Groucho Jenkins was born through laughter. On a calm night on June 18, 1937, Geraldine Baker Jenkins sat down heavily, but carefully, into her seat to watch A Day at the Races. She was two weeks overdue; it seemed he didn’t want to come out at all. She watched the large screen with amusement chuckling every once in a while with the audience until eventually she laughed so hard that her water broke. She named him in honor of the man that had made her laugh so hard. Years later, people liked to tell Groucho that his name could be worse—it could have been Zippo or Harpo that was his namesake. Groucho didn’t think it was funny.
Even as a baby, Groucho was blank. His mother and father would wave colorful balls and trinkets near him, make strange noises, and play peek-a-boo, but instead of the childish gurgles and smiles that usually came from an amused baby, he just impassively watched, following things with his eyes and showing no emotion on his face. After a while, his mother, being a flighty imaginative person in nature, started to believe that by laughing so hard on the day of his birth, she had accidentally used up all of his humor. All his life she could never fully hide her disappointment.
Hey ya Grouch, enjoyin’ the party?” a tall, balding man in a suit said, smacking him playfully on the shoulder.
“Don’t call me that,” Groucho replied in a bland monotone, with no change in his expression.
“Eh, sure Grouchy, grab a drink or something. We need to loosen you up, yeah?” the man replied over his shoulder as he walked over to a group of people in a circle.
“Don’t call me that either,” Groucho said to the back of the man’s head. The occasional laugh could be heard from the group as they sipped their drinks. Groucho didn’t really know why he bothered coming to office parties. They were no fun. He would rather sit at home and read a book, but every time one of these parties were planned, someone from the office begged him to go, saying that he needed to relax and let loose every once in a while. Things like this didn’t make him feel relaxed.
He walked over to grab himself some punch, and on the way back to the corner he had claimed for himself, a young woman blocked his path.
“Hey, I saw you sitting by yourself, and I thought I’d say hi. I’m Maureen.”
“Groucho. I haven’t seen you before,” said Groucho very bluntly, almost harsh sounding if you didn’t know any better.
“Well, I try to do what I can to not be seen, you know—” she leaned in closer to him and whispered, “top secret missions to get done.”
“That was really funny” he replied, blankly looking at the cup in his hand.
This man confused Maureen. She had never met anyone like him. She would even think he had no interest in her if it wasn’t for the fact that, even with his face completely expressionless, his cheeks were going a little bit red when she leaned in closer to him. He didn’t even try to laugh at her joke, and usually she was known as the comedian of the office. Strange. “Well,” she thought to herself, “it seems that Grouchy here will be my new challenge.” Groucho’s cheeks went a little bit redder when she gave him her phone number, and all he could do was look down at his drink and nod.
His wife, soon to be ex-wife, couldn’t stand Groucho any longer. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was as if he could never fully express anything to her. She had thought maybe he took a long time to warm up, but now she realized maybe there was nothing to warm. She couldn’t even stand the small things anymore, like how when she made a joke, not even a chuckle came out. He would just reply with his blank, serious face and say “wow, that’s really funny.” Had he been trying to just appease her all of these years? She never knew for sure, but now she had found a new man, a man that always had a smile on his face, and would give out a long, deep laugh whenever she told him one of her jokes. He had passion in his life, and Groucho—well, she really couldn’t handle a man like Groucho anymore. She glanced one last time at their wedding photo, her smiling and flush with joy, Groucho standing there coolly holding her hand. She grabbed her suitcase and left. Her note said, “I’m done with this, I’m getting the rest of my stuff later. Maybe if you tried smiling every once in a while this could have worked. Maureen.” When Groucho got home and saw the letter, he gave a deep, longing sigh of regret, yet his face was just as blank as it always was.
Groucho, at the ripe age of 70, sat down in his old recliner and watched a movie. He didn’t know this one, but it was old, looked like it was made around the time that he was born. It wasn’t until he noticed a heavy mustache and thick glasses on the main character that he realized he was looking at the other Groucho. His mother showed him pictures when he was younger, always with a strange look in her eye, as if he wanted him to be this goofy man. He stared at the screen while the other Groucho checked a man’s pulse and said, “Either my watch has stopped, or this man is dead.” He didn’t know why, but a strange feeling bubbled out of his stomach, and noise that he didn’t mean to make popped out. It surprised him so much, that even more came out—a deep, hearty laugh. It continued to come out of him until his stomach hurt, and kept on going even still. He bent down from laughing so hard, he stomped his feet as if to try and lessen the feeling. Groucho no longer even tried to look at the screen, his eyes closed and tears came out of his eyes as he laughed and laughed. Eventually, the pain started to burn deeply as he didn’t even make noise, but violently shuddered with his mouth open, almost terrified by how much amusement could hurt yet feel so good. Groucho didn’t think he found anything as funny in his entire life, and he couldn’t even explain why.
Twenty minutes passed, and by the end, his stomach was burning, then his arm tingled, and five minutes later, he passed out and died at the ripe mid age of 70. It was as if, for all these years, he had kept that laughter bottled up for this moment; to be born through laughter, and to die by joy.
