There are few people who make me laugh. I may offer a light-hearted chuckle, but uncontrollable laughter? That’s hard to come by. I don’t think my taste is unusual; rather I have a high standard. I’ll watch a comedy mostly in silence because I find the jokes mundane. I know some love slapstick comedy, but buffoonery just isn’t for me. I love to be surprised. I need something that makes me think.

So, when a friend reached out with two tickets to see humorist David Sedaris perform at the Waterville Opera House a few weeks ago, I leaped at the opportunity. I hadn’t read any of his books. I, like so many others, knew him from his work on NPR. Drawing on what he knew best — his own life — his appearances had always been clever, quick, and at times irreverent. I couldn’t wait to see him in person and invited my mother to join me.

Sedaris’s performance was not what I expected. He read from essays and short stories, filling the in-between moments with rehearsed jokes and some off-the-cuff remarks. Sedaris can take the ordinary and turn it into an entertaining story. He is engaging and much of what he read was funny. But my takeaway was I found him to be mean.

Early in the evening, he joked that someone had commented how his outfit of culottes, bright jacket, and snappy shoes looked “comfortable.” He reminded the audience how such a “compliment” was a choice and that one could choose to say nothing. It was a joke that landed well. It led to whether people knew how to dress up at all anymore. Sedaris said he had been to a murder trial and the defendant’s mother had worn a Ghostbusters T-shirt. Uproarious laughter. If testifying on behalf of your child for a murder trial wasn’t a time to dress up, what was? I get it, but Sedaris was gleeful about the mother’s “stupidity.” It was more than distasteful, it was derisive. It was unfeeling.

Because Sedaris’s work is largely autobiographical, an explanation began to form as the evening progressed. He revealed a dark childhood. A father who never offered a loving word and a mother who struggled with alcoholism and drug addiction. It came as no surprise when he admitted casually that he had no feelings. So casually, many might have missed it. It echoed in my head and colored the rest of the performance. During a later segment, he mentioned a parent of a child killed in a school shooting. He intended it to be funny. It was grotesque.

I looked around and realized I wasn’t alone in my response. The laughter had changed. There was less of it, and it felt forced. And some people had walked out.

Sedaris genuinely enjoyed the spotlight. He fed off the laughter and audience interaction. He was generous with his time. Conscious of the fact that the evening started late, he read longer. During the Q&A session, he told a Monica Lewinsky joke. The context was inappropriate jokes. Again, I found myself surprised by his lack of empathy and understanding. Even within the framing, he still considered it to be a “good joke.” It wasn’t.

As I drove home, I thought about the night. There were moments of true laughter and joy. And moments of disgust. I’ve since come to several conclusions. I know Sedaris uses his live performances as an editing process to workshop his writing. For anything he reads aloud that doesn’t evoke a good response, he reworks. It’s risky but effective. I’m sure it explains why his books are so well-received. I also get that you can’t please people all the time. But there’s nothing funny about punching-down others. However, I don’t think Sedaris is a bully. Rather, I’m more inclined to believe him when he said he doesn’t have any feelings. I still think he’s an incredibly talented writer. He also lacks compassion, and I feel sorry for him.

Did David Sedaris achieve what he wanted to with me? No. Did I get what I wanted out of him? No. Was it a complete waste? Absolutely not. It wasn’t the evening of laughter I had hoped for, but it sparked a lot of thought and subsequent conversations. I always appreciate that. I’ve also spent some time reading about him and some of his work. I appreciate his skill as a writer and as a performer. Still, he disappointed me.

But being disappointed by others, even gravely disappointed, doesn’t mean we need to dismiss them entirely. If we open our true selves to each other, we’re bound to encounter ugliness.

The question is, are we willing to stick around to find the good they have good to offer?