WHOOP

by Josh Hopkins

I am going to hell. So my best friend has Tourette Syndrome. I know, I know, insert joke here. Ha, ha. I’m better than that.

Wait for it.

So last night he was co-chairing the Tourette Syndrome Association’s annual fundraising gala, and he asked me to come and support. Now you start to see where this is going… but wait for it.

I show up dressed smartly in a suit, giving the adequate respect the event deserves and head into the banquet room (which is more like an entire building) at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills. I check in at the front. Get my dinner table assignment, head in, shake some hands, converse for a few minutes until they call us into the giant dining room. I spy table thirty-one, introduce myself to the twelve or so people seated at my round dinner table. I’ll take red not white, start eating my salad as the event begins in full. As the speaker takes the stage, I make eye contact a few tables away with my buddy, who says with a nod in Best Friend Short Hand, “Thanks for showing.” I nod, “Of course.” Then a general, “You the man” is exchanged and our attention goes back to the speaker.

Now I’ve known this friend for fifteen years. We were roommates for two of those years and I know well the realities of Tourette Syndrome. I’ve watched and become completely used to my friend’s various ticks, clicks, jerks, and sounds. I’ve seen and been entertained and even laughed at media’s portrayal of the syndrome in print, television, and movies, but honestly that’s kind of a played-out joke to me. It’s more used as an easy laugh nowadays than being anything original or even informative.

I’ve also watched my friend be whispered and laughed about in public. He’s now a very well-adjusted, self-assured, successful adult, and his horror stories of growing up, the ostracism of grade school, junior high, and high school is something anyone would feel nothing but compassion for. So, in short, Tourette to me: not funny. Not in a sanctimonious, soapbox way, but in an I’ve already laughed about it, learned about it, I’m over it way.

So back to our speaker. Up until this time I’ve seen nary a tick nor heard a single Tourettic vocalization. I’m thinking that most of these people must have kids with T.S., and as the speaker continued, it wasn’t easy to distinguish this gala from any other.

It must have been about thirty seconds into his speech that the first “Whoop!” echoed through the banquet hall. It came from somewhere to the right of me, but I didn’t dare look.

Educated by my friend as I am, I know that such a sound could trigger vocalizations from others with T.S. And sure enough, from far back left came a “Whoop!” which was quickly answered by the original whooper’s “Whoop!”

A few seconds and Far Back Left returned the whoop, which was immediately answered again by Original Whooper. “Whoop!” “Whoop!” Back and forth they continued until it was fairly evident that we were in the middle of a whoop-off. That’s when the first tinge of a giggle began to form in my gut. It grew a bit when a third party – somewhere forward right of me – added a “Nnnnuh!”

“Whoop! Whoop!”
“Nnnnuh!”
“Whoop!”
“Nnnnuh!”
“Whoop! Whoop!”

They volleyed back and forth, side to side, no one in the room acknowledging a thing. Now, everyone’s had the you’re-not-allowed-to-laugh-which-makes-it-impossible-not-to-laugh laugh. My dad calls it “laughing in church,” and I was undoubtedly headed that way.

Hey, not cool. Do not laugh, I told myself. But myself told me to fuck off. A laugh was coming like a volcanic explosion, and my smile leaked the steam of the kinetic energy building in my depths.

Then I received a bit of good fortune as the speaker quipped a particularly corny joke to which, as an excuse, I blurted an entirely over-zealous cackle. Rather than seeming like an insensitive asshole, I only looked like an annoyingly overly-peppy schmuck. Cool with me. And while the release helped, it was apparent to me that it was just a pre-shock. The explosion was still in me, and as the chorus of “Whoop!”s and “Nnnnuh!”s were joined by “Hey!”s and “Looou!”s, I knew I was in trouble.

My face reddened and my eyes began to water. Oh shit, I can’t laugh. That’s when, with very poor judgment, I happened to glance toward my friend. To my horror he was staring back at me in the exact same condition I was in. He had seen me start to crack, he had watched my attempts to stifle myself, and in turn he had lost it and was even further along in the giggles than I. When our tear-filled eyes met, it was too late. The recognition between us started both our shoulders to begin shaking up and down, and I immediately broke our gaze and buried my head in my hands. Oh my God.

I panicked. I thought about taking my phone out of my pocket and running out of the auditorium like a doctor called to emergency surgery, but I was further from the exit than almost the entire room, and the thought made me giggle even more. I had only one play: to act like I was crying. It was evident, with my head buried and shoulders shaking, that I was either laughing or sobbing, and I knew I had drawn attention.

Okay, breathe. Deep in and out. In and out, I began to calm myself. The whoops and ticks had continued to grow and it sounded more like a rainforest than a dinner hall, but that wasn’t what was so funny. Hell, that’s sad. A disorder – not a disease, FYI – that afflicts hundreds of thousands and particularly children. That’s not funny, but being there at that moment, unable to laugh, was unimaginably funny. But I had managed to get on top of it.

Okay, I thought with tears coming out of my eyes, Look up and act as if you’ve just had a good cry, and above all else, DO NOT look at your friend.

Deep breath in and I sat up. Peripherally I could see a lady staring at me, but my sullen expression and wipe of a tear sold it. I could tell she was well satisfied that I was deeply moved and not a complete prick.

It was still there though. Inside, bubbling and popping. One spark and I could go up in flames. I felt my body begin to heat up. Oh Lord make me strong, I prayed. I needed divine help because I was no longer in control… and that’s when I had the absolutely amazing epiphany that I was – in this moment – as close to understanding Tourette Syndrome as anyone without it could be. Hell, wasn’t this Tourette itself, or at least a form of it? A cousin for sure. The irony of being ridiculed for acting out uncontrollably at a Tourette convention could not escape me, and the giggling began again. Red faced and crying, I began to lose it.

I could feel the stares. I didn’t dare look at my friend, but I couldn’t help that the image of him laughing in hysterics flashed momentarily across my mind, sending me spiraling further into the full-out giggles. Please, please get it together, I begged of myself.

The speaker had been talking of the misconceptions of T.S. and mentioned that foul language was actually very rare, and then – as if on cue – I heard a “fuck you!” and I was done. Full hysterics. I once again buried my face in my hands, but at this point there was no mistaking this as anything but all-out cackling. A hearty, from-the-soul laugh that was only interrupted by gasps to get oxygen. I may be stoned to death, I thought. Do I run for it?

I couldn’t. I hatched a plan right there in the middle of my fit. That’s when I played the only card I had left to play. I asked God to forgive me for what I was about to do, and in a single motion I lifted my head out of my hands and blurted out a committed “WHOOP!”

It was liberating. It actually felt good. GREAT. My laugh was now under control. As soon as I began to feel the giggles, a hearty “Whoop!” would clear the mechanism, just flush me clean. And these people who were starting to stare at me with disdain now wouldn’t dare look at me. Amazing. They wouldn’t so much as glance at me. I could have stood up in my chair and yelled, “Go fuck yourself!” and no one would have even turned a head. A minute ago I was trying to be as silent as I could and people wouldn’t quit looking at me, and now I was yelling across the room and no one would acknowledge me.

I continued whooping and even tried out a “nnnnuh!” just for the hell of it. Soon the speaker had finished. Soon all the speakers had finished, and at dinner, no one mentioned my fit and I felt terrible as I thanked a few people who told me how brave I was. All this time still not looking at my friend.

As the event broke up and people began to exit I stood to leave and I finally looked over to my buddy. We locked eyes – worried we wouldn’t be able to handle it – and with a nod in Best Friend Short Hand, I said, “Man, I’m sorry.” And he answered, “Are you kidding? I love you.”