We meet up with the Smileys again in the hospital cafeteria. You know, the Smileys are turning out to be good people. With one major exception, of course.
The place is packed. It’s wall-to-wall wheelchairs and walkers and medical people dressed in pastel-colored scrubs. I scan the tables, and all I see are tired medical workers, scared parents, and sad kids.
I see myself a year ago.
The place is totally quiet except for a few coughs and the clink of silverware on plates.
“Not exactly like Gotham,” whispers Cool Girl out of the side of her mouth.
I sigh—then I start to grin. “Says who? Give me a hand, you guys. Need just a little help.”
Cool Girl, the Smileys, this orderly I remember named Bob, and, yes, even Stevie all grab hold of my chair, hoist me up, and prop me on top of an empty table.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Jamie Grimm. I don’t know if you heard about it, but maybe a week ago, some idiots in New York City named me the funniest stand-up comedian kid in all of New York. I have one question for those judges: Are you people blind? I haven’t stood in over a year.”
A few chuckles ripple through the cafeteria.
“I live in Long Beach. That’s on Long Island. We’re famous for our zombies. The other day, I was rolling to school, and this one zombie says to his friend, ‘Mmmmm. Loooook. Meals on wheels.’ ”
Now they’re laughing. I shoot Aunt Smiley a wink to thank her for the assist on my new material.
I do a quick riff on Pierce and Gaynor, crack a couple of booger jokes, and do a whole bit on Uncle Frankie getting his own Cooking With Yo-Yos show on the Food Network. I even have some fun with Stevie Kosgrov. Now I have him working his way up, Rocky-style, from boxing with goldfish to taking on a tuna. “And to become heavyweight champion of the undersea world, he’s getting ready to whale on a whale.”
There’s a ton more laughter. The best I’ve ever heard.
And then I launch into a skit I’ve been working on in secret for a couple of weeks.
“I came here in the summer. Some kids go to camp—paddle canoes and get a whistle lanyard. Not me. I came here, did PT, and got my own personal bedpan. I remember that thing was sooooo cold. Once, I asked my nurse if she stored my bedpan in the refrigerator. She said, ‘Yes. If we put it in the freezer, it tears off too much skin.’ ”
A nurse in the cafeteria—one of the women who took such good care of me—is laughing so hard, she’s holding her sides.
“So,” I say, “do you guys still call this place the Hopeless Hotel?”
“Yeah!” a bunch of kids shout out. Others are nodding their heads. Some are clapping.