Punchline Purgatory

Harry Newberry ruled the stage like a precision instrument, delivering each syllable with meticulous timing. Under the spotlight at The Laugh Factory, his final minutes flowed perfectly.

"So I'm at this fancy Manhattan restaurant, right? The kind where they don't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford it." Harry paused. "The waiter describes the special with such reverence, I swear he's performing a monologue from 'Hamilton.' 'Tonight we have a locally-sourced, pan-seared diver scallop nestled on a bed of microgreens, kissed with a reduction of balsamic vinegar imported from a small Italian village...'"

The audience roared as Harry mimicked the pretentious waiter.

"And I'm thinking—we're in Los Angeles. Nothing is local except traffic and therapy bills."

The crowd erupted again. Harry felt that familiar electricity—the perfect communion between performer and audience, that split second when laughter connected hundreds of strangers through joy that he had orchestrated.

"Thank you! You've been amazing. I'm Harry Newberry. Good night!"

As he prepared to exit, a voice called from the middle of the club.

"That is not the right way to tell this joke!"

Harry squinted through the lights. A middle-aged Indian man stood awkwardly.

"You must say it like this: 'What is the deal with these fancy restaurants?'" The man's accent was thick, his delivery terrible—a butchered version of Harry's early material.

Before Harry could respond, another voice—this time from the back.

"No, no! It is: 'Have you ever noticed that when you go to fancy restaurant, the waiter is very snobby?'" This from a young woman with a heavy Eastern European accent.

Harry's practiced smile tightened. "Well, folks, looks like my old material is getting a workout tonight. Thanks for sharing your... interpretations."

"But Mr. Newberry," the Indian man persisted, "you told us to emphasize the middle word for maximum comedic effect!"

Harry froze. "I... what?"

"No, no!" A third person stood up—an elderly Chinese man. "Mr. Morty say we should emphasize last word! Mr. Newberry only care about first word!"

Harry's heart skipped. Morty? It couldn't be.

"Did you say Morty? As in Morty Goldstein?"

The Chinese man looked confused, glancing toward the back of the club. Harry followed his gaze and there, at the very last table in the shadows, sat a figure he hadn't seen in person for nearly twenty years. Even in the dim light, he recognized the balding head and glasses, the perpetual expression of mild annoyance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Harry said, suddenly off-balance, "it seems my old friend from New York has decided to pay a visit—along with what appears to be his entire ESL class."

The audience laughed, but Harry barely heard them. His eyes remained fixed on Morty Goldstein, his former writing partner, his best friend, his comedy soulmate from the Manhattan club scene before Harry had moved to LA and become a household name.

"You hijacked my show to have your students perform bad impressions of my early material? What the hell, Morty?" Harry demanded in the green room.

Morty sat heavily in a leather chair, looking thinner than Harry remembered. "Got your attention, didn't it?"

"You could have called."

"Would you have answered?"

Harry looked away. They both knew the answer.

"What happened to your comedy career?" Harry asked.

"Not all of us got fancy Netflix specials and mansion views of the Pacific," Morty said without bitterness. "Some of us stayed in New York, kept working the clubs, and eventually found other ways to make a living."

"You were funny, Morty. Really funny."

"Yeah, well, Long Island funny doesn't always translate to Hollywood funny."

Harry sighed. "So you came all the way to LA to have your students butcher my material. Why?"

Morty leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Because I'm dying, Harry, and I need a favor."

In Harry's Bel Air home, Morty whistled. "Nice digs. Very different from our old apartment on 82nd Street."

"A lot has changed since then."

"Not everything," Morty said, picking up a framed photo—Harry standing next to Robin Williams. "You still keep the boss around."

Harry often found himself talking to that photo late at night. Boss, I need a hug. Boss, I'm so tired of being afraid.

"Robin was one of the greats."

"Gone too soon," Morty agreed.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable. "Where are your students staying?"

"Hotel downtown. Don't worry, they won't crash your palace."

"Can I get you a drink?" Harry offered.

"Sure. Got any prune juice? I'm seventy-seven now, gotta keep the plumbing working."

Harry smiled despite himself. "How about scotch?"

"Even better for the plumbing."

As Harry poured their drinks, he studied his old friend. Morty had aged, certainly, but there was still that spark in his eyes, that irreverent intelligence that had drawn Harry to him four decades ago.

"So what's this favor?" Harry asked.

"I want you to take over my night class."

Harry nearly choked. "What?"

"Three nights a week, teaching English and American culture to immigrants. Most of them are professionals in their home countries—doctors, engineers, pharmacists. Good people trying to build new lives."

"Morty, I'm not a teacher."

"I've seen your specials. Very polished. Very safe."

Harry bristled. "I've got three Emmys that say otherwise."

"Awards," Morty scoffed. "You used to care about the craft, about saying something real. Now you're just a fancy wind-up toy telling jokes about airline food."

"I've evolved."

"Yeah, a very nice cage." Morty looked around. "Where's your wife?"

"Charity event. She'll be back tomorrow morning."

Morty nodded. "How convenient."

Harry felt suddenly exposed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've known you since we were thirty, Harry. I know what it looks like when you're planning your exit."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"The sleeping pills in your bathroom," Morty continued quietly. "The way you kept touching your neck during the show, like you were measuring it. The perfectly rehearsed final set."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Harry managed.

"Remember Freddie Prinze? I was there that night at the Improv before he did it. Same look."

Harry sank into a chair. "How did you know?"

"One of my students, Raj, works at the pharmacy that ships your meds. He noticed the pattern. Didn't realize I knew you."

"That's a HIPAA violation."

"Sue him after I'm dead," Morty shot back. "Right now, I'm more concerned about you checking out before your time."

"Why do you even care? We haven't spoken in years."

"Because I remember who you were before all this. And because I've got twelve months left—maybe—and I'd rather not spend them knowing you offed yourself when you could have been doing something worthwhile."

"Like teaching immigrants?"

"Like remembering what it feels like to connect with real people, not just audiences."

Harry rubbed his face. "I'm tired, Morty. I've been doing this for forty years."

"And I've been given twelve months to live," Morty countered. "You know what I wouldn't give for another forty years of tired?"

"What exactly are you asking me to do?"

"Come to New York. Teach my class while I go through treatment. Help them understand America through comedy. Real comedy, not the sanitized crap you've been peddling."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll call your wife and tell her to come home early tomorrow."

Long after Morty had gone, Harry sat in his study, staring at the photo with Robin Williams.

"Boss, I need a hug," he whispered. "I'm so tired of being afraid."

Afraid of what, though? Not death—death seemed like relief lately. No, he was afraid of irrelevance, of discovering that beneath the perfectly crafted persona of Harry Newberry, Comedy Legend, there might be... nothing.

His eyes drifted to his desk drawer, where he kept a length of rope he'd bought last week. He'd spent three hours researching the best knot—of course he had. He was nothing if not a perfectionist.

Harry's phone buzzed—a text from Morty.

Flight to NY leaves at noon tomorrow. Ticket's in your name. My class starts Monday. Don't make me call Sharon.

Harry stared at the message, the rope still in his other hand. Finally, he put it back in the drawer and typed a reply:

I'll be there. But I'm not promising anything beyond showing up.

The response came immediately:

That's all I've ever asked of you, schmuck. That, and better punchlines.

The night school classroom in Queens couldn't have been further from the glamorous comedy clubs Harry was used to. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating twenty expectant faces—Morty's students from countries spanning the globe.

Morty, seated at the back looking frailer than in LA, nodded for Harry to begin.

"So," Harry said awkwardly, "I'm Harry Newberry. Apparently, I'm your teacher for... however long Morty decides to torture me."

Several students laughed nervously.

"Mr. Newberry," said Raj, "will you teach us to be funny like you?"

Harry considered the question. "No. I'm going to teach you to be funny like yourselves. Comedy isn't about doing impressions. It's about finding your own voice."

"But we are not comedians," said an elderly Ukrainian woman. "We are just trying to learn English to pass citizenship test."

"Everyone's a comedian," Harry said, warming to the subject. "Everyone has a unique way of seeing the world. The trick is expressing that in a way that connects with others."

"Mr. Morty says comedy is like mirror," offered the Chinese man. "It shows truth, but little bit twisted."

Harry glanced at Morty, who gave him a small smile. "Mr. Morty is right. The best comedy doesn't just make people laugh—it makes them see something they've always known but never articulated."

For the next two hours, Harry found himself genuinely engaged for the first time in years, helping these strangers find humor in their struggles to adapt to American life. Their perspectives were fresh, uncorrupted by the need to please audiences or executives.

As the students filed out, Morty approached Harry's desk.

"Not bad for a washed-up Hollywood sellout," he said.

"Not bad for a class taught by a dying Long Island hack," Harry returned.

They looked at each other, and for a moment, they were thirty again, standing outside Catch a Rising Star after killing it on stage.

"Come on," Morty said. "I know a place that makes decent pizza, even by your Manhattan snob standards."

At the pizzeria, over slices thin enough to fold, they began rebuilding their connection.

"So," Morty said, "how long have you been planning to check out?"

"Few months, seriously. Longer, in the back of my mind."

"Why? You've got everything—success, money, that house, Sharon."

"Had Sharon," Harry corrected. "We've been separated for a year. She still comes by for public appearances. The house felt empty even before she left."

"Jesus, Harry. When did you start letting other people decide who you are?"

"I don't know. Gradually, then suddenly, like bankruptcy."

"What about you?" Harry asked. "All these years, what have you been doing?"

"Kept working the clubs. Never got the big break. Got married, had a daughter. Got divorced, stayed close with my kid. Started teaching when the comedy work dried up."

"And now?"

"Now I've got cancer and twelve months to get my affairs in order. Maybe less, maybe more."

"And your daughter?"

"Samantha's in Chicago. Lawyer. Coming next week to help me figure things out." Morty's face softened. "She's got two kids of her own now. Good kids."

"You're a grandfather? I can't picture it."

"Neither could I, until it happened. Changes everything, Harry. Gives you a stake in the future, even when you know you won't be around to see it."

"So what's the real plan here, Morty?"

"Mostly, I just wanted to give you a reason to postpone your plans long enough to remember that there might be other options."

"Like what?"

"Like remembering who Harry Newberry was before he became a brand. The guy who used to make fun of guys like who you are now."

Harry flinched. "That guy was hungry and angry and had something to prove."

"And this guy has nothing left to prove? Nothing left to say?"

"Maybe this guy is just tired of his own voice," Harry admitted.

Morty leaned back. "You know what Robin Williams once told me? 'The moment you think you've got nothing left to say is the moment right before you find your real voice.'"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "When did you talk to Robin?"

"Comedy Central roast, 2003. We got drunk afterward."

Harry nodded, remembering Robin's darkness. "And you think teaching immigrants English through comedy is going to help me find my real voice?"

"I think anything that gets you out of your own head and connecting with actual humans might help," Morty said. "And yes, I think teaching people who are starting over might remind you that it's never too late to reinvent yourself."

"Says the dying man."

"Exactly," Morty grinned. "Who better to dispense life advice than someone on their way out? I've got terminal clarity, my friend."

Despite himself, Harry laughed—a genuine laugh, not the practiced chuckle he used in interviews. "You're still a manipulative bastard."

"And you're still a perfectionist pain in the ass," Morty countered. "Some things never change."

"Three months," Harry finally said. "I'll commit to three months. After that, we renegotiate."

"Three months," Morty nodded. "I can work with that. It's a quarter of what I've got left, after all."

"But Harry?" Morty added seriously. "Throw away the rope. Whatever happens with us, with the class—promise me that much."

Harry stared at his oldest friend, surprised again by how well Morty still knew him. "How did you know about the rope?"

"Because I know you. The pills would be too messy, too uncertain. You'd want something definitive, something you could control down to the last detail."

"Promise me," Morty insisted.

"I promise," Harry said, and was surprised to realize he meant it.

As Harry walked back to his hotel, he found himself noticing things—the rhythm of the city, the faces of people passing by, each containing universes of experience.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Harry Newberry wasn't thinking about the perfect exit. He was simply existing—and wondering what his students might teach him tomorrow.

After all, as Robin had told Morty, the moment you think you've got nothing left to say is the moment right before you find your real voice. Maybe Harry's was waiting to be rediscovered in the most unlikely of places—a night school classroom in Queens, teaching immigrants to find humor in the struggle to belong.

And maybe that was enough reason to stick around—at least for now, at least for three months. One day at a time.