Grandpa Fell Off the Log

At summer camp, when I was about ten, there was an evening talent show. They lit a bonfire. There weren't enough benches and chairs for everyone, so they laid out logs. The parents came. The kids were supposed to perform: a poem, a song, a dance.

The other kids wanted me to dance with them. The counselors wanted me to recite my poem. I said no. Kind of boring. I decided to tell a joke.

I step out. My voice is breaking. Hoarse. Loud:

— So a king catches an American, an Italian and a Russian. He says: whoever drives through the graveyard at night and doesn't stop gets half my kingdom and my daughter the princess. Whoever stops — off with his head.

The American drives through in a Cadillac. And suddenly a little devil pops out of a grave: “Wee-wee, stop for me!” He stops. Off with his head.

The Italian drives through in a Lamborghini. And again the little devil: “Wee-wee, stop for me!” He stops. Executed.

The Russian drives through in a Zhiguli. The little devil: “Wee-wee, stop for me!” And he goes: “Shit yourself for all I care — my brakes are shot!”

I remember the place roared, and somebody's grandpa laughed so hard he fell off his log!

I'm ten. I'm performing. Parents. Kids. Counselors. Grandpa on a log. And instead of a little poem about summer — a joke about a Zhiguli with no brakes. About “shit yourself for all I care.” The best review of my life. Not “good boy.” Not “A+.” Grandpa fell off the log. Laughing.

That's a win.

And then — Grandma. She'd come in from the city for the show. She said: “Nice children don't tell jokes like that.”

Grandma invented the “not allowed.” Not the world. The world loved it. Not the law. Grandma. Her fear. Her upbringing. Her “that's just not done.” She wanted to hand her fear down to me. Like a relay baton. Like an inheritance. Like a program.

I believed her. Because I was a kid. Because a kid depends. Because a kid loves.

I grew up. And I took that laughter back. That stage. That boy. He was right. Not Grandma.