Maybe You Never Cry Again by Bernie Mac

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    When Rhonda graduated from high school, she was up near the top of her class. I went to the graduation with her family. I was grinning so hard my jaw ached.
    There was a party after, but Rhonda didn’t want to go. She said she’d rather be alone with me. So I took her to a nice place for dinner, just the two of us. We had a good table in the corner, and I felt very romantic. I was thinking I might be the luckiest sumbitch in the world.
    I felt so lucky that the next week I quit school.
    â€œYou did what?” Rhonda asked me.
    â€œIt’s not my thing, girl. After a full day at the scrap yard, that classroom is the last place I want to be.”
    She didn’t crank. But I could see she was a little worried. And I got a feeling something had changed.
    One Friday, not long after, I walked into her house, feeling good. I was fresh-showered and smellin’ fine. “Let’s party,” I said. “Billy knows a guy who’s having this thing at his house.”
    Rhonda looked at me. “All you want to do is be the funny guy at the party,” she said. “Think you a comedian or something?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that?” I said. “I am a comedian.”
    â€œThere’s more to life than parties and laughter,” she said.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me that, woman. I work hard every got-damn day.”
    â€œGotta think about the future, Bern,” she said.
    But I wasn’t thinking about the future. Not often, anyway. And not right then for sure. What I was thinking was that Rhonda was beginning to sound a lot like Geri: Bernie not ambitious enough. Bernie not doing anything with his life. Bernie going to end up working a bullshit job till he dead.
    I guess I must have had some of those fears myself, because it just set me off. And while I’m not a man who loses his temper easy, when I do—watch the hell out.
    â€œYou are a pain in my ass,” I told her.
    She got up off the couch, her hands on her hips, steamed, and looked dead at me. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Bernard Mac,” she said.
    â€œI’ll talk to you any damn way I please,” I said. And I stood up and pushed her down on the couch—pushed her hard —and stormed the fuck out of the house.
    I went to Billy’s friend’s party. Had a few beers. Made everyone laugh. Billy put his arm around me, hugged me. “You are a funny sumbitch, Bernie Mac. You the funniest sumbitch I know. You ought to be out in Hollywood, brother.”
    Felt good. I needed that.
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    The next day, when I got out of bed, I felt lousy about Rhonda. I’d never raised my hand to a woman in my life. That’s not the way I’d been taught. And I loved Rhonda. Then I got to thinking about what she’d said, and I realized that maybe I was worried about the future. But not in the same way. Rhonda wanted me to stay focused; to concentrate on my job; to get promoted and build something and take it seriously. It’s not as if she spelled it out for me, but I got the sense that she was thinking it. And me? To me, working a regular job was just temporary. She was right about there being more to life than parties, but she was wrong about the other thing: There wasn’t more to life than making people laugh. That’s what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a comedian. I wanted to make people laugh.
    Like I said, it was a calling.
    I decided I needed to explain to Rhonda just how serious I was about my comedy, so I called her house. Her mother, Mary, answered. I said, “How you doin’, ma’am. It’s Bernard. Can I speak to Rhonda?”
    â€œRhonda’s not here.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œWent away this morning.”
    â€œ Went away? What do you mean, went away?”
    â€œWent away, Bernard. I can’t talk right now.” And she hung up.
    So I went over to Rhonda’s house, to find out