The Laughing Jail

At 10am my first day, the women are herded into a gray room with a screen and rows of metal benches. Guards line the perimeter. We take our seats. The video clips begin.

First clip: a man tripping. Big, bold text follows. The guards shout, "REPEAT!"

We shout back: "Are you alright?"

Well, duh, I think. I laughed at my boss but I'm not that big a jerk.

Next clip: man spills coffee

"Let me clean that for you!"

Wut.

Next clip: man drops papers

"That was my fault!"

Really?! I can't speak. The woman next to me jabs my ribs, and glances at the guards who are watching. More clips play, then a pause before a new batch begins. These are of women being embarrassed. The text for each is the same.

"LAUGH!"

Women around me howl and cackle. My benchmate jabs me again. "Do it!" My mouth goes dry as a guard strides over and yanks me off the bench.

"Not funny enough?"

Before I can answer, he drags me out of the room to Discipline.

Two days later I return to my cell. After Lights Out, a "Psst" comes from my cellmate.

Not tonight, I think.

"Knock, knock," she croaks.

"I need to sleep."

"Wrong answer. Say 'Who's there.'"

"I just want – "

"It's important. Say it."

I lay silently for a minute.

"You wanna go to Discipline again?" she persists.

"No."

"OK. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Interrupting Cow."

"Interrupting – "

"MOO!"

I know this joke. It's a favorite of the 5-year old set.

"What the f*ck was that?"

"It's how you're gonna get through this."

"That doesn't – "

"They want us to laugh."

"At the humiliation of women. I can't."

"You don't. You find a better reason, and better timing."

"Better...timing."

"I tell you a joke. Maybe you laugh, maybe you hold it inside. Maybe you tell me one back. Then tomorrow during Lessons, you remember that joke, and laugh because I'm the one who told it to you."

"But those videos – "

"Aren't funny. But I am. A lot of the women here are. Maybe you are, too. So...got any jokes?"

"I can't think of any." I start to cry.

"You will."

I do. The next few lessons are dreadful, but I laugh well enough for the guards. Over the following days, in layers, come memories – Marge telling me a dirty limerick in the yard, Brandi and her endless supply of dick jokes in the cafeteria, Bertha, my cellmate, and her groan-inducing knock-knocks. The way the cell block lights up like a switchboard with the funniest game of Operator you've ever heard while the guards change shifts.

Thirty days pass. I "graduate."

The Warden asked, "Learn our lesson, Myra?" Remembering one of Brandi's quips, I smile sweetly and reply, "Absolutely."

Now, when I walk down the street, and find myself surrounded by women, sometimes I look up and call out, "Knock, knock." And wait for the inevitable response: Who's there?