A joke is told. A wide, toothy grin, enveloped by deep creases (not wrinkles) from years of laughing and smiling accompanies the punchline. The desired effect of most aspiring comics, audience laughter, is not produced, neither in the highly-coveted belly rumble, or in the less satisfying, but acceptable, chuckle. Only the low, exaggerated groans from a pair of women can be heard, their eyes rolling down and then upwards in an arc, eyelids drooping to feign ennui. To most, this sort of response would elicit embarrassment, shame, perhaps the immediate rewind of the joke in one's mind, searching for the adjustment that would have secured at the very least, a half-hearted smirk.

A joke is a hard thing to tell. And to recover from a bad one is daunting to even the most thick-skinned of us. So why do the groans from his audience, their tongues wagging as if gagging, delight him so much?

His youngest daughter finds the perfect opportunity to attempt to embarrass him. Around the glass-topped kitchen table, they have gathered. The lazy susan sits in the middle, announcing to everyone its perfect uselessness on so small a table. They pluck grapes from the basket it holds and trade stories and memories. She sets in, recounting her earliest childhood memory:

I was only three or four-years-old. We were still living in the apartment back then and you were mean as ever. You still are, but in Newark, you took meanness to a whole 'nother level. Did you know I used to call you "Skeletor" behind your back? He's He-Man's enemy. He was scary and evil and nobody liked him. Anyways, do you remember this? Making ramen noodles for me in the kitchen and me begging to take the bowl out to the living room, where I could happily eat my soup and enjoy quality television programming at the very same time? You taunted me. "Don't drop that soup. Don't you drop it, you hear me?" I heard you. I held on to the handles of that bowl so tight but you followed me out to the other room, and you said, "If you drop that I'll make you eat it off the floor." Of course, I dropped it. And you made me get on my knees and slurp up at least three noodles before mommy came in and put an end to all the horror.

His eyes are watering and his lips are pursed together into a thin purple line. Is this a display of a father's regret? Everyone pauses. But the thin purple line breaks long enough to let a giggle escape, and everyone's straight backs become rounded again. They laugh, even the storyteller, exclaiming that the trauma caused by that experience would need at least three years of extensive counseling.

...