“Remember, Jamie, no dream comes true unless you wake up and go to work.”

I nod. “That’s great advice, Uncle Frankie. Thanks.”

Uncle Frankie smiles and twirls his yo-yo. “Well, I can’t take full credit for that pithy little ditty. Anonymous said it first.”

“That Anonymous. What a busy guy. He must’ve written a new saying every day.”

“So, have you written any new material for Boston?”

“A couple of things.”

“Hit me with your best shot,” says Frankie, taking a seat on a pickle bucket.

I launch into my rendition of what the Internet tells me is one of the funniest jokes in the world. It’s based on a Goon Show sketch by the late, great Spike Milligan (yes, they had his old records in the rehab hospital library, too):

“Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn’t seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed over. The other hunter whips out his cell phone and calls 9-1-1. ‘My friend is dead!’ he gasps. ‘What should I do?’ The operator says, ‘Calm down. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.’ There’s a silence. Then a gunshot. Back on the phone, the guy says, ‘Okay, now what?’ ”

Uncle Frankie laughs.

Politely.

I was, you know, hoping for a little bit more. Like a guffaw, maybe even a chortle or a whoop.

“So, Jamie, tell me something. You ever been hunting?”

“No. Except once when I was like six.”

“You went on a hunt when you were six?”

“Yeah. For Easter eggs.”

Now, for whatever reason, Uncle Frankie cracks up. “Okay. More like that. Be you. Make it your own. I tell you, kiddo, your jokes are always a lot funnier when they come from who you are and what you’ve seen.”

“Just stuff from my life?”

“That’s right. The more real, the better.”

I think about that for a second.

“Okay. Well, lately, I’ve realized I’m living my life like the guy who wrote that book Under the Bleachers.”

“Really?” says Frankie, totally hooked. “Who’s he?”

“I. Seymour Butts.”

Uncle Frankie chuckles. So I keep going.

“I mean, look at me. I’m sitting here all day, living my life at belt-buckle-and-belly-button level. Unless I’m waiting in line. Then I’m staring at a sea of butts.”

I shrug. “Seriously. Wherever I go, I have fannies in my face. And you can imagine my delight when it’s Beanie Weenie day at the school cafeteria. There I am, cruising along, wishing my wheelchair was equipped with an optional gas mask…”

Uncle Frankie loses his yo-yo because he’s laughing so hard he has to hold his sides. I think he might roll off his pickle perch.

“Okay, okay. Enough! That’s the stuff. Give me a dozen more bits like that, and I guarantee you’ll cream ’em in Boston, kiddo!”

Wow.

I feel absolutely great. Uncle Frankie will do that to you.

Now the only thing I have to worry about is Nick’s Comedy Stop serving those Boston baked beans I’ve heard so much about.