Wit's End
In his first year at Fennemore Lewis Investments, Tim noted that there was a pecking order based not on rank but on popularity. A gangly mailroom clerk named Gord had long been regarded as the office joker, and hence Lord of the Watercooler—but things were about to change.
Just after eleven o'clock, Gord strode up to the break area, greeting co-workers with a confident grin. Despite growing up in Scarborough, Gord affected a Brooklyn accent and a comedian's cadence.
"What's the deal with watercoolers?" he asked. "I mean, if there are watercoolers, shouldn't there be waterwarmers? Hel-lo?"
Everyone laughed except Tim, who was never good at banter with co-workers. "I suppose if someone wants warm water, they can use the kettle," he said.
Gord's shoulders drooped as he turned to Tim. "Oh, puh-leeze!"
Cheryl from Accounts Receivable put a reassuring hand on Tim's arm. "Never mind. Gord's just being retarded."
Steve, the Director of Human Resources, nearly choked. "Whoa—don't say that! Use another word."
"Can you say stupid?" asked Tim.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Steve gaped at the diminutive, normally super-shy Tim. "You sound exactly like Mr. Rogers!"
Tim hadn't intended to sound like Mr. Rogers but was happy for once to have amused his co-workers.
"We'll have to keep an eye on you," said Cheryl, flashing Tim a smile as she returned to her cubicle.
Tim's real name was Tuhin. Tuhin Singh. Born in Sri Lanka, his parents named him after an uncle, but on his first day at Fennemore Lewis, Gord, unable to get his head around the name Tuhin, called him Tim. After that, it kind of stuck. Which was probably just as well; as a visible minority, Tim always felt like an outsider, and the name Tuhin only made matters worse.
But the tide was turning. By the next day, news of Tim's hilarious Mr. Rogers impression had spread throughout the office.
Oblivious to the fuss, he went about his work as an IT specialist in his usual, conscientious way. At three o'clock, he was notified that a faulty processor caused a system failure in Accounts Receivable and began going from cubicle to cubicle making the necessary fixes. Just as he got Cheryl straightened out, he arrived at Yvonne's desk.
"I didn't expect you to come so fast," said Yvonne.
Those had been Cheryl's exact words, so Tim replied, "That's what she said."
Yvonne laughed hysterically. As co-workers came over to see what was so funny, Yvonne explained, "I say to Tim, 'I didn't expect you to come so fast,' and without missing a beat, Tim says, 'That's what she said.' Oh, my god—this guy's a hoot!"
Tim loved his new reputation but couldn't rely on happy accidents to maintain it. In search of fresh material, he mined comment sections on YouTube and Facebook, looking methodically for comments yielding the most LOLs and laughing emojis. From these, he compiled a list.
The following Monday, he greeted Steve from HR with, "M.C. Hammer called. He wants his pants back." Steve, always good-natured, laughed heartily.
So far, so good.
After lunch, Irene, the department head, dropped by Tim's desk to explain a new policy about printing memos double-sided. She said she'd blow a gasket if she saw one more stack of paper printed single-sided. When she finished, Tim looked at her stone-faced and said, "Here's me pretending to care."
Irene frowned and stormed away. Meanwhile, Cheryl, sitting across the aisle, could barely contain herself and howled when Tim said, "That's two minutes of my life I'll never get back."
Though he'd failed to make Irene laugh, he decided that irritating a volatile manager could actually enhance his image around the office by making him seem edgy.
Before the workday was over, he'd made several more successful quips. Unfortunately, when told about a planning committee for the upcoming Christmas Party, he let out the words, "Here's me pretending to care," before realizing he'd already used that one. Nobody seemed to notice, but in future he'd be more careful.
That evening, he made a spreadsheet in Excel to monitor joke usage. Here, he would record the date, line used, people present, and the joke's reception rated from one to ten.
He was riding a wave of popularity unlike anything he'd ever experienced, with everyone at Fennemore Lewis constantly buzzing about Tim's latest.
On a November afternoon three weeks later, he was holding court at the watercooler when Gord walked by. Steve asked Gord where he'd been. "I was afraid we'd lost you to the folks on the first floor."
"I thought Timmy here was providing all your entertainment now," said Gord. "Guy gets a few yuks, and he's your new messiah. I'm like, excuse me?"
Tim raised an eyebrow at Gord. "Bitter much?" He smiled slyly at the others. "Don't worry, Gord—you'll always be the king of comedy." Gord looked pleased until Tim added, "Said no one ever," to gales of laughter.
"Real funny. Well, I've got a joke for you—"
"Spoiler alert: it sucks."
Cheryl clapped her hands in delight. "Tim's so funny it's not even funny!" she squealed.
That evening, as he filled out his spreadsheet, Tim recorded that ninety-two percent of the lines he used that day had landed successfully, with an average rating of 7.6, spread over three floors and twenty-one people. It had been a good day.
Everything came to a head a few weeks later at the Christmas Party. The planning committee had gone all out. Michael Bublé's "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" played in the company's atrium as a disco ball cast twinkling lights across the dance floor. Giant wreaths hung from the balconies going up four floors alongside sparkling garlands and boughs of holly—all in preparation for what one executive described as a "booze-fueled night of inappropriate behavior."
Tim arrived fairly early, along with a few other men in suits and women in shiny dresses.
Gord looked conspicuous in his ugly Christmas sweater, standing by a side table, helping himself to some eggnog. "What's the deal with eggnog?" he asked everyone within earshot. "I mean, I get the egg part, but what the hell is 'nog'? Seriously, who comes up with this stuff?"
Irene shook her head at him. "Pitiful." She then turned to Tim. "As for you...You and I need to have a serious talk."
"Let's not and say we did."
Scowling, she took Tim by the arm and led him away.
Looking over his shoulder at amused bystanders, Tim said, "Plot twist!"—a remark that earned him a 7.4.
They sat down at one of the small side tables that ran around the perimeter of the dance floor. Irene, already on her third cosmopolitan, wore a red pantsuit, with sleigh bells in her silver hair, but her expression was anything but festive.
"Okay, listen up, funny boy," she began. "I see what you've been doing, and I'm sure you're enjoying your newfound popularity—but I promise you, Hun, you're going to flame out like a comet."
Tim looked at her impishly. "You must be fun at parties." The fact that they were at a party just made it funnier for the people listening in. (Worth at least an 8.2.) Irene glared. "Just sayin'," he added with a shrug.
"Zip it! Look at me." Irene thumped the table with both hands. "I've been in this business since before you were born, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that there's a joker in every pack." Tim sensed a major rant coming on and thought it best to stay out of Irene's way. He slumped in his chair.
"Don't get me wrong," she continued, "I like to laugh as much as the next person—but only at things that are actually funny." Tim smiled back weakly. "Here's the thing: there's always a portion of the population who think they're goddamn hilarious—and most of them have some sort of zany persona they fall back on when they can't think of anything witty. Which they never can."
"For men, that usually means acting like a gruff redneck who doesn't know any better. They'll say life is all about beer, cars, and sex, then they'll add 'but not necessarily in that order'—always equating vulgarity with wit.
"On the opposite side of the coin, we once had an English guy working the front desk—completely useless—who thought it was a riot to act all hoity-toity—always calling me 'the redoubtable Irene.' Never said one funny thing. If it hadn't gone against workplace policy, I'd have shoved his stupid face down his redoubtable neck!" Tim looked at her in amazement. "Yeah, I'm a crotchety old broad. You got that right." She emptied her glass.
Irene was speaking loudly and drawing the curious from all corners of the room. "Of course, women are no better. I see a lot of 'sassy' gals nowadays, the ones who always go on about their naughty wine-drinking or how they like pictures of shirtless firemen. Put all their heads together, and you could make a rock garden."
Irene seemed to be bringing down the whole party. But she wasn't finished.
"Oh, and we mustn't forget the lame-asses who think they're on TV. I don't just mean Seinfeld over there." She tilted her head toward Gord, who looked away. "I'm talking about people who spout old catchphrases: 'The plane boss, the plane' or 'Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?' Mostly, it's stuff from Saturday Night Live: 'Well, isn't that special' or 'You look mahvelous.'"
Tim took comfort in knowing that he didn't fit into any of Irene's categories.
"Wipe that grin off your face—you're next!" Tim gripped the arms of his chair. "Now we come to the present day: the age of the prefabricated punchline. Things like 'Said no one ever,' 'What could go wrong?' or 'Hold my beer.' Hey, Timbo, the internet called—it wants its LOLs back!" By now, her face was red, and she was practically shouting.
"I've always said the workplace is where humor goes to die—and if it's not dead yet, it's sure as hell on life support. I've freakin' had it with you clowns. The whole situation makes me want to puke." She stared at him with flaring nostrils as she caught her breath.
For several tense seconds, nobody spoke. Even the music had stopped. With all his recent social gains at risk of slipping away, Tim ran his eyes across the downcast faces of the other partygoers.
Then his eyes lit up, and his face brightened. "Okay—now tell us what you really think."
An explosion of laughter shook the rafters as eggnog streamed from people's nostrils. It was a perfect ten.
David Partington is an omnivorous bipedal mammal, most active during daylight hours. He came into this world at a very young age and has found his subsequent mortal existence to be a reliable source of amusement.