The laugher

He’s got the curse of drawing people, the curse of ants to honey, of rubber necks to car wrecks, but his is the smallest and most odd I’ve seen: it’s a monumental laugh. Audible from fifty paces, a series of joyful barks as from a seal with an amp, from an otherwise nondescript man. When he lets loose, one can barely believe the din’s coming from him. I admit, sometimes when I see him coming, I ramp up the schtick just to see if I can get him going. Awful, no? Some people attract others not by their real being, but by a surface beauty, or a stockpile of assets, or a viper of fame round their necks, and must filter true friends from the swarm of moths drawn to their flame. This fellow has only to sort out who’s goofing him from true camaraderie, and who’s goofing just to get their ears blown back.

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