Laugh Machine

They tried as hard as they could to get a man, of course. But in the end what they got was Ruthie Ford—twenty-six, unmarried, nearsighted, thick around the ankles. Ruthie knew how they saw her, but she told herself she didn’t mind. And mostly she didn’t. The fact was they couldn’t get anyone else to run the laugh box for what they were paying, and Ruthie was good at it. She was good at it because she liked it. She liked the sounds the machine made, the clunk and snap and whir. She liked the give of the buttons under her fingertips, the weight of the pedals beneath her feet, the way the heavy drawers slid gladly out on dark greased tracks.

She didn’t tend to enjoy the shows the laughter was meant to accompany. The jokes flew over her head, or maybe under her feet. Her mind wandered and she lost the plot, or else she paid too much attention, noticed tiny errors in the set or story that never bothered anyone else. Now at least she had an excuse. She told people she couldn’t help feeling like she was at work when she watched television; she just knew the laughter too well. Everyone seemed to accept that. They nodded and laughed and then stopped, laughed again nervously, and Ruthie knew they were afraid she was storing their laughter somehow, spooling it up inside her head for later. Or judging it against the reels that by now lived in her ear as much as in the box.

The laughter from the machine was familiar, sometimes overfamiliar. It bubbled up in response to her own inner monologue, the jokes she said in her head but never aloud, never in front of her coworkers or her friends or her boyfriend. She did have a boyfriend, as it happened. Frank. She trotted him out occasionally to shield herself from the attentions of the boys in the mailroom, the boys who sped by with their carts and sometimes whistled, whose banter always walked a line precisely halfway between flirtation and insult. “Hey Ruthie”—on days when she wore a skirt instead of slacks—“You gonna be working on that box today? Down on the floor?” As if she ever did anything but sit at it, really. Sometimes she had to pull out the lowest drawer, but she’d perfected a method for that, making sure that her knees stayed tight together as she tipped carefully forward. Ruthie blinked back at the mailroom boys like she didn’t understand, distantly hearing heh . . . heh . . . (drawer 2, loop 14, the first two point five seconds when the laugh was flat and airless and nasal, before the woman on the tape took a breath and really got going).

Her boss was a man called Walter Merridew. He wasn’t bad. Of course, he could have been better, but he wasn’t bad. He rarely commented on her clothing, and once they waded into the work of picking and mixing the tracks, he became almost as absorbed in it as Ruthie. They tended to agree on what laugh ought to go where, how loud and how long. But today some new producers from the main building were visiting the audio department for a tour and Mr. Merridew was on edge, and the softest place for that edge to fall was Ruthie. None of their usual back-and-forth, their banter, if you could call it that—lines exchanged almost mechanically, like pulling a lever. None of their comfortable silence, either, broken only by snippets of laughter and one or the other of them saying “Yes, that’s it!” or “No, that won’t do. Maybe three-seven, the first five seconds?”

Instead Mr. Merridew was cranked to a new and nervous pitch, pacing and laughing loudly and clapping the other men on the shoulder. He threw his head back and showed his teeth every time they made a joke or anything close to a joke, but Ruthie remained quiet, failing as ever to provide the burbling laughter she saw other women turn on like a tap—the secretary at the front desk, the waitress at the cafeteria, her roommate and all her roommate’s friends. Mr. Merridew was sweating a bright band across his forehead. “Ruthie never laughs,” he cried. “I wonder if that isn’t why she took the job—so she could practice until she got the hang of it!” And the producers laughed out of politeness, not amusement, and Ruthie heard in her head ha (drawer 1, loop four, the single blank guffaw of a man too tired to laugh properly at all).

Mr. Merridew showed the men around the office, showed them the machine, showed them all the tapes. Quickly Ruthie mixed a few tracks, from memory, into a nice smooth roll of laughter. Her hands moved readily over the buttons; her foot danced across the pedals. She was pleased with the result, and she could tell the producers were too—one of them, anyway, the quietest. He smiled a small private smile and said nothing, and Ruthie contented herself with it. When the group was leaving Ruthie stuck her hand out and after a brief hesitation the men all shook it. Mr. Merridew laughed a terrible honking laugh, not his usual soft chuckle of satisfaction. No one else laughed, not Ruthie, not the producers.

Afterward Mr. Merridew sighed and scurried down the hall to his office without saying a word. Ruthie stood there very still, her hands hanging useless at her sides. Beside her the secretary at the front desk went on typing as if she were alone. She wore a sky-blue dress and her reddish hair lay in perfect waves. After a while she looked up and glared at Ruthie. They were all like that around her, the other women. As if she were up to some unspeakable business behind the green door of the room where the machine was kept. But all she did in there was sit in a low chair until her back seized up from bending over to open and shut the drawers, and her calf ached from pressing the pedals, patiently playing and replaying until laughter streamed from the machine in perfect waves, swell and pause and roll and crash.

Ruthie really did love her job.

That evening she met Frank at the Italian place he liked so much, and she liked well enough. She was a little distracted, thinking about the meeting with the producers, but not much more distracted than usual. After some time she felt Frank’s narrowed eyes on her.

“Are you hearing a word I say, Ruthie?”

She nodded. Though there were so many of them, and they just kept coming. “You were saying we’re going to dinner with Ray and Thea on Friday.”

“Right. And . . . ?” Frank raised his eyebrows.

“No working late. What time was it again?”

“Six, Ruthie. Six! I just said it!” Frank groaned. His gaze moved restlessly around the room, back and forth, never landing long on Ruthie. She could see him seeing everyone else, evaluating them, always evaluating. She was surprised every day that he didn’t evaluate her once and for all, and move on.

“And dress up nicely,” he added.

“I always dress nicely.”

“Sure you do. But I mean like . . .” He scanned the room again, brows drawn together. “Like her,” he said, jerking his chin toward a nearby table.

Ruthie looked, in spite of herself. She saw two things: first, it was a dress she owned, only hers was dark green instead of sky blue. Bright colors made her nervous. Second, it was the secretary from work.

Ruthie looked away quickly and heard huh . . . (drawer 3, loop 3, a sort of stifled chuckle).

“I have a dress just like that,” she said, but Frank was already saying something else.

Later on, when they were back at her place having a nightcap, she said, “Pauline.”

Frank laughed the way he always laughed when she spoke and he didn’t understand. Patient but making a show of it, like get a load of this, look at what I put up with. “What?”

“Pauline Kenworthy, that’s her name.”

“Who?”

“The lady at the restaurant. The one whose dress you pointed out. She’s a secretary in the audio department.”

Frank’s attention sharpened. “You know her?”

“Yes,” Ruthie said, though it wasn’t true. She knew her to look at, to say good morning and good evening to, that was all.

“Well, ask her where she got her dress, then.” Frank tossed back the rest of his drink and tipped the cherry into his mouth. “And don’t forget, Ruthie—six o’clock. I bet Pauline Kenworthy never gets so caught up in her exciting work that she forgets to leave the office,” he said, through half-chewed cherry.

“I’m sure not,” Ruthie agreed. Then, a moment later: “It’s the same dress. I have that dress.”

Then it was Friday, five o’clock, and Ruthie wading knee-deep in work, of course, elbow to elbow with Mr. Merridew as they frantically rewound and replayed and changed their minds and changed them back again. Once they’d finally come to an agreement about the tracks, Mr. Merridew stood up abruptly, buttoned his jacket, and smoothed down the sleeves. “I’ve got a dinner reservation at six—my wife’ll have me murdered if I’m late. You don’t mind finishing up here?”

Ruthie opened her mouth.

“You’re a brick, Ruthie—you really are. What would we do without you?”

Ruthie closed her mouth again.

Mr. Merridew hurried out, but before long she could hear him chatting with Miss Kenworthy, the lilt of her laughter carrying down the hall. Ruthie knew she put it on, but how did she put it on so well? She was surprised Pauline was still at her desk. Perhaps she had to stay long enough to say goodnight to Mr. Merridew. Ruthie tried to stop listening to the muffled music of their conversation, and eventually succeeded. As she wrapped up the last few tasks she was both aware and unaware of the passing of time, which often seemed to her like a personal insult, an unnecessary process the world had developed purely to inconvenience her. She had plenty of time, in any case. It would only take ten minutes to get a cab and get to the restaurant. And she was wearing the dark green dress.

For a while it was quiet, or else Ruthie had just ceased hearing any sound other than the click and slide and creak of the machine, and the laughter, which was no longer playing, but which played always in her head. Then the peaceful bubble of the work was punctured by the tap-tap-tap of heels coming down the hall, and Ruthie sat up with one hand on a lever and waited, trying without success to compose her face.

“There’s a gentleman here looking for you,” said Pauline, sticking just her head through the door, as if she’d rather not come too close to whatever it was Ruthie did in this dark and stuffy little room.

“Me?”

“Frank,” Pauline said flatly. “He seemed to think you’d know him?”

“Oh—yes—my boyfriend,” Ruthie said, realizing a moment later that it had been a joke.

“He said you have reservations for dinner.”

“That’s right. We do.”

Pauline remained in the doorway.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Ruthie tried.

Pauline pursed her lips. “What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him?”

“He’s in the lobby, pacing back and forth. Waving his hat around.”

Ruthie winced. It was almost too easy to picture. “I’m nearly done—tell him—I don’t know, tell him I’ll be there, he needn’t wait—” It occurred to her to wonder whether Pauline Kenworthy had seen her, too, at the restaurant. Whether she too had been a subject of discussion. She winced again. “I’m sorry—I’m sure you have plans for the evening, too. Just tell him I’ll be out momentarily.”

“Will you, though?” Pauline gestured at the box with its drawers hanging open.

Ruthie sighed. She felt, all at once, exhausted. Partly it was the work and partly Mr. Merridew’s fussing and partly knowing Frank was out there pacing in the lobby and partly the prospect of the long miserable dinner to be got through and partly Pauline Kenworthy, staring at her from the doorway, waiting. Ruthie fixed her with a blank look, pulled a few levers, and then pressed a button: “HA . . . HA . . . HA.”

Pauline jerked back. Then she began to laugh, to laugh in earnest. It was not a sound Ruthie had heard before. All that musical liquid laughter was a show; this noiseless tittering was the real thing. There was a little snort at the end. Pauline’s face reddened and she lifted a hand to her mouth.

“However do you do it?” she asked, coming into the doorway, then into the room. “I really haven’t the faintest idea. I can’t imagine.”

Ruthie considered her for a long time, much longer than was polite. Then she pointed to the top drawer and began to explain. It took some time. The basic mechanic was not so complicated, but there were a lot of steps, and the machine had many quirks that had to be accommodated. Eventually it occurred to her that Pauline’s questions were rather thoughtful. She also realized that she had never explained the machine to anyone before. She’d had it explained to her plenty, by various people, sometimes people who knew very little about it, but she had never been called upon to explain it herself. She found she liked it.

Pauline was in the middle of another question when she stopped dead, her eyes wide. Footsteps came knock-knock-knocking down the hall. There was Mr. Merridew’s voice—surely he’d left by now?—and there was Frank’s, agitated, growing near.

Ruthie stood up from her chair, brushed off the front of her dress, and readied herself to be berated. But Pauline, instead of going out to greet or engage or waylay the two men with her gentle rippling laughter, closed the door with one hand, without even looking behind her, and turned the bolt.

“What?” said Ruthie.

Pauline looked as startled as Ruthie, as if some other person had come into the room and closed the door. She moved her head from side to side. The neat chestnut waves of her hair stayed put. “You know Walter keeps trying to get me to come out with him?”

“Walter?”

“Mr. Merridew. These dinner reservations he has for tonight. He claims his wife or his friend or whoever can’t come and then he wheedles and whines, tries to get me to come out instead.”

Ruthie shook her head, no, no to all of it, no. She didn’t know.

Pauline’s face was stretched tight around her smile.

Ruthie’s hands fluttered over the machine, quickly, on instinct: Heh, heh—uh-heh—ugh . . . (drawer 1, loop 3, drawer 3, loop 6, half-hearted chuckle turning into more of a groan).

Pauline tried to laugh again, but it didn’t seem to take. She wiped the corner of one eye. Behind her the doorknob turned and rattled. There was an outraged murmur. Pauline hurried over to stand beside Ruthie, who sat back down in her chair.

“Who locked this? We never lock this. Must be some mistake. Ruthie!” Mr. Merridew called. “Are you still in there? Miss Ford!”

They said nothing, Pauline and Ruthie, but their breathing was very loud.

“Come on, Ruthie,” said Frank. “Are you in there? Quit fooling around. It’s nearly six! You know how Thea gets when anybody’s late, she’ll complain the whole evening. And then Ray drinks too much, have to stuff them both in a cab home afterward.”

Ruthie pressed the button and the long guttural laugh played again. Pauline giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I hear her!” Mr. Merridew cried. “And is that Miss Kenworthy, too? What on earth are you doing in there?”

“Ruthie!” Frank shouted. “Ruthie, I’m not kidding around!”

“I’ll go and fetch the key—this is unacceptable. Ridiculous, this kind of behavior. I ought to have known better than to hire . . .”

Ruthie missed the rest of Mr. Merridew’s sentence as he hurried down the hall. She could hear Frank muttering to himself, kicking lightly at the door.

“What should we do?” whispered Pauline. Her hands snatched at the fabric of her skirt.

Ruthie turned the volume knob hard to the right. She stepped on a pedal. She adjusted a slider, moved a lever, and then gestured, with great ceremony, at the button.

Pauline’s eyes went wide. She extended one finger with one perfect crimson nail. It hovered there, over the button.

Ruthie began to laugh.