Sometimes Even Job Smiled Noah's eyes are not yet open. He hears the sound of his Big Ben alarm clock, each tick another notch gouged from his life. This is not to say Noah is a negative person. He is a comedian. Good comedy, Noah's comedy, doesn't come from "life's zany little moments of absurdity" but from thoughts seething with fear and anger, confusion and hatred. He remembers watching the Jewish comics on the Ed Sullivan show, thinking "They are the best because in their genetic memories they still hear the hoof-beats of Cossack horses on the roof. Noah decides it's time to get up. It is his first day home from a two week road trip performing for people who live on the periphery of civilization in Northwestern Minnesota. He visited places where the locals thank you for coming to their crappy little village by giving you liquor. The more they like you, the more they want to give you. And no one cares how much anyone else bought for you. All that matters is what they want you to have. You can't say "No. Thanks. Really." because to deny the gift of liquor from a Minnesotan is to welcome harm with arms open wide. And, of course Noah usually has no reason not to stick around, and after that first shot goes down, so does concern about getting an early start. But the last two nights were different. The shows were sparsely attended, but attended by well-behaved folks. They laughed in all the right places, didn't take him too seriously, thanked him for coming to their crappy little village, and then left. Noah went back to his hotel room, and just slept. He awoke at 6:30 a.m. He filled his metal coffee cup with a fetid brew from the front desk. Small danish rounded out the "continental" breakfast. Noah wondered which continent it represented. Probably one with fly-covered children, and lots and lots of mud. He was on the road by 7:15 a.m. He arrived back in Minneapolis at 6:43 p.m. The trip was longer than necessary because Noah likes to stop in at one, maybe two, of the medium looking "taverns" in the towns along the way. Medium places are where the locals take "lunch": a cocktail and/or a beer, and a "deli sandwich". They are more apt to be friendly, and not look at Noah like he's queer because he's only having coffee. When he got home, he thought it would be a good thing to forsake his usual method of "road decompression", (couple shots and a couple beers) and instead treat himself to a nice dinner at the nearby Perkins. Then to bed, dive into his book, sleep, and get up early to--? Noah remembered he didn't have to do anything because he is a comedian and only has to work for 1 hour a day. The day is his for the doing. Noah thinks he will take the day to do--? --whatever he wants to do. He has enough money to cover his bills, and plenty left over to do "fun" stuff. Noah has a good feeling about his "fun" prospects. He has "fun" planning "fun" things because the more "fun" he considers, the more the word "fun" becomes "funny" sounding. At the very least, odd. Noah kicks off the covers, stretches to see if he has hurt himself while sleeping. He finds all in order, and stands. He bobs up and down on the balls of his feet for a minute. He feels loose. He feels light. He feels like Bruce Lee just before he hit Bob Wall with a back-fist in the movie "Enter the Dragon". Light, calm, and focused. He waits for his body to sound an alarm that something is amiss somewhere, but no sound comes. He is ready to leave his apartment. Noah locks his door. He walks down the stairs to the front porch. The sun is shining. He opens the door to the outside world and is met with the sweetest smelling air he has breathed in a long time. It's as though all the cars and trucks and factories and smokers have stopped vomiting crap for the day. He walks down the steps to the sidewalk. Now comes the decision: Right or left? He fools himself and goes straight across the street. Noah walks between the houses until he comes to 5th Avenue South, which borders Highway 35W. He takes a right because that way is downtown, where "fun" places are more tightly packed than in the sprawl of South Minneapolis. Also closer if one is--? Noah suddenly realizes he will be walking a goodly distance. So be it. He will walk, then. A wedgie of fear puckers his ass, whining "Walking all that way? What if you get tired and you're far away? How will you get home? What if--" In Noah's brain, a thick, dull, beige light of inspiration sparks the synapses to form a plan to deal with these nagging thoughts: Noah will push them over the safety railing onto the highway where they will be crushed and battered by a rusted, orange Datsun that looks vaguely familiar. Over it goes. Noah starts to jog. Slowly. He knows he tends to overdue good things when he feels happy-?- Happy? Yes, Noah is happy. He comes to the corner of 5th Avenue South and Franklin. He does a small jumping motion while he waits for the light to change. Noah rolls along on the balls of his feet, feeling Balanced. The injuries he brought upon himself years ago are quiet. He remembers trying to play football-- Noah pushes these memories onto the highway also. He decides he will walk along the highway until he is free of bad thinking. The slaughter will be glorious.