bill works at the little comedy theatre in the corner of the shopping strip. it's easy to miss the place if you're not looking for it, wedged behind the elevator and between the comic store and the dry cleaners.

he'll come into the store just about every afternoon, carrying his casio keyboard, calling out for tim or alison. in the seven months i've worked in the store, he has not ever remembered my name. each time, it's as if he doesn't even recognize my face. i'm not sure why this bothers me.

bill has gone through some really tough times. the chemicals in his brain sometimes cause a mis-fire and he can go off on violent diatribes. we seldom see these rants, unless he's forgotten to take his medication. sadly there have been occasions where we have had to force bill to leave because of his abusive speech. he's been abandoned by friends and family many times because of this behavior, but has been embraced by the majority of the people who work in the strip.

his favorite forms of communication are his keyboard, on which he plays melodies just recognizable enough to tease your memory and stick in your brain, and jokes. really bad jokes. bill's jokes are not funny. often they are crude. but bill lives for the reaction, so i'll usually chuckle and shake my head.

perhaps one day, bill will remember my name and i will find him funnier than ever before.