I’ll tell you when you’re older.
That’s what dad always said. Since before I learned how to shuffle to the time I could bridge the deck, it was always the same punch line. It was my father’s week to host the poker game and I made sure not to interrupt any of the action when I snuck into the garage. I crawled underneath the large bay door and the only greeting I received from inside was a wall of smoke and the smell of cigars. Stacks of chips were pushed into the middle of the table and everyone had their red and blue playing cards lightly tucked together in their hands. But nobody was hiding them the way dad taught me. No one bothered hiding any of their beer cans either. All of my father’s friends were engaged in some sort of staring contest. They huddled around my father while he leaned in close like he was going to tell them all a great secret.
“Well I don’t know, Sam,” he said, “I’ll take anything that’ll fit a camel.”
Everyone around the table threw their heads back in a blast of laughter. One man sprayed his mouthful of ale all over his flush draw. Another nearly fell out of his chair trying to catch his breath. All of their faces turned the colors of their cards. I watched grown men cry.
“What’s so funny?” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my poker face while all of the laugh-choked, teary eyes around the room slowly settled on me. Suddenly, all of their smiles disappeared. So did all of the beer cans.
My father threw his arm around my shoulders and leaned in close the way he did with his friends, and he whispered like a secret…
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
He had jokes stock-piled and ready on reserve for his poker pals and bowling buddies. The evidence is this cigar box brimming with a myriad of business cards. The back of each one is covered in abstract phrases. Fragments of thoughts. Triggers. Key words that my father jotted down in a hurry on the back of anything he had handy to recall a joke he would later tell his friends.
I leaf through the tobacco-scented card stock like I’m flipping through a broken Rolodex. Contact information for restaurants and dry cleaners and the scattered punch lines for more than a hundred untold jokes. The blonde, the breathalyzer, and the address for the gyro place dad always took me after soccer games. The number for his oncologist and the one about the chicken with agyrophobia.
I’ll tell you when you’re older.
I fan a fistful of business cards out like a hand in poker and look through them one by one. Nothing I recognize. A priest and a rabbi walked into a bar but I never heard about it. I fold them. Pick up another hand. These cryptic messages mean nothing without their key. I shuffle through them until one card stands out from all the rest. This one is slightly larger with a red, patterned back and a glossy finish. I turn it over between my fingers to find a man dressed in a colorful jester costume. Above his belled hat, scribbled in the corner, is another indecipherable memento:
“TWO OLD LADIES” and a “CONDOM”…
Ethel and Vivian take turns pulling a cigarette out of the pack resting on the ledge of their balcony.
“It’s so dark out here,” Vivian sets her cigarette between her lips.
“They were calling for rain.” Ethel cups her hand around her mouth and snaps the lighter alive.
“It better not.” Vivian takes the lighter and lights her own, but as soon as she does, a few drops land on her forehead. “Are you kidding!” Vivian wipes her face, “I just lit this thing.”
“Is it raining?” Ethel starts rummaging through her purse.
“Such a waste. I’m lucky if I got half a drag off it.” Vivian pulls the cigarette out her mouth. “What are you looking for?”
“This,” Ethel pulls a thin rubber tube out of her purse and carefully slips it over the lit end of her cigarette. “I picked it up in town last week.”
“What is that?” Vivian stares at her like a small child watching a magic trick.
“A condom. I just snipped the tip off with my sewing scissors.”
“A what?”
“It’s a condom, you know—”
“I know what a condom is!” She points at Ethel’s mouth, “What is one doing on your cigarette?”
“Keeping it dry.” Ethel takes another drag and the tip burns red.
Vivian holds up her limp cigarette, “I’m getting one of those tomorrow.”
The next day Vivian walks through the corner store door with a jingle and heads right for the man standing behind the counter.
“Hi Vivian,” he says, “Ready for another pack?”
“No, Sam, not today.”
“Well then, what can I do you for?”
“I need a condom.”
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head and forces a smile. “A whole carton?”
“No, Sam. Con. Dum. I need a condom. ”
“Oh, okay,” his face flushes and he starts talking to the boxes of protection behind the counter, “What kind of condom were you looking for?”
I’ll tell you when you’re older.
My eyes bulge and swell from the pressure of the water building behind them. I keep them wide and try to force it back but I can’t hold it in any longer. It was always the same punch line and it was never very funny. The jester on the face of the card blurs like it is sinking underwater. Tears slip off my cheeks and land on the words scribbled in the corner. The black ink bleeds and the words, just like all of the jokes, are gone forever. I wipe the playing card dry against my leg and toss it back into the cigar box that my father left me.
It was hard hearing that punch line over and over again as a kid. I wanted to know the secrets you told all of your friends. The ones that made grown men cry. I counted down the years until I was older. Finding all of the reminders that you wrote on the backs of business cards only reminds me that I lost something and that I can never get it back. As soon as I think about all the jokes I never got to hear, well that’s when I lose it. Because that’s when I finally get the punch line.
I’m older now, but you’re not around to tell me anymore.
Jokers Wild was published by the Midwest Literary Magazine and included in their "Winter Canons" anthology.
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