Estimated reading time: 12 minutes
The cute cashier in Sainsbury’s. 492. The aul one on the bus with a purple rinse that I gave up my seat for. 486. The kid scoring a goal and celebrating with a trademark Ronaldo SIUU! 481.
It’s not like me to be writing down these encounters, but when the doctor explains that the next bout of laughter could kill you…well…it gets your attention.
Apparently – says he – each laugh triggers a wave of endorphins that creates a caustic burn so intense (who you tellin’ Doc?) that it “erodes the very musculature lining of the outer wall of your heart.”
A rare disorder. One in a billion. Likely with me all my life. Advised me to strictly limit my exercise, banish fizzy drinks, citrus fruit and most importantly, under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever, watch Mrs. Brown’s Boys. Think I’m safe on that front.
I plugged the medical condition into ChatGPT and DrKnowItAll informed me that even smiling could trigger an acid bath for my heart.
So, I roadtested the AI’s theory with a few calculations. Starting with a brand new, out-of-the-box shiny and pumptastic heart organ, the AI calculated that 100,000 lifetime smiles would be enough to send me to an early grave. Taking into account my twenty-six years on this Earth and the fact I’d led a moderately cheerful existence thus far, averaging a respectable 40 smiles a day, it estimated that, lo and behold, I had 500 left. That was two weeks ago.
500 smiles before I slipped off the mortal coil, one would assume, with a smile on my face.
Since then, there was the Only Fools and Horses rerun. Good mileage from the chandelier episode. Totally worth it. 453. A Frankie Boyle quote on social media. 425. The prank caller who tried to convince me he was a PC technical repairman. 417.
I live alone which is a relief. I wouldn’t want my daily sulk to affect others. Lately I’ve spent my days watching true crime shows and listening to far-right podcasts. The negativity is overwhelming at times, which makes those rare bright light-hearted moments all the more sneaky. Catching me off guard.
Baby smiling at me. 411. A dog dragging its owner into a puddle. 402. A jingle commercial playing a song that reminded me of—no point thinking about it. 398.
I’ve cut myself off from friends and family. My phone has a new home inside a drawer. I can’t afford to expose myself to the online world. Memes, GIFs, social media, Whatsapp, Calls. Danger lurks on every digital corner.
Just last week, I had to access my online banking and a notification popped up from my old neighbour Charlie. He’s been in the habit of sending me pictures of his shits since childhood, especially those that break new records. This particular monstrosity resembled King Kong’s knuckle. Unbroken and bent back on itself against the polished white marble bowl. Sunning itself for all to see. 356.
I was averaging two smiles a day up until last week, rationing them out like Granny’s boiled sweeties. Then last weekend, I decided to get pissed and threw on a DVD.
The Best of Richard Pryor.
A combo of heartburn, rum and weed had me howling and bent double in pain, but fuck it, there’s only so long a man can live in a depressive funk. I have a little smile count ticker and I’ve gotten really good at recording them. I suppose, you would too if you knew that your life was being measured out by the smiles.
As of this morning, I stood at 159. It’s been six months since my diagnosis. My chest hurts most days, and I’m forever scratching at it.
I figured my family and friends needed some explanation as to why I’ve been acting the way I have these past few months. My phone, starved of light and the warmth of a human hand, hasn’t beeped to life in days.
Despite the pain in my chest, I unlock it and flick through the messages. It seems my contacts are not totally ignorant to my health concerns. The voicemails are anything but joyous, so I throw the phone back in the drawer, and stick on Pryor again. This time, his jokes don’t land. After ten minutes, I switch the DVD off and fetch the phone once more. After dismissing a couple more Hall-of-Fame turd pics, I search my contacts and message my mum. She calls me instantly.
“Danny, I’m worried about you.”
“Didn’t seem that worried. Did you find the TV remote?”
I make plans to call over next week, even though my gut and leaky heart suggest otherwise. I hang up and decide at that very moment: I’m going out with a smile.
I get up, grab my coat and take the bus into town. There’s graffiti on the hardbacked seat in front of me.
Why’s everything pish?
Why, indeed, oh wordsmith. 104. I scan the heads on the top deck and all are hinged at the neck toward their devices. I pass the idle minutes creating dramas out of their lives. My sniggering attracts the attention of a nacker and he takes offence at my staring. He shouts something from the back of the bus which spins everyone’s attention on me. I get up quickly and head downstairs. Disobeying the signs, I end up talking to the bus driver before my planned stop, hoping that he’ll rescue me. My ears pin back anticipating the sound of following feet down the stairwell but nothing comes.
“Looks like heavy rain comin,” the driver says.
“Cats and dogs,” says I.
“And sheep,” he replies and gives me a wink.
I don’t detect a Roscommon accent, but give him a smile in any case, snapping my mouth shut a fraction too late. Crap! A mercy smile. The worst of all. What a waste. 80.
I get out and drift off without any real plan, curling in and out of people traffic, trailing some groups, leading others. After a fruitless meandering walk, I look up and recognise my surroundings. Central plaza. I check my watch and it tells me it’s just after 10pm. My current account has got me covered for at least one drink, so I make my way to a bar I used to visit back in heart-healthier days.
There’s a couple of promo girls in skimpy denim shorts and tight-fitting bright yellow tops loitering around the entrance. One of them is carrying a clipboard, while her friend is carrying a tray with a sticky puddle on it that props up 4 plastic shot glasses.
“Free shot?”
“What is it?” My hand betrays my curiosity, reaching for it before I’ve asked the question.
“Gunslinger,” she says, and reaches for a plastic gun fixed to her hip. Wrong hip. She adjusts, balancing the plate.
“Got it, thanks.”
I tip it back, and feel the heat blaze a trail down my throat and straight to my chest.
“Enjoy the show pardner.”
I shoot my own smile as I pass them – a new unfamiliar twinge twisting in my chest, which momentarily staggers me. My hand reaches out to the wall for support, walking/climbing the corridor like some half-assed Spiderman. I’m quietly trying to compose myself when the big double doors of the main bar swing open and nearly knock me backwards. I’m blasted by music. A couple of cowboys with Stetsons emerge and almost bump into me.
“You OK, mate?”
All I can do is smile because I can’t find my voice or my breath. The pain in my chest has me doubled over, hands on knees. Should have waited. Is that 38? Or 28?
“Gaz, I think he needs some water.”
“You had too much to drink, mate?”
I shake my head, and point over my shoulder to the general vicinity of where the girls should be.
“Gunslinger got another victim. Shit’s rocketfuel mate. Tastes like bile.”
A mercy laugh. That one hurt.
“Can I get you something?”
“Just. Toilet.”
The two men guide me through to the main bar, and the large dimly lit room is festooned with balloons and party decorations in bright shades of pink, blue and green. The venue is a far cry from when I last visited. There’s a DJ with a God-complex on a raised podium centre stage. Tall screens on either side display animated characters dancing in time to his trance beats. Disco lights, like searchlights at a prison, swing madly from the ceiling scanning the smoky dancefloor below.
The men watch as I pause to survey the scene.
“Toilet’s this way, mate.”
“Am I in the right place?” I straighten up, a little too quickly, feeling something tear again in my chest. Wincing, I quickly revert to my hunched position and stare sideways up at the men like Quasimodo. “Is this still Tony’s?”
“The one and only.”
“Changed from when I was last here. Couple years ago”
“Yeah,” the taller cowboy says, tipping his hat and glancing at his neighbour. “It’s LGBTQ+ celebration night. Last Thursday of every month, Tony’s becomes the Fruitbowl – where everyone’s a little sweet.”
“And colourful,” his partner chimes in, ripping a pistol off his leather hip holster and pulling the trigger. An attached red rag ejects from the barrel, with an explosive target in the centre.
I smile, and the pain sends a hollow chill through the core of my body.
“You OK, man? You look a little peaky.”
I peel off from my companions, praying that the toilet is still where it should be. Crowds drift away from my approach, casting odd glances. Not surprising considering my appearance and the early hour. I smile painfully to ease their discomfort which only accelerates my own.
Thankfully, when I reach the bathroom clutching my chest, there’s an available cubicle. I enter and quickly close the stall door, collapsing on the toilet seat. A cold sweat slathers my forehead, and the neck of my shirt is soaked through. Holding my head in my hands, I run my fingers through my slick hair, driving the heels of my palms into dry eye sockets, trying to push the pain in my chest back to wherever it came from.
The music booms off the walls, and my head throbs with a fresh headache.
“Nice and easy. You’re OK.”
My breathing begins to slow, and the blood pulsing in my ears softens. I slick a palm across my cold brow and grab a roll of tissue to mop the sweat. By inches I lean back, carefully at first to observe the effects on my chest. It’s tightly knotted but relenting, albeit slowly. My eyes focus for any kind of distraction from the pain, before settling on a line of scrawled text on the bottom of the door.
Watch out for gay limbo dancers.
Damn, that smile hurt. Slowly, I raise my gaze and spot another graffiti.
Here I sit, Broken-hearted. Tried to shit, But only farted
Hours later Took a Chance. Tried to fart But shit my pants
A vice on my chest. I close my eyes once more and after an exhausting minute, I manage to fully extend and feel the back of my head touch the tiled wall behind. My eyes open and stare up at the bright white lights. I feel acid on the back of my throat. Coating my tongue. A great soaring hot blade is rooted in the centre of my chest, doubling with every inhaled breath.
The music subsides and for a moment the voice of the DJ can be heard. Another cold wave of sweat breaks out on me again, and I reach for the phone in my trouser pocket, feeling sick and overwhelmed. My fingers fumble with the opening. Shapes blur and I’m feeling light-headed.
“Anyone there?” I mumble. “Help!”
It’s just the DJ for company. I listen, trying to swim back to my surroundings.
“…to make this the best night of the month…”
A kick to my chest. Behind the ribcage. My eyes snap open and look down. My chest is convulsing. Limbs shaking.
“Help. I…need help!” I cry desperately.
Darkness creeps in at the sides of my vision. I shut my eyes, trying not to pass out. The voice pipes up again.
“…would be complete without you…”
I look around my enclosed stall for help. Hoping for footsteps. Bathroom chatter. Sweat runs into my eyes, stinging them shut.
“Anyone. Please. Call…ambulance.”
My fingers find the phone dangling in my pocket opening. I lean to one side to hook it out. The world tips over, and my weight slides off the toilet. The cubicle wall meets the side of my face and I’m deposited in a heap. From a curled position on the cold floor, I stare back at the toilet. The white soaring heat in my chest is indescribable. I’m dimly aware of an object on the toilet rim. My phone. Balancing precariously over the opening.
Thank God for small mercies.
This time there is no laughter.
“…give a warm Fruit Bowl welcome to our special guests tonight, Jedward!”
You either laugh. Or cry. Or die.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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Check all the stories here as I release them.