I have a distinctive laugh. It’s a determined, full-hearted sound accompanied by the throwing back of my head, clapping of my hands, and slapping my knees.

The woman running last night’s open mic continually referred to me as her favorite audience member, a title that I readily accept. (Often times, when performing for a crowd of comedians, the most you can hope for in response to your punchlines is a subtle nod of approval or a subdued mumble-laugh.) Given that I was shrieking at good jokes, I was objectively the best audience member.

I went on stage. Some jokes worked, some jokes did not.

I stayed to the end, put on my coat, and headed out. I ran into the woman who had emceed the entire evening and had complimented me on my effusive laughter.

“Hey, Dylan, you were great tonight!”
“Wow, thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“And you’re a great comic, too.”

This comment took me aback. I don’t want to be a great comic too. I’ll settle for just being a great comic, thank you very much.

I should mention that my laugh is slightly infamous. I spent innumerable Wednesday nights at my college’s cheap two-dollar theater seeing every sappy romantic comedy, ultraviolent thriller, and cheeseball comedy I could handle. My laugh sailed to the rafters every night.

One day someone stopped my sister on campus (we both went to the same college) and said, “I think your brother went to the same movie I did last night. And it sounded like he enjoyed himself more than anyone else there.”