laughed so hard he snorted soda through his nose. “Deal, boss.”

At home, Ryan Seacrest did lazy laps in his bowl. Kevin dropped a few flakes of food over the water, “You missed it, buddy. I was hilarious. I mean, half on purpose.”

His phone buzzed in his back pocket: a text from his mom.

Saw video. Why your pants so wrinkly? But you funny. Proud. Eat fruit.

Kevin smiled. “Progress,” he told the fish.

Outside, rain pattered against the window, the city humming its usual late-night rhythm. Kevin leaned back, feeling something he hadn't felt in months.

“Next stop, Netflix special,” he told Ryan.

The goldfish blew a bubble.

Kevin grinned. “Fine. YouTube first.”

He laughed; a real one this time, the kind that didn’t need a punchline.