sedulous

I can’t see her face, the room is dark. On stage, the writer reads about his past. He’s funny and, like so many others, she responds with laughter. Unlike the hundreds in attendance, her laugh is a halted, loud honking.

She’s a goose in a human suit. Her laugh shakes the earth, drawing attention from many in a forty-foot radius. Most of them turn subtly, glancing over, trying to put a face to the acoustic bombardment without her noticing. Some shake their heads without turning to look, acknowledging her outbursts.

I turn left, not looking at her but trying to pinpoint her location. It sounds like she’s just behind me, yelping only inches from my ear, but soon I realize she’s to my left in the same row, her boyfriend between us. I try and fail to ignore the howls.

The Writer continues his story. He was in the women’s lounge on a train with another man. They were smoking and drinking after the drinks car had closed. He makes many humorous asides about his thoughts at the time and how they relate to his story.

With every funny or not-so-funny remark, she lets loose a string of bellows. More people turn to look and some start to murmur. I glance over and catch her eye—she must have been looking my way. It’s just an instant, the slightest second, in the dark where neither of us really see the other.

Still, it has an effect. From the corner of my eye I see her looking in all directions. The Writer’s story continues, with many hilarious comments and associated pauses for the crowd’s reaction, but her laugh is quieter, less enthusiastic.

Guilt slaps me on the chest. What would I do with such a distinct laugh? One that echos from wall to wall, spurring stares and exasperated head-shakes from strangers? Would I attend a reading by The Writer? The one who has so many laugh-out-loud essays?

With the answer comes a rush of something close to envy. She must get these reactions incessantly, yet places herself where she knows she’ll get more. Or she has little self-awareness. With a laugh like hers, I’d take those responses personally, probably avoiding similar situations all together.

Her booming enthusiasm is in direct defiance to those that mutter and whisper. They are taken out of their comfortable position listening to an author they admire. They choose to focus on her booming laughter instead of their own.

The Writer keeps on with his readings, remarking and recounting comically, causing rumbles of laughter and applause. Her laugh mingles with the others, quieted, more reserved. I wish she hadn’t noticed the people who grumbled, started to control herself and became one of them.