The funny Guy

I liked the laughs and that kind of expectant gesture they make when they know I'm going to say something funny. It's exciting, you know, to have so many people waiting to hear what you're about to say, no matter how ridiculous it is. 

That's what it was, I liked making them laugh. Is that wrong, am I guilty of that? He was the one who took it personally, it was just a joke. People joke all the time, that's how the world works; you don't go around asking people if you hurt their feelings.

My parents tell me that he lacked strength, that he needed more courage to defend himself, that his death had nothing to do with me. And sometimes I believe it. Sometimes… I wonder if... I don't know. It doesn't matter. 

It must be true, adults know about that kind of thing, right? I'm not a bad person, I just make jokes. I told you, I like making them laugh.

That's how it all started, when the classroom was quiet on the first day of school. He came in, and his crazy eyes were looking in opposite directions, and I said something… I don't remember what, huh. But I said it. Something about him, about his eyes. And suddenly the whole room started smiling, holding back laughter as they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes.

I didn’t think much of it, though. It was Tommy who started hitting him, you know—tripping him, shoving him into the hallway walls, sometimes waiting for him at dismissal. He’d tell him to wait for him or else he’d do worse the next day. And he always… obeyed. You know those threats are empty, don’t you? Tommy just wants to seem like someone… I don’t know, tough, maybe. He never follows through on what he says, but he… It was like he enjoyed it. He didn’t even cry when he got hit.

Huh. Looking back, it almost felt like Tommy wasn’t hitting a person. He was hitting a dog.

What? Oh yeah, I was there a couple of times when it happened, but I never laid hands on him. I felt sorry for him. So I'd just watch them. It never seemed like anything serious, you know? It almost seemed painless because, well, he didn't make a sound.

How long did it go on? I told you—it all started the first day of school. We were starting eighth grade. The whole thing went on for a year and a half, more or less. 

Why didn't I say anything? How could I say anything, man? If I did, I’d take his place—maybe much worse. Besides, I didn't do anything to him, why should I have said something? The whole room watched when he was thrown to the ground and kicked, why didn't they say something then? Why me?

You don't understand—and it's not your fault. Adults have a hard time understanding. They kind of forget that they were this age once, that maybe they went through what he went through. But they resisted, right? Surely they think that someone grown up like you could have done something, but the truth is that it is not like that. 

You keep things quiet, out of shame or fear—I don’t know. But his mom could’ve noticed something and yet she chose to ignore it. His dad too. Why is it my responsibility that he hung himself? I didn't even know him. I just knew he had a crossed eye and it was funny to make fun of that. 

 I’m sorry, man. I… I just feel like if I hadn't made that joke they would’ve made it to me—but different. You know, my family comes from a village down south. It's hard for me to speak without the accent because I know they will make fun of me, they’ll call me a hick, say I’m poor. They will see that my uniform has holes in the underarms and that my shoes are too big for me. 

You know what? Now that I think about it, he could’ve made fun of that, you see? He could’ve said something like that, he could’ve made an angry face and shouted that at least he had a new uniform, that he was from here, that his family didn't have to travel far to make a life. But he didn't, he just... let himself be beaten.

I wonder if he was funny as well. Maybe he made jokes about us, whispered them to the walls in his room. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot and… and wonder if… I don’t know.

Did he leave... did he leave any letters? Is my name on it? No? No letter? Huh, In movies, there’s always a letter. Something to explain things better.

I have to be honest with you, man. Ever since it happened, I keep thinking about how he must have felt. If maybe I should have said something to make it a little better. You're young, you don't really mean what you say, you know? You just want to be the funny guy. It's not a big deal, that's what they tell me, but for some people it is, I realize it know. And I wonder if I had asked him for forgiveness it would have made things better. If I had told him that, in a way, we're the same, that I'm afraid of them too sometimes, of Tommy and them.

Maybe I could have been his friend. That’s how friendships start in the movies, isn't it? Making fun of each other, he would see my poverty and my parents who barely speak English and I would see his eyes averting each other and maybe I would have made him laugh too. I wonder what his laugh would have been like.

Do you think it would have changed anything? Do you think... do you think I killed him? Sometimes I think I did. Almost all the time. But I’m scared to tell someone, scared they’d say I’m right. That I did kill him. That if I hadn't talked, maybe no one would have noticed his crossed eyes and he would still be alive. That's the important thing, that he would still be alive. But I wanted to make them laugh, I wanted them to notice me, to be the funny guy in the room, you know? How stupid that sounds now.