Author: Jeff Strand
Date: 2004-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humor
Description: From the author of How to Rescue a Dead Princess comes Out of Whack, an outrageous comedy about friendship, love, following your dreams, and other really scary stuff. Seth Trexler has two goals in life: to find success with his off-the-wall sketch comedy troupe, and to win the girl of his dreams. But when you suffer from brain-erasing stage fright and an incredible female-phobia, those goals can be a bit tricky to attain. With his best friend Travis at his side, Seth struggles to overcome his fears (along with the 2,873 other roadblocks in the path to success) in this hilariously demented yet

Out of Whack
by Jeff Strand

Hard Shell Word Factory

This story copyright 2004 by Jeff Strand. All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Cover Art by: Mary Z. Wolf

Published by: Hard Shell Word Factory.

PO Box 161
Amherst Junction, WI 54407
books@hardshell.com
http://www.hardshell.com

Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company.

eBook ISBN: 0759945047

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

To Janice. My bestest.

Table of Contents

The first twenty pages      1-20

The next twenty pages      21-40

Twenty more pages after that      41-60

Page sixty-one      61

Pages sixty-two through ninety      62-90

Perfect bowling score      300

Amount in my bank account      $1.57

IQ of my cousin Goober who eats his own earwax      62

Number of times Goober bumped his head on the ceiling fan before he realized that it hurt      7

Number of times we had to tell Goober to quit making that creepy noise with his armpit during social gatherings      19

Page one-hundred-and-sixteen      243

Really?      No

Introduction

She moaned with unrestrained ecstasy as he cupped her surprisingly hefty breasts with perspiring hands. His tongue slowly roamed her neck... probing... seeking... searching... hunting... questing for the place that would make her snarl with pleasure and demand that he service her sweet spot.

Okay, I have to apologize for that. I wanted a nice opening for this book, and “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” was already taken. It was either this or the meat loaf recipe, so consider yourself lucky.

Anyway, my name is Seth Trexler, who you may, but probably don’t, know as one of the founding members of the comedy troupe Out of Whack. I was the sensitive one. This sure-to-be bestselling book that you’re holding (or listening to on audiotape, or reading off a computer screen, or having beamed directly into your brain by state-of-the-art alien technology) is my life story. Granted, I haven’t been alive all that long, but there’s no story so short that you can’t pad it to book-length. Trust me.

If reading about my life doesn’t thrill you, that’s okay, because even if you don’t read a single word beyond the introduction, this book is still worth the cover price. It makes a handy weapon if thrown with the proper velocity at a soft, protruding part of somebody’s face. It contains a wide variety of words that can be cut out and affixed to any ransom note, allowing kidnappers to practice their livelihood without fear of the police recognizing their handwriting. And the glue in the binding is mighty tasty. (If you’re reading an electronic version, you’d do well to avoid licking anything.)

In addition, every cent I earn from this book will be donated to make life better for babies, puppies, and kittens. Adorable ones. Ones that would be taken outside and stomped with steel-heeled boots if not for the extra money.

So, buy this book! Buy a copy for your mother, who thinks you just don’t care anymore. Buy a copy for your senator and see an instant improvement in performance. Buy a copy for that guy you see every once in a while who is always staring vacantly at the ground going “Oooooh dirt!” Buy every copy you can find, and the next morning when you look at your reflection in the mirror you’ll be able to say, “Good God, I’m attractive!” and truly mean it.

And remember, I love you.

Special Bonus For Students

Hey, Kids! If you checked Out of Whack out from the library to use it for a book report, have I got a treat for you! To reward you for your incredible taste, I’ve already written the report so you can spend the extra time playing outside and getting some fresh air, or rotting in your mildew-laden rooms playing mindless video games.

I took the liberty of writing this report so you won’t have to actually read Out of Whack, because it’s an evil book that will make you into a bad person if you experience it at an impressionable age. It’s got sex and violence and unclean language and an ample helping of regurgitation jokes and even somebody wetting their pants. Adults can enjoy this for the gleeful entertainment that it is, but you children will be worshipping Satan by the end of chapter six.

So, copy this book report, making sure to misspell all the words you would normally misspell, hand it in to your unsuspecting teacher, and enjoy yourselves.

OUT OF WHACK - A Book Report
by ( Your Name Here )

For my book report, I read the book Out of Whack, by Seth Trexler. It’s the story of Mr. Trexler’s comedy troupe, named Out of Whack, which provides the book with its fascinating title. I found this to be the best book ever written, excluding, of course, the materials our brilliant teacher selected for us to read in class. He/she knows the value of literature in the educational process, let me tell you. If we had more teachers like him/her, we’d be stomping those Japanese twerps into the ground.

What I appreciated most about Out of Whack was its use of foreshadowing, symbolism, and foreshadowing of symbolism. “Watch out,” says Travis, one of the primary characters, “because in a few minutes I’m going to throw this conch shell at you.” The shell symbolizes money, which is something that the teachers of our nation should be given in large quantities. Symbolism practically bleeds through the pages, making Out of Whack a challenging yet joyous read, one that enthralled me so intensely I read the book eight times.

While the author’s use of symbolism is on a par with the great literary geniuses of the past, such as Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, and Hugh Beaumont, I would be remiss not to discuss how the use of character development, atmosphere, simile, metaphor, and punctuation blend to form an unbeatable word stew. What can I say about character development, atmosphere, simile, metaphor, and punctuation in such a short space that can truly do justice to the power of its use in this book? As much as it pains me to deal with such a thing, I simply cannot discuss these brilliant concepts in the space allotted without doing the author a grave disservice, and therefore I shall refrain.

Overall, Out of Whack changed my life. After the fifth reading, I took up meditation, and I have become a more fulfilled person because of it. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give this book a 10+. It has made writing book reports fun again. Hooray for the world!

Chapter One

“Prenatal Endeavors”

I’m going to start with a dream sequence that may explain why I’m such a weirdo.

* * *

Diane Trexler sat up in the hospital bed, holding her newborn son. The birth had been just as painful as the Adoption: The Smart Choice pamphlets promised, but now she was truly happy.

Her friends Maxine, Louise, and Elaine entered the room, bursting with excitement. “Let me see him!” said Maxine. “Oooh, he’s so precious!”

“What a little darling!” Louise exclaimed.

“A sweetheart!” Elaine added.

“Ooooooooooooooooh!” the three women said in unison.

“Can I hold him?” Maxine asked. Diane nodded and handed over the child. “Oh, isn’t he beautiful?” Maxine pressed her face to the child’s. “Are you beautiful? Yes you are, yes you are, yes you are! Just think, I could be holding a future president of the United States right now!”

“Or a famous surgeon!” Louise exclaimed.

“Or a Pulitzer-Prize winning author!” Elaine added.

“Ooooooooooooooooh!”

Louise took the baby and cooed.. “And he even has his father’s eyes! See him smile? Diane, he has your dimples!”

“Of course, you’ll want to start saving for a nose job,” Elaine remarked.

“What?” Diane asked.

“Well, look at that thing. It looks like an oversized lump of Silly Putty.”

The other women murmured in agreement.

“He has the same nose as my mother!” Diane protested.

“She didn’t exactly have men breaking down her door after your father died, did she?” Maxine pointed out. “Oh, but look at those little hands!”

“Ooooooooooooooooh!”

“Let me hold the sweet angel,” said Elaine.

“Here you go,” said Louise, handing over the infant. “Just watch out for his breath.”

“What’s wrong with his breath?” Diane demanded.

“Oh, don’t be naive. Your child’s breath could burn a hole through an armored car.”

“Babies don’t have bad breath!” Diane insisted.

“You’re right,” Maxine agreed. “It must be a medical problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him!” Diane snatched back her baby.

“So what did you name the little heartbreaker?” Elaine asked.

“Abner.”

The other women groaned. “Well,” said Maxine, “I hope you know a good doctor for when the other kids kick the living crap out of him every day at school.”

“We named him after his great uncle!”

“The rapist?”

“No! The scientist!”

Elaine sighed. “Oh, wonderful. So your son is going to be a total geek.”

“I’ll have you know that my great uncle Abner did vital medical research.”

“Then your son stands a good chance of catching an infectious disease in the line of duty,” Louise pointed out.

“Oh, I hope it isn’t a horribly debilitating bacteria,” said Maxine. “It would be a shame for such a precious child to die a misshapen, pus-oozing freak.”

“Hidden from the rest of humanity,” Elaine elaborated, “living in misery, sleeping in his own vile excrement...”

“...cursing the forces that condemned him to this soulless existence...”

“...holding the rusty razor blade to his wrist, working up the courage...”

“...and finally, as the hot crimson blood jettisons from his savaged flesh, shrieking ‘Why, Mother, why?’ at the top of his phlegm-clogged lungs.”

Diane stared at her friends for a long moment, then burst into tears.

“Oh, now you’re upsetting the little darling,” said Louise, taking the baby. “I hate to see such a lovely child cry.”

“And he’s truly a beautiful baby,” said Elaine.

“Ooooooooooooooooh!”

* * *

This was an actual dream my mom had before I was born. Depending on how much she’s had to drink, when she reaches this point of the story she’ll either say “And then I woke up screaming,” or let out a shriek that could dislodge any kidney stone within a hundred feet. Mom’s pretty laid-back and conservative, but she doesn’t handle alcohol well.

She was eight months pregnant when she had the nightmare, and had been suffering juuuuuuuuuust a bit of angst over having a child. My dad was having a smidgen of angst himself, considering that they weren’t married, weren’t out of college, and he hadn’t even worked up the nerve to tell his parents. But, as he did every night that she spent in his dorm room, he tried to reassure her.

“Everything is going to be okay, sweetie.”

“Oh, Howard, do you really think our child will turn out all right? I mean, he is just the product of a discount condom...what if that affects him throughout his life?”

“He’ll be fine, sweetheart. We’ll be wonderful parents. I know the pregnancy was just as unexpected for us as the conception was for all those people who were there when the elevator doors opened, but we’ll do great.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do. And the whole situation is filled with benefits. Now when somebody asks you if you’re pregnant, you don’t have to take it as an insult.”

“I love you, honey,” said my mom, snuggling up against him. “But can I ask a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Could we name our son something besides Abner?”

“Sure we can. I still kinda like Seth. Go back to sleep, sweetie. And don’t worry, our son will make us proud.”

* * *

Note to readers named Abner: Please feel free to revise the previous section to read “Milton.”

* * *

Note to readers named Milton: Please feel free to leave the previous section as “Abner.”

* * *

Though I was definitely present, my actual birth is not at the forefront of my memory. But apparently it was quite an event. My mom went into labor in the middle of one of the worst snowstorms in recorded history. She was watching TV in her dorm room with her roommate Sally Harpesty and Sally’s nerd boyfriend Chuck. My dad was in his own dorm studying for his Sex Education final, which he eventually failed. Here’s a transcript of what happened, and please keep the accusations of “creative license” or “slight exaggeration” or “blatant lying” to yourself.

* * *

TV ANNOUNCER: ...that’s right, this amazing watch is truly a bargain. Any watch can tell you the time and date, but the incredible SPUD 2000 also goes “beep” every hour on the hour. And that’s not all! It also differentiates between a.m. and p.m. to protect against those inconvenient—

NEWSCASTER: We interrupt this program to bring you this important announcement. The plows are trying hard, but most of the area remains snowed-in. If you have a pregnant woman around who’s ready to go into labor at any time, it’s time to get out that book on home delivery.

[ Mom grits her teeth and winces in pain. ]

SALLY: You know, you’ve been having these sharp pains for the past few hours. Are you sure you’re okay?

MOM: Yeah. It was probably just the chicken bone I had last night.

SALLY’S NERD BOYFRIEND CHUCK: But the pains are hitting at shorter and shorter intervals? Don’t you think you should see a doctor or something? It could be your appendix!

[ Something quite gross happens, which I shan’t describe here. ]

SALLY: OH MY GOD!!! I think she’s about to become unpregnant!

MOM: Pant, pant, gasp, gasp, moan, moan, grunt, grunt!

SALLY: Take Chuck’s hand! Squeeze it if you feel pain!

[ Mom takes Chuck’s hand. ]

SALLY: All right, go for it! Go, go, go!

[ Sound of bones breaking. ]

CHUCK: Aaaargh! My hand! My hand! This bitch is crushing my hand!

SALLY: I think it’s coming!

MOM: I’d appreciate it very much if somebody would kill me now.

SALLY: I can see the head! Oh, yuck, it’s got gook all over it!

CHUCK: Aaaaaaargh! Get her off me! Get her off me!

[ Chuck bites down on Mom’s hand to loosen her grip. ]

SALLY: It’s a...a...a...dang, it’s all the way out and I still can’t tell what it is. A boy, I think. Congratulations!

Soon after my birth, my parents graduated, got married, moved into their own home, and finally informed my dad’s parents that they were now grandparents. And we became one happy family.

Chapter Two

“Suffer From the Children”

I was a noisy child. I admit it. According to my mom, who develops a nasty facial twitch whenever she recounts it, I relished nothing more than to kick the sides of my crib and scream, scream, scream. When my parents would come in to see what was the matter with me, I would giggle and carry on like it was the most fun I’d ever had. After they returned to enjoy the average of forty-five non-consecutive minutes of sleep that they got each night, I’d start kicking the crib again. Dad was getting to the point where he didn’t trust the new voices in his head not to tell him to smother me with a pillow.

Like my birth, I don’t remember my second birthday, but it was supposedly an interesting event. The entire extended family had gathered to see cute little Seth blow out his candles, and cute little Seth proceeded to dunk his face into the cake, ignoring the fact that the cake contained a pair of lit candles. I was rushed to the hospital with a great deal less of the hair I’d cultivated up to that point, and my mom entered the elite society of Valium users. I remained an only child simply because I had been born first.

I started telling jokes at an early age. At age five, I interrupted my mom’s bridge group to share a joke I’d overheard from my uncle. I can’t remember it exactly, but it involved a farmer’s daughter and a door-to-door salesman. Fortunately, I didn’t tell the joke quite right, and my mom’s friends were left wondering what kind of agricultural development was responsible for a twelve-inch peanut.

One day, when I was seven, I was walking through a friend’s kitchen, paying as little attention as possible to where I was going, and smacked into the refrigerator. This elicited a laugh from my friend, and boom, I became Slapstick Man! Anywhere I thought I could get a laugh, either by bumping into something, falling, dropping a messy food product, whatever, I did it. Sure, I got hurt a few times, but to me the laughs were worth it. I hadn’t yet learned the difference between people laughing at me and laughing with me. This went on for about a two-month period, known affectionately as Seth’s Really Stupid Phase.

My Really Stupid Phase came to an end when my dad sat me down for a serious talk after signing my cast. We never had many serious talks. The poor guy just wasn’t any good at them, and still isn’t. A few years later, when we had our serious talk about the birds and the bees and other interspecies relationships, he got wrong the few parts that he didn’t try to distract me from hearing. The talk that ended the reign of Slapstick Man was simple.

“Son,” he said, “does your arm hurt?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Do you know why it hurts?”

“‘Cause I broke it.”

“And why’d you break it?”

“I fell out of the tree.”

“Exactly. Knock that kind of crap off. Now go get me my pipe and tobacco.”

The next year I entered Practical Joke Phase. This phase was not pretty. The fake insects and reptiles left in strategic locations were just the beginning. Everyone learned not to accept candy or gum from me because it would dye their lips, burn their tongue, or contain a bug. Condiment containers almost never held the correct condiment. I used creamed corn to give fake vomit a more realistic appearance. Shaking hands with me was certain tragedy. (While we’re on the subject, I think somebody should invent a joy buzzer diaphragm as a gag gift for brides-to-be.) I had a collection of five whoopee cushions, and they were always hidden somewhere...waiting...

Yes, I was a brat. I’m sure that more than one adult, upon leaving our house, felt compelled to remark “What a darling little shithead.” But one day I watched an episode of some sitcom where the youngest and cutest child learned an important lesson: Practical jokes might be amusing to the person playing them, but to the victims they’re not always so funny. So I said “forget it” and retired the disappearing ink.

Okay, that’s a lie. It was a big-time spanking from my Aunt Valerie that cured me. I poured itching powder down her back (I used that stuff in bulk) and before she’d fully recovered from that prank, she sat on a toilet seat coated with a thin layer of special glue that was marketed for just that purpose. It was a long time before either of our butts recovered.

After those infamous phases in my life, I turned to joke books. I’m sure my constant jokes and riddles got annoying, but my parents were relieved about this switch in brands of humor, so they encouraged me by buying me dozens of those books and always saying “Who’s there?” on cue. That’s when I found that, though I couldn’t remember squat about math or geography, I could effortlessly remember jokes.

This is when my social standing amongst my parents’ friends rose, at least a bit. I was always welcome to share a few of my newest jokes with guests. Of course, I always had to be reminded that a “few” did not mean “forty,” but at least I wasn’t faking my own death anymore.

Telling jokes that other people had written soon led to writing my own. I guess, due to their historical significance, I should share two or three with you. And I will if you just give me a few minutes to work up the nerve.

[ A few minutes pass. ]

Okay, here are the first two jokes I sat down and wrote out. Hold your stomachs, ‘cause there’s gonna be some guffawin’ tonight!

A little girl walked up to a man. “What are you doing?” she asked. “None of your beeswax,” the man said. The girl said “I don’t have any wax, and besides, I’m scared of bees.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Seth.”

“Seth who?”

“Seth the thermostat on seventy-two. It’s too cold in here.”

Moving onward...very, very quickly...

When I was ten, an event occurred that was to be the most important moment in my comedy career. It was the nice sunny summer day when I first met Travis Darrow.

Did I mention that we lived in the suburbs? I don’t think so. Actually, it doesn’t look like I’ve filled you in on any of that geographical stuff that enriches the narrative and makes you feel like you’re really there. I suppose I’d better, just to be on the safe side. I lived in Sharpview, Ohio, which is about an hour from Cleveland. Population 22,000. A nice neighborhood called Slimoor Estates, named after Howard Slimoor, who was less than pleased that we kids liked to call it Slime Estates. I say, if you don’t want people messing with your name, get a name that isn’t so easily messed with.

I guess I should also point out that when I was ten, I wasn’t quite the stud muffin that you may know and lust after (or wish that your significant other didn’t lust after, depending on your gender preference). Naturally, there was always a degree of stud muffinship in my aura, but at ten it wasn’t as fully developed. It has occasionally been brought to my attention that the words “skinny little dweeb” might be appropriate, but I think that’s an exaggeration. My haircut did fall into the category of “nerdish.” And, well...

Ah, screw it. I was a total, 100%, card-carrying Dork. That’s right, I admit it. Seth Trexler was a Dork Supreme! Dork, dork, dork! If you saw a picture of me during that time, you’d spit up a larynx from laughing so hard. Send me a letter and $199.95 and I’ll send you one. A larynx, I mean...no way am I sending you a photo.

So, there I was, skateboarding down the sidewalk, weaving around all the spat-out gum, when I saw Travis in the park. He also fit the “dork” mold. Skinny, braces, red hair sticking up in something vaguely resembling a style, and about a billion freckles. He was kneeling in the sandbox, taping some action figures with a video camera. This bore further investigation. I hopped off the skateboard and walked over to him, causing him to speak what I consider a historic first word to me.

“Dammit!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Your shadow got all over my characters!”

I stepped back. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, move back where you were. I’ll keep your shadow in there. It’s an eclipse. The robot’s solar-powered, and this shuts him down long enough for Vantor to get away. But it’s a quick eclipse, and the robot regains its power in time to chase him across the muck field. You were a little more to the left. Yeah, there. Don’t move.”

“Where’s the muck field?”

“It’s that patch of tar on the street. Don’t move.”

I tried to remain steady. “Is that your camera?”

“My dad had it in the attic. You’re moving.”

He pressed a button on the camera and held it for a split second, then reached over and moved an armored figure (Vantor: Defender of the Scum People) about half an inch. Then he filmed for another split second.

“How long is this going to take?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I move some of the figures?”

“Then how would you be an eclipse?”

“I’ll move them then stand back up.”

“Okay, you can move Sorikand and Quart if you don’t knock them over. I’ll tell you how to move them. Only do it a little at a time.”

I crouched down beside the sandbox. “How about you have the robot kill that guy next to him? He could pop his head off.”

“I don’t want to wreck my figures.”

“I’ve got a bunch of figures at home. We can destroy them. I even have firecrackers.”

And in that moment an instant friendship was formed.

Chapter Three

“Friends and Octopi”

We never did get more than five minutes of the adventures of Vantor taped, though in those five minutes my figures were punctured, dismembered, melted over an open flame, sunk in homemade quicksand, and tortured with minor acids from Travis’ chemistry set. Their cries for mercy went unheeded. Heh heh.

The rest of the summer was an absolute blast. Travis loved hearing my jokes, though when he tried to tell them himself the results were disastrous. Have you all heard the joke about the string going into the bar? I personally have nightmares about that one, but it’s nice and simple, with a somewhat clever little pun at the end. Except for the time Travis told it...

“This string walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender says ‘Hey, we don’t serve strings here.’ So the string says ‘Okay’ and walks outside, then he frays himself and ties himself into a frayed knot. So he goes back into the bar and the bartender says ‘Hey, aren’t you that string?’ and the string says ‘No, I’m a frayed knot’ and so the bartender gets him a drink. And then the string says...ummm...he says something...”

Sigh.

What Travis could do is come up with amazing adventure stories. He lived for aliens, boogey men, pirates, giant mutant bugs—all that stuff. When we would construct elaborate scenarios with our action figures, he was in charge, and my attempts to interject slapstick into the proceedings were not appreciated. You should all be aware that the Dark Raider would not let himself slip on a banana peel and fall off a cliff. Don’t make the same mistake I did.

Together we had close to 150 figures from seven different terrible Saturday morning cartoon shows, and Travis knew the full background of each and every one of them. I knew which ones had the coolest guns. And while my contributions to the action were generally ripped-off from the latest episode of the cartoon, Travis’ were entirely original, though strictly within the guidelines of the character and his powers.

We did other stuff during that summer, too. Neither of us were much interested in sports, which are by definition boring and far beyond our abilities, but we liked to walk through the woods, go to movies, watch enough TV to justify our parents’ concerns about brain rot, and eat lots of candy. Lots and lots of candy.

It was the quest for candy on one extremely hot day that led to something that I’ll just refer to as The Incident. Our mission for that day was to pick up a pair of Hershey bars each, a new action figure for me, and a new video cassette for Travis’ camera. We stopped at the grocery store first, and were so pleased with its fully functioning air conditioning system that we decided to hang around for a while. So we just walked up and down the aisles, discussing the pros and cons of almonds in chocolate bars, when Travis noticed one of the most wonderful things either of us had ever seen in our lives.

There it was, waiting for us in the seafood department.

An octopus.

A real octopus, though fairly small, wrapped up just like it was a steak. Perhaps your grocery stores contain octopi in abundance, but this was the first time either of us had seen one of them in person. We were impressed. Very impressed. Forget the action figure and tape. We had to have that octopus for our very own.

So we bought it, along with our candy bars, and hurried home to Travis’ backyard. Removing the cellophane was a simple enough task, but the actual removal of the octopus required a greater degree of bravery. You see, those things are slimy and have suckers. And we couldn’t be sure it was really dead, could we?

“I’ll give you two blocks of chocolate if you take it out,” I said, with the intention of immediately stuffing the rest of the candy bar in my mouth after the task was completed, opening my mouth wide, and inviting him to claim his payment.

“Uh-uh. I’ll give you one of mine if you do it.”

“Nope.”

“I dare you to pick up the octopus.”

That was playing dirty, but it still didn’t work. We decided to pick up the octopus with two sticks, each of us holding one. If you’ve ever attempted to lift an octopus (or any unshelled mollusk, for that matter) with two sticks, you’ll realize that it doesn’t work, especially when the participants are more focused on trying to flip the octopus onto each other.

Finally we donned protective gloves, each hesitantly grabbed a tentacle, and picked up the creature. Within two minutes our anxieties had vanished and we were tossing the octopus back and forth like a football. We pressed it against the window to see if the suckers on its tentacles would hold it there. We brought out the action figures and gave them a fearsome new enemy with which to do battle.

Well, even something as fantastic as your very own dead octopus gets boring after a while. We needed to do something special with it. Something glorious.

It’s worth mentioning at this point that Travis had an older sister.

Okay, so I wasn’t completely out of my Practical Joke Phase. And since we’d used our own money to purchase the octopus, it would’ve been a waste of resources not to slip it under the covers of his sister Margaret’s bed. Right?

And so we did. I stayed over at his house that night, but by that evening we’d forgotten about the octopus. We went to bed without giving it another thought.

Travis was a middle child, but there was quite a gap in ages between his siblings. His younger brother Kyle was four, and Margaret was seventeen. She was always a nice girl, a good student, never got into much trouble. In fact, there was only one secret in her life that her parents would have seriously disapproved of. Every once in a while, not too often (I guess we just have to take her word for this), she would sneak her boyfriend into her room after everyone else had gone to sleep.

At 1:38 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, there was a piercing shriek. Travis and I hurried out of his room next door to investigate. Travis’ parents burst out of their own room across the hall, and his dad threw open Margaret’s door.

Pretend you’re Travis’ dad. You see your daughter standing in her room, totally freaked out, and not wearing a shirt. Her boyfriend, a large, muscular type, is desperately trying to get her to quiet down while he pulls on his jeans.

Do you assume a) she found an unexpected dead octopus under the covers, or b) her large, muscular boyfriend got a little carried away with the hanky-panky?

The rest of the night was rather unpleasant. It included a really cool punch to the jaw by Travis’ dad, lots and lots of shouting that included “Go get my shotgun!” and a visit from the police. It ended with explanations all around, and severe punishments for all the youthful participants. Though Margaret was technically grounded “for the rest of her life,” her parents paroled her after a month. Travis got one week. After my parents were notified, I got two, which still seems kind of unfair.

* * *

Summer drew to a close, as those traitorous summers are wont to do. The specter of a new school year hovered above us, mocking us, laughing at our feeble attempts to squeeze as much fun as we possibly could into the last days of freedom.

The Saturday before homework season began, I spent the night at Travis’ house again. His mom decided that we needed to practice getting up early, and thus sent us to bed at 9:30 p.m. We gave her recommendation of going to sleep ample consideration, ultimately rejected it, and spent a while just talking. We discussed the fact that we were both going to be in Mrs. Talbot’s class, which was absolutely terrifying. It was said that if you looked deep into her eyes you would know what true evil was, and it would haunt you until your dying day. As it turned out, Mrs. Talbot was a perfectly nice woman, and the students she axe-murdered for her unholy rituals weren’t close acquaintances anyway.

“Know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Travis asked me.

“Eat your boogers?” I was ten, remember. My ad-lib skills weren’t quite honed yet.

“No.”

“Eat somebody else’s boogers?”

“No. I want to start a story. Do a page of it every single day for the rest of my life. It’d be the longest story ever written.”

“I’ll help you with it,” I offered. “We can write it together.”

“Okay, and when we’re not together, one of us will have to write it alone. We’ll keep it in notebooks, and trade them back and forth. And we have to promise to do one page every day, no matter what. Okay?”

“Okay. What do you want it to be about?”

“We should make up a brand new super hero.” Travis went over to his desk and grabbed a notebook. He tore out the first few already-used sheets, then picked up a pencil. “We’ll start with his origin.”

He started to write. I peered over his shoulder.

Once upon a time...

“Hey!” I said, glancing at his clock. “That killer horse movie is on! Wanna start writing this tomorrow?”

“Sure, all right.”

We started writing the next day. We decided to exercise some forethought and title our epic tale “Travis and Seth’s Story,” because you never knew what plot twists might come about and invalidate other titles.

Believe it or not, we stuck with it. No, we didn’t write every day, and we usually didn’t do the full page, but this wasn’t an idea that we tossed aside after a week or so, like learning the guitar or brushing our teeth. Our hero was a lively, moralistic chap named Trychen who wore gold body armor and could fly despite being weighed down by all that gold. He was a very effective hero, going through villains at the rate of approximately one every five days.

There were some notable differences in writing styles at first. When I had the story to myself, there were no limits, and as much over-the-top silliness as I could squeeze in. The creation of Butt-Man was one of my more legendary moments. Travis’ contributions were more focused and took the material seriously. He killed off Butt-Man the second he got a chance, though Butt-Man’s byproduct soon rose and tried to seek vengeance. When we were writing together, there was no way to tell what was going to happen. Creative differences flew fast and thick, but we always managed to work it out, even if it meant coming to blows on occasion and threatening to end our friendship on a bi-weekly basis.

At the end of four years, we had almost five hundred pages written. I’m talking about handwritten pages, so it’s not like we were in Robert Mitchum territory, but it was still one long story. And there were several noteworthy changes as the tale evolved. Females began to play a larger role, with Trychen’s girlfriends often coincidentally having the same names as certain damsels at our school. Instead of my contributions becoming more serious, Travis’ grew more and more silly (I was a bad influence on him), until, by age fourteen, we were writing an all-out comedy novel.

Well, we were trying, anyway.

And, of course, our handwriting improved.

Chapter Five

“Why Dating Should Be Illegal”

Did I skip chapter four? This book-writing thing is more difficult than I thought. Oh well.

I sometimes think the reason we got into comedy was that our lives contained such an overdose of insanity. A good example is our first date (we doubled), which happened in eighth grade and should have been a nice little dinner-and-a-movie deal. Now, lots of people have the First Date From Hell. Travis and I had the First Date From Hell And Seventeen Other Unseasonably Hot Locations.

Here’s the conversation that led up to the “asking” portion of planning this event, which is, of course, the most difficult step, especially when you’re a dork. It starts a couple of minutes after school has been let out, with me pointing across the school hallway at Marcia Levay. Tall, leggy, dark hair and complexion, great smile with no teeth missing, way above-average looks. She was what we liked to call Bucket Material, referring to the object used to catch all the drool she produced in us.

“Hey, why don’t you ask her out?” I said. (Making The Suggestion)

“‘Cause she’d stomp me like a boll weevil.” (Reality Rears Its Ugly Face)

“So what?” (Adopting The Carefree Attitude Of One Who Isn’t Putting Himself In Danger Of Being Stomped)

“What do you mean, so what?” (The Stupid Question)

“So what?” (The Stupid Answer)

“Fine, I’ll do it.” (The Surprise Decision)

“Really?” (Shock, Awe, And A Bit Of Doubt)

“Yep.” (Confirming The Decision...Or Blatantly Lying?)

And so, Travis walked across the hallway to where Marcia was fixing her hair in the mirror attached to the inside of her locker door. He was a brave man, that Travis. A true hero. As he strode over toward her, toward the unknown charms and unknown dangers of the female of our species, I felt an admiration like nothing I’d ever felt before.

Until I heard his question.

“Marcia, Seth wants to know if you’ll go out with him Saturday night.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t drinking anything, because I would have sprayed it all over the place. Though at the time I would have enjoyed choking on it and dying.

Marcia glanced over at me. Considering the plethora of stupid things I could have done at that moment, it’s amazing that all I did was drop my books. It’s also amazing that despite the dreaded 890 page hardcover tome Introduction to Biology landing corner-first on my foot, I didn’t scream. I smiled in pain.

That temptress Marcia then proceeded to lean over and whisper something in Travis’ ear. Travis grinned the grin of one who knows something that his best friend will pay out the nose to learn. My deodorant instantly disintegrated.

As my life began flashing before my eyes, Travis walked to me, still grinning. Marcia closed her locker and walked down the hall without a backward glance. Or maybe she did glance backward and I just didn’t see it because my vision was so blurry.

“Well, that was fun,” said Travis. “You wanna come over after school?”

“What did she say?” I demanded.

“Who?”

This was not the first time I’d confronted the dark side of Travis’ personality. It was not to be the last, by a long shot. But I still wanted to throw him to the ground and jump on his head eight or nine times.

“Marcia,” I said, through clenched teeth.

“Marcia who?”

“Come on, Travis! What did she say?”

“Ooooh, you mean Marcia Levay! That girl I was just talking to. Tall, dark hair, orange sweater...her?”

“Yes. That would be her.”

“Come to think of it, she did say something to me. She whispered it in my ear, even. You’d like her perfume. It’s a lot like what you wear.”

I curled my fists. “I could kill you right now and go to the electric chair a happy man.”

“Stop it, you’re distracting me. I’m trying to remember what she said. It was kind of garbled, you know, like when you play that game where you whisper something into somebody’s ear and they whisper it into the ear of the person next to them and you go down the line until the last person says something out loud that’s completely different from what the first person whispered. But I think I can remember if you give me enough time.”

“Come on, Travis. This isn’t funny.”

“You’re distraaaaacting me,” said Travis in a singsong voice.

I really, really wanted to grab him and slam the jerk against my locker, hoping that the combination dial would break a vertebrae or two, but something like that would probably have delayed the transfer of information. So I remained calm.

“I’m trying to think of what it was. I mean it.” Travis squeezed his eyes shut in exaggerated concentration. “I seem to have this lingering memory of her not saying anything and just sticking her tongue in my ear, but that might have been somebody else. Let me think...think... think...think...damn this unreliable brain of mine!”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have spoken without screaming.

“It’s really weird, you know? I can’t remember what Marcia Levay whispered into my ear just a minute ago, but I can remember the entire lyrics to the Brady Bunch theme song. Maybe if I start singing it, it will help me remember. It’s the story, of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovely girls...”

I’ll spare you the rest of the musical interlude, even though that bastard went through the entire thing, including the previously unrevealed erotic verse. After he finished humming the musical riff at the end, he closed his eyes again and fell into deep concentration.

“Okay...it’s coming to me...it’s almost here...almost...”

My mouth went dry and my knees felt weak.

“She said...that...”

I’m pretty sure my heart literally skipped a beat, which can’t be good for the circulation.

“...you can ask her yourself.”

My relief that it had finally been revealed was short-lived. Because now a greater mystery stood before me. If I asked her out, would she actually say “Yes?” Were her words to Travis an invitation, or a dismissal?

What a cruel, cruel world!

“So, you gonna ask her?” Travis wanted to know.

“Uhhhhhh...” I replied, which, in my mind, meant both “Hell yeah!” and “No freakin’ way!” at the same time.

“Do it,” Travis prodded.

“Uhhhhhh...” I repeated, though this time I had no idea what it meant.

It’s situations such as these that make arranged marriages sound like a great idea.

It wasn’t long before I came to a decision. Yes, I was going to ask Marcia Levay out. I was going to break down the thick stone barriers between myself and the opposite sex.

This was a fairly easy decision to arrive at, actually, since Marcia was nowhere in sight.

“Yeah, I am,” I said.

“Great! We better catch up to her!”

That certainly wasn’t my intention. But as Travis took off, I followed, my legs feeling like they had turned into Slinkys. We hurried outside to the front of the school and did a quick search, but Marcia was nowhere in sight. She hadn’t been waiting by the door with open arms, ready to breathlessly proclaim “Oh, my Knight, these past minutes waiting for you hath seemed an eternity! Please taketh me to your castle of red hot loving!”

She was gone. Did this mean she really didn’t want me to ask her, or was she playing hard to get? What did this mean? How dare she toy with my emotions like this? Was she not human?

“Hey, Seth?” asked a voice that was too feminine to be Travis. I turned around and saw Heidi Kurson, easily the tiniest eighth grader in school, with long blonde hair and glasses. Definitely cute. Definitely a bit nervous.

“Yeah?”

“My friend Michelle...” Heidi pointed over to Michelle, who was leaning against the flagpole and reading a textbook in a fatally flawed attempt to look casual, “...and I have passes to a sneak preview of that horror movie Splat Goes The Weasel. We wanted to know if you and Travis wanted to come with us.”

Marcia who?

Coincidences. Gotta love ‘em.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to see that.” I’d never heard of it, actually, but it never hurts to lie in the interests of romance.

(NOTE: This is not a self-help book. Statements such as “it never hurts to lie in the interests of romance” are not to be taken seriously. Don’t lie to your spouse or lover. I mean it. Down that road lies nothing but trouble. Respect them as you want to be respected, and you’ll all be happier people.)

The sneak preview was Saturday night, which gave Travis’ and I plenty of time to plan for/fantasize about/freak out over the upcoming date. We would eat dinner at Zort’s Cafe, followed by the movie, followed by a wildly unfair eleven o’clock curfew. We both knew Heidi reasonably well, but Michelle was an enigma, a fact that disturbed Travis.

“What if she’s a psycho?” he kept asking.

“That’d be really cool,” I kept saying.

The excitement continued to build like a snowball rolling down a hill. By Thursday the snowball was the size of a house, by Friday the snowball was the size of a school, and by Saturday afternoon the snowball was the size of a skyscraper. Little did we know that on Saturday night the snowball would roll into a nearby town, wiping out the populace, bringing death and destruction to everything in its path.

Saturday night arrived. Here, presented in sequence, are all the things you missed by not being there:

5:00 p.m.: Travis and I start getting ready, as we have only two hours before we’re supposed to be at Heidi’s house. Clothing selection is fairly simple, since we see no reason to progress beyond jeans and sweaters. Then we decide that the peach fuzz we’ve been proudly cultivating on our upper lips should come off.

5:05 p.m.: Our initiation into this manly ritual is delayed by a shaving cream war.

5:10 p.m.: Travis makes a genuine attempt to apply the shaving cream and gets a big blob up his nose. Makes hilarious noises for a minute as he tries to wash it out.

5:11 p.m.: Annoyed by my amusement, Travis tries to apply shaving cream to the inside of my nose as well. The shaving cream war resumes full force.

5:30 p.m.: The bathroom and upstairs hallway are clean again. Travis and I are informed by my parents that we are behaving like children, and that my dad would much rather watch television than drive us to the movies, and so we damn well better shape up.

5:35 p.m.: We try to shave.

5:36 p.m.: We start to bleed.

5:40 p.m.: Our faces become the toilet paper capital of Ohio.

5:45 p.m.: The peach fuzz satisfactorily removed (as far as we can tell beneath the toilet paper coating), we retreat to my bedroom to write another page of “Travis & Seth’s Story.” In our last exciting page, our fearless hero was about to be engulfed by the horrific Death Goo, with no escape in sight! How will our hero survive? What can he possibly do to get out of such a dire situation? What, I ask you, what? What? What?

6:00 p.m.: We still can’t agree on what.

6:10 p.m.: We finally reach a compromise. Travis is allowed to have Trychen use his superhuman dining abilities to eat the Death Goo if I’m allowed to have the Death Belch afterward take on physical form and attack.

6:30 p.m.: The page has been written, with less debate over semicolons than usual. We check on the progress of our cuts. They look presentable.

6:35 p.m.: The ol’ stomach cocoons hatch into demon butterflies on speed.

6:40 p.m.: We inform my dad that it’s time to go. He’s heavily involved in a That Wacky Orangutan rerun, but finally relents.

7:00 p.m.: We arrive at Heidi’s house. The butterflies nearly break their way out of my stomach lining. We sit in the car for a moment, working up the necessary courage. My dad does his part in ensuring that the evening goes smoothly by telling us to “Get a move on, dammit!”

7:02 p.m.: I try to ring the doorbell but miss. Travis looks at me like I’m an idiot. I am forced to come to terms with the fact that females truly scare the hell out of me.

7:03 p.m.: We are invited inside by Heidi’s dad, who seems to regard us as representatives of some roving pervert brigade. The girls aren’t ready yet, so we sit down and withstand an in-depth questioning on our plans for the evening in terms of wholesomeness of activities and number of witnesses present.

7:15 p.m.: Heidi and Michelle come downstairs, ready at last. They look...well, ugly. Apparently they spread six pounds of makeup into a pan and then slammed their faces into it. The words “hideous,” “grotesque,” and “EEEEEEK!!!” all apply. Heidi’s dad, viewing this as the start of vixens in training, immediately sends them back upstairs to hose off.

7:25 p.m.: Heidi and Michelle come downstairs, ready again at last, but in rather foul moods. Their exit is cleared with Heidi’s dad, and we leave the house.

7:26 p.m.: We realize that my dad has been waiting in the car for almost half an hour.

7:27 p.m.: We begin the drive to the movie theater, during which we hear a great deal about how my dad was waiting in the car for almost half an hour.

7:40 p.m.: As we speed along the freeway and listen to my dad’s gripe fest, the rear tire explodes. The car careens out of control, eliciting a scream from Heidi, Michelle, and Travis. Travis’ less-than-manly response would normally provoke some sort of comment from me, except that my own response was to wet my pants. While there are more inconvenient times for the bladder to give up its treasure (when performing a baptism, for example), during one’s first date ranks high on the list.

7:43 p.m.: With the car safely on the side of the road and my dad making something resembling an attempt to change the tire, we wait. The girls are huddled together, whispering. I’m not wearing a jacket, which could be used to hide the unstylish addition to my jeans. Travis is. My goal at this point is to borrow the jacket without revealing how absolutely necessary it is for me to have it. He resists, because, well, he just wouldn’t be Travis if he weren’t a pain in the neck.

7:45 p.m.: Travis, using his astounding powers of observation, inquires as to whether or not I have recently pissed my pants. I throw myself at his mercy and quietly beg to use the jacket. He is understandably displeased by the thought of his nice jacket coming into such close proximity with urine that’s not his own, but allows me to borrow it for the token fee of being his personal slave for the next two weeks.

8:00 p.m.: The tire has been replaced, just as we officially become late for the movie. We pile into the car and drive off.

8:01 p.m.: My dad asks if anybody remembers him tightening the lug nuts.

8:02 p.m.: I join in the screaming this time as we careen out of control, minus one spare tire. We smash into an expensive-looking car, which smashes into another car, and so on until we have a splendid six-car pile-up.

8:03 p.m.: Travis asks for his jacket back.

8:45 p.m.: The four kids and our respective parents are all seated in the emergency room, with plenty of bumps, bruises, and broken bones to go around. Miraculously, nobody was killed. Michelle has a broken collarbone. Heidi’s stomach is hurting, and she is taken in to see the doctor.

9:00 p.m.: The doctor is pleased to report that Heidi has no internal injuries. But she’s pregnant.

9:01 p.m.: Heidi’s dad reacts poorly to this news.

9:01 1/2 p.m.: Chaos.

9:05 p.m.: Chaos (continued).

9:08 p.m.: The matter is brought to some resolution. It is determined that Travis and I are not “goddamn rapist bastards,” and that an unnamed high school student is in deep ka-ka.

10:30 p.m.: My parents and I finally leave the hospital. On the way out of the parking lot, we drive over a broken bottle and flatten one of the front tires.

10:31 p.m. and beyond: You don’t even want to know. Trust me.

It was a long time until my second date.

Chapter Six

“How to Become Cool Through Pranks and Combat”

Wow, I actually made it to chapter six (okay, five if you count the fact that I forgot chapter four, but it probably wasn’t any good anyway)! Let’s celebrate with some raw, uninhibited sex!

“Oh, Roberto, that was incredible,” said Felicia.

“It certainly was,” Roberto agreed. “Hey, wasn’t the bed on the other side of the room when we started?”

Now, back to our story, joined in progress...

Though Travis and I did have other friends, for the most part our social life consisted of just the two of us. We eventually gave up the action figures and sold them to younger kids in the neighborhood for ridiculously low prices, unaware that Vantor: The Movie would come out the next month and make the figures worth a fortune.

Travis had undergone some sort of gradual transformation during his time in junior high, and upon entering high school, well, he wasn’t a dork anymore. His hair was now in an actual style, and his features had matured into something that I hated to admit was handsome. I, however, was still a dork, and might as well have been wearing sex repellent.

Despite that, high school was a fun time for both of us. Each year we made sure we had identical schedules except for math classes, where Travis tested substantially higher than me, the wiener.

During these high school years, Travis and I developed a little prank for when we had advance notice that our regular teachers would be out for whatever reason. It was known as Operation: Sub Freakout. Because it involved class participation, and because there was always some moron who couldn’t stop giggling and gave away the joke, it failed the first couple of times. But it wasn’t long before we came up with a list of who could handle it and who couldn’t.

Once we knew we’d have a substitute teacher, we usually went over to my house, which was more desirable than Travis’ house in that it did not contain a bratty younger brother who I liked to call Satan’s Understudy. We’d pore over the next day’s lesson, and prepare our index cards. Then we’d call the people we had deemed worthy to join us, or wait until the next day to track them down, and give them their lines.

The one that sticks out most in my memory was American History, as substitute-taught one sunny day of our junior year by Ms. Rowe. She gave us the usual spiel about how having a substitute didn’t mean it was going to be free time, and instructed us to open to the current lesson. Now, I don’t remember the names of all the students who were involved, and no, I didn’t keep the lists we made. I don’t know exactly who said what in the following bit, and I don’t particularly want to be sued by them anyway, so the names are fake, and the quotes may not be exact. Of course, that’s true for most of the book—you don’t think I remembered all of those times in the first date saga, do you? Bear with me.

The lesson had begun. One of our partners in crime, Frank, raised his hand. “I have a question about John Tyler.”

“Yes?”

“I know it’s not going to be on the test, but what state was he governor of before he became president?”

Ms. Rowe smiled, thrilled that a student would care about something like that if it weren’t going to be on the test. “Virginia.” This woman knew her stuff.

Eddie raised his hand and was called on. “Isn’t the same true of Thomas Jefferson and James Monroe?”

Ms. Rowe blinked, a bit surprised. “Yes, it is. Well, you students are certainly up on this material.”

Susan raised her hand. “Ms. Rowe, do you think that all the best presidents were governors of Virginia?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Ms. Rowe. “Abraham Lincoln was never a governor at all.”

“I think the whole Virginia debate is ridiculous,” said Tracy, reading directly from her index card and thus costing her a position on our list for next time. “Since Grover Cleveland was our best president, and he governed New York, the whole discussion is moot.”

The success of Operation: Sub Freakout at this point rested on either the teacher remaining silent and letting the conversation flow, or else the ability of our peers to adapt their lines to what the teacher had to say. In this case, it was the former.

“I totally disagree with your assessment of Cleveland,” said Buzz. “The man served as both our twenty-second and twenty-fourth president, with a gap in-between for Benjamin Harrison to serve. Anyone who failed to be re-elected after his first term clearly wasn’t serving the public interest well enough.”

“But he was re-elected in 1893,” protested Gerda, “meaning that after time to reflect, the public realized that his contributions were very strong, including a veto of many pension raids on the Treasury and an enlargement of the civil service.”

At this point, some twit started giggling. But Ms. Rowe was baffled enough at this point that she didn’t pay any attention.

Albert spoke up. “Plus, even though he was defeated by Harrison in the 1888 election, his popular vote was higher, which to me signifies a major weakness in our political system.”

Now it was time for Travis and I to get into it. “You people have no clue what you’re talking about,” I said. “The only president who ever did anything for this country worth writing about was Benjamin Harrison’s father, William Henry Harrison.”

“I just can’t agree with that asinine line of thinking,” Travis told me. “The man served for only thirty-one days before he died of pneumonia.”

“So? Think of all the other accomplishments that have been made in thirty-one days. That’s an entire month, you know.”

“I’ll grant you that portion of the argument, but William Henry Harrison simply didn’t do enough to justify your almost religious admiration. Why don’t you just go form your Bill Harrison cult and quit pestering the rest of us with your poorly-defended ideas.”

“He ran for office with the slogan ‘a log cabin and hard cider.’ That is poetry! That says it all. Once you’ve heard that, nothing else matters.”

“The man was a blabbermouth! His was the longest inauguration speech in history! It lasted nearly two hours, and was 8,445 words long! And to make things worse, it was a chilly day when he gave it, forcing the poor commoners to stand outside freezing while he yammered on and on. Do you know why he caught pneumonia? Because of being out there in the cold blah blah blah-ing everyone to death! He was a lousy president!”

“He was the greatest man who ever lived!” I slammed my history book shut to make my point, then Travis and I both looked at Ms. Rowe, expectantly.

There was a long pause. Then Ms. Rowe smiled. “April Fool’s in February, right?”

Incidentally, both Travis and I aced the test. All our preparation for this prank turned out to be educational, damn it.

* * *

It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I truly became a man, and got into my first real fight. Now, I’d wrestled with Travis on countless occasions, but the first fight where I stood to suffer actual bodily harm and/or death was at the hands of Kirk “Big Disgusting Nasty-Smelling Prick” Tonnew.

To get an accurate mental picture of Kirk, first envision Hollywood sensation Mel Gibson. Now, change that mental picture to an incredibly ugly version of Mel Gibson. Don’t be stingy with the acne. Give him a facial expression refreshingly free of intelligence, and one continuous eyebrow. Make the teeth crooked with a coating of yellow. Add a generous helping of flab on the arms, legs, and belly. Insert a voice that feels like the word “Duh” should precede every sentence, and you’ve got Kirk.

He was universally gross, sort of a bulky version of that dweeby little kid you may have known who ate bugs for attention. If any scientists were interested in studying how saliva begins the process of food digestion before swallowing, they could have gotten all the research material they needed just by sitting near Kirk at lunch. One time I saw him eat an apple with a worm in it. Admittedly, he did avoid the worm, but I really don’t think he was trying very hard. He was a living, breathing faux pas.

Kirk and I never really crossed paths during my first couple years in high school. I’d seen him beat up several kids for such offenses as breathing oxygen he’d claimed for himself, but I kept my distance and he never went out of his way to bother me.

Anyway, my encounter with Kirk took place on a Friday right after the final bell, with me at my locker and Travis in detention for throwing a spitball that almost knocked a student unconscious. In Travis’ defense, the student was picking on Michelle, who had become an okay friend of ours after The Date. Travis had soaked a big wad of toilet paper in the bathroom sink, then hurled it across the hall at him, smacking the guy right between the eyes and causing him to stagger backward against a garbage can, fall, and hit his head on the floor.

There I was, trying to decide if I actually wanted to take any education-related materials home with me or just pass on any personal growth for the weekend, when I smelled Kirk’s approach. He leaned against the locker next to mine and glared at me.

I gave him a nod of greeting and pulled my Algebra II: The Sequel book off the top shelf, revealing a forgotten banana that had given up every last gasp of its yellow appearance. I considered offering it to Kirk, but wisely changed my mind.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Kirk folded his arms and said “So?”

“Hmmm?” I said, not wanting to top his syllable usage and have him think I was showing off.

“So what’s your problem?”

I had the usual problems of a high school student, but none of them seemed directly related to the individual next to me. “I don’t have a problem,” I told him.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard that you’ve been talking about me.”

I know I’ve said some unflattering things about Kirk these past couple of pages, but it’s the truth when I tell you that I hadn’t been talking about him. Okay, maybe a witty comment to Travis every now and then, but nothing to anybody who would have turned me in, and nothing within at least the past three or four months.

I shrugged. “Wasn’t me.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

Since the conversation seemed to have lapped itself, I turned to face him. “What did you hear?”

“I heard that you said I smelled like a decomposing buffalo butt.”

While my own highbrow, genteel sense of humor would never allow me to use an insult such as that, I wasn’t able to stifle my laugh in time. I quickly tried to change my expression of amusement into one of outrage. “I never said that,” I insisted. “Who said I—?”

WHAM!!!

One thing I’ve noticed about most high school fights is that the participants spend a good chunk of time taunting each other, a sort of foreplay before the actual combat begins. The conversation usually goes something like this:

“I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Yeah? Come on!”

“I am! I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Let’s go!”

[ One participant shoves the other. ]

“That’s it, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Bring it on, then!”

Of course, what they’re really thinking is “Oh jeez, if I actually get hit it’s gonna hurt and I’m gonna look stupid in front of this huge crowd that has gathered! If I can just keep the dialogue going long enough for a teacher to show up, I won’t have to actually fight, and I can tell everyone how I would have kicked his ass if we hadn’t been stopped.”

I found it very unfair that Kirk punched me in the gut without giving me a chance to talk until a teacher arrived.

Because of my policy of honesty in reporting, I’m not even going to pretend I did anything but drop straight to the floor, moaning and clutching my stomach. I thought of several things to say to him, but they were all variations of “Ow!”

“I don’t like people talking about me when I’m not around!” Kirk informed me, apparently to make sure I hadn’t mistaken his punch for one of encouragement.

Then he kicked me in the face, leaving a huge red mark and traces of the gum that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I heard a girl gasp. Somebody else laughed.

Since I was long out of my Really Stupid Phase, this wasn’t the kind of laughter I wanted to hear. Now, I could have just lay there on the floor, maybe gotten kicked a couple more times, and let the whole ugly situation run its course. But I’ve never been a coward (except, of course, where women are concerned—then it’s bock, bock, bock city), and I didn’t want people seeing me go out with no dignity. I struggled to my feet, and returned my attention to my locker.

Kirk stood there, watching me. So did the other thirty people in the hall, none of whom were adults in positions of fight-ceasing authority.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kirk clenching his fist again. It looked like the bottom was going to drop out of my dignity bucket in about two seconds.

And then, without even thinking about it, I turned and took a swing at his face.

I’ve never won the lottery. I’ve never been the eighth caller when a radio DJ asks a question about a crappy song that I can answer. My McDonald’s game pieces always say “Sorry...try again.”

But I’ll be damned if the one serious punch I had ever thrown in my life didn’t connect perfectly. Kirk’s head rocketed back, he made a noise that sounded like “Unnnghhh,” then he dropped to the floor with all the grace of an intoxicated cripple. And didn’t move.

A collective gasp ran through the hallway. My own contribution to this gasp was substantial.

What I really wanted to do at this point was glare at all the spectators and snarl “Okay, anybody else want some?” But I’d used up the last of my machismo with the punch, and my hand was hurting bad enough that my voice would have carried an unintimidating squeak.

Then somebody began to applaud. Somebody else joined in, then everyone in the hallway was applauding and whistling and cheering. Irony being such a good friend of mine, this noise attracted a teacher, and I was sent to the principal’s office and suspended from school for three days.

And that’s how I became cool.

* * *

“This isn’t fair,” said Travis, seated on the exercise bicycle in my garage. It was a week later. “I knocked Jerry out with a giant spitball to defend Michelle and nobody thinks I’m cool.”

“It has something to do with weapon choice,” I told him as I sat peeling the cover off a softball. “Bare fists versus toilet paper and water. Besides, you didn’t knock Jerry out, you almost knocked him out. There was actual unconsciousness from my punch.”

“Well whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”

“Nobody’s ever going to think you’re as cool as me if you say stuff like whoop-dee-yabba-dabba-doo.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and my dad poked his head in the garage that we were supposed to be cleaning. “You two making any progress?”

We both nodded.

“I’m not paying you by the hour, so I’d advise you to get moving.”

We both nodded.

“I want this place cleaned out by dinner.”

We both nodded. My dad gave us the helpless look of somebody who knew darn well that the garage wasn’t going to be anywhere near clean by dinner, then left.

“I’d think you’d be happy,” I said to Travis. “At least now you’re cool by proximity.” I got the softball cover completely off, then began to tear off the sticky thread surrounding the cork center. It just seemed like an important thing to do.

“How many women have thrown themselves at you?” Travis asked, his voice oozing sarcasm like a slug oozes slug ooze.

“A couple dozen. I had to spray three of them with mace or they would’ve taken me right there in the hallway. Mrs. Taylor said she’d trade me an ‘A’ in history for a naked spanking.”

Actually, while numerous guys had congratulated me on my first day back at school, the only female attention I received was from a sensationally attractive blonde, who said “Hi” to me in the cafeteria and made a quick exit after I started choking on my Jell-O.

“It’s not that big of a deal anyway,” Travis remarked, getting off the bicycle. “I hear Kirk’s a total wimp. If I could afford a strong enough gas mask, I would’ve knocked him out a long time ago.”

“Wanna try now?” asked the total wimp standing in my driveway.

My first thought was “Whoopsie!” but fortunately I didn’t verbalize it. Kirk walked toward us, and my mind ran through some available options: Sprint to safety inside the house, try to pull down the garage door before he reached us, or let out a long piercing shriek not unlike that of a woman.

However, none of those seemed manly enough to fit with my newly gained coolness, so I cocked back my arm and prepared to throw the violated softball at him. “Get off my property,” I demanded.

“It’s okay,” said Kirk. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t anyway,” Travis pointed out, an act that nearly got him a violated softball in the mouth.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Kirk reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. “I saw this at school, and thought it sounded like something you might be interested in,” he said, looking at the ground. “You may have already seen it, but I wasn’t sure.”

I went over and took the paper from him. I unfolded it and strained to read the terrible handwriting. It took me a couple of moments to figure out what it said, but suddenly the message became clear:

Dear Seth, I’m going to break your face.

Kirk punched me in the nose. I went down like a boneless elderly woman with motion sickness. The sweet crimson fluid of life trickled from my nostrils as I lay on the concrete and felt searing bolts of pain do-si-do around my head.

“Mess with me again,” said Kirk, “and I’ll—”

Kirk’s threat was cut short as an old bicycle tire (an unwieldy weapon, but the most readily available thing for Travis to grab) struck him in the side of the head. He went down like a woodpecker-savaged stilt walker with an inner ear infection.

After a moment to savor the agony, Kirk got back up and raised his fists. Travis held the tire in front of him for protection. Kirk hesitated then took off running out of our garage and off into the afternoon sunlight.

And that’s how Travis became cool, too.

Chapter Seven

“Vague But Important Life Decisions”

Ah, high school graduation, that glorious time of year when you get to hear the question “So what are you going to do with your life?” over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

We sat in the gymnasium, listening to the keynote speaker as we silently cursed the teachers who’d made us remove the silly adornments from our caps (though Travis snuck through with a contraband pom-pom). The keynote speaker, a simple farmer who’d become a millionaire through the dairy business, spoke. Slowly. In. A. Monotone. So. Each. Word. Seemed. To. Be. Its. Own. Sentence. His speech consisted of an extended metaphor relating our lives to milking a cow, something about squeezing all the opportunities out of the udder of society. It was really gross, but before I could get too deeply involved in his message I was visited by an angel.

“Yo,” said the angel, floating in front of me and draped in white sheets that were blowing in a non-existent breeze. He was lugging around a golden harp with “Property of God” engraved on the side.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m a non-denominational religious figure, here to talk to you about what you’re going to do with your life.”

“Cool.”

The angel straightened his halo. “So, here you are, graduating from high school. What’s next on your agenda? College, I assume.”

“Yeah. Travis and I are both going to TPU.”

“Trade Point University, a fine choice. I understand their cafeteria food has won some local awards. And what exactly are you planning to study there?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t decided on a major yet.”

“Well, that sucks silicone implants. We’re going to fix that little problem right now. What’s something you’re interested in?” The angel began humming the theme from Jeopardy as he waited for my response.

“I don’t know...I like to write...”

“Exactly! So major in English. And start writing, for gosh sake!”

“I am! Travis and I have been working on that book. Maybe we’ve slowed down a bit...a lot...but we’re still—”

“Listen, your gargantuan pile of pages is impressive, but honestly, who is ever going to read it but you and Travis?”

“Nobody,” I admitted. “If anybody ever did, we’d be unemployable for the rest of our lives.”

“Right. Now, there’s nothing wrong with writing just for yourself, but you’re the type of person who loves to get reactions! So start writing things that other people can read! Maybe that’s the career you’re looking for!”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, that’s settled. Now, Mr. Trexler, you wanna tell me why you’re eighteen and haven’t kissed a girl yet? What are you, some kind of homo?”

I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t an angel be more politically correct?”

“Ah, I can say whatever I want. After all, I’m not really here—I’m just an external representation of an internal conversation. Whoa-mama, look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row! See?”

“I see.”

“Anyway, it’s time to quit being such a wuss. Your buddy Travis has done a few rounds of tongue wrestling, and it’s time for you to start practicing liposuction, too. Women don’t bite. At least not as long as you keep the muzzle on.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll try.”

“See that you do.” The angel glanced up at the keynote speaker. “Man, this guy has no intention of ever shutting up, does he? They’re gonna have to jab everyone in the butt with a cattle prod to get this place livened up again.”

I nodded my agreement. “So, do you have any more sage advice?”

The angel looked me directly in the eye. “You are meant for great things, Seth. Don’t waste your potential. Together you and that Travis guy are going to make something of yourselves—something big. And it’s going to happen soon.”

“How soon?”

“If I knew that, I’d be making big bucks with a psychic telephone hotline.” The angel pulled up his sleeve and checked his Rolex. “Look, I’ve got to go. If these metaphorical internal conversations go on too long you’ll start to develop Alzheimer’s.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” I told him.

“No problem. Your brain wasn’t being used for anything else important. Now, here’s one last piece of advice before I leave.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever write a book, don’t include a cheap gag where an angel says ‘Look at the hooters on that bimbo in the fourth row.’ It’s really tacky.” And with a twitch of his nose, the angel disappeared.

* * *

“I’m thirsty for a glass of milk,” said Travis after the ceremony was over. “Or maybe I’m in the mood for a hamburger.”

We’d managed to sneak away after posing for what felt like eight hundred pictures, twenty-four of which would contain my Uncle Jeremy’s thumb over the lens, and exactly one of which would feature Travis with his eyes open. I think deep inside he feared that photographs would steal his soul.

This was going to be the last time I’d get to see Travis for the next three months. The next morning he was leaving to stay with his grandparents in Montana, because he could make a lot more money there as a slave in his grandfather’s Probably Pig Parts factory. I wasn’t looking forward to an entire summer without my best friend, but it was made a lot more tolerable by the fact that we’d be roommates once college started and would have plenty of time to get violently sick of each other.

“Wow,” I said, leaning against the pillar under the bleachers in the football stadium. “We made it. We’re finally productive members of society.”

Travis put a hand to his ear. “Hear that? It’s the sound of society screaming in terror.”

“Listen, during the cow speech I was doing some heavy thinking, and it’s time we did something important.”

“Oh, absolutely. There’s nothing quite as fulfilling as doing something important. Let’s go visit a dairy and experience the pasteurization process firsthand!”

“Really, I’m serious,” I told him. “We’ve almost lived a quarter of our lives if we die when we’re supposed to, and what have we accomplished?”

“We’ve memorized a big chunk of the Trivial Pursuit cards so we can start playing for money.”

I sighed. “Travis, how often do I have a moment of serious introspection?”

“Never.”

“So when I’m having one of these moments, indulge me, okay?” Oh, how I longed for the days when I was more of a smart-ass than Travis.

“Okay. Preparing to indulge. Indulging.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure.”

Now that I’d set the stage for a serious conversation, I realized I needed to be a little more specific with my projected life goals than “do something important.”

And then the idea came to me.

But it was a stupid idea, so I discarded it and the world lost two potential belly dancers.

The second idea, however, came out of my mouth before I could decide if it was stupid or not.

“I think we should form a comedy group.”

Travis raised an eyebrow. “You mean like Laurel & Hardy? Can I be the fat one?”

“I don’t know what I mean, exactly. Maybe we could write skits and perform them at clubs, something like that.”

“That sounds like fun,” Travis admitted. “We’ll have to try it once we start school. You think Trade Point has any good comedy clubs?”

I shrugged. “I just think it’s time we used our powers for something substantial instead of goofing around. I’m going to start writing—seriously writing—this summer.”

“What kind of writing?”

“The skits, like I said, and maybe other stuff. I guess just whatever I can get done.”

“Well, hey, I wish you luck. I mean it.”

“And I think we should end ‘Travis & Seth’s Story,’” I said. “We’ve pretty much abandoned it anyway, so I think we should write a dramatic ending and let it symbolize the end of this chapter of our lives.”

Travis considered that. Then he considered it some more. Finally he’d considered it enough to respond. “Okay. How about we write ‘And then a magic fairy appeared and made everyone live happily ever after, whether they wanted to or not.’?”

“Sure, why not?”

Travis glanced at his watch. “We’d better get back now. It’s about time for my grandpa to start talking about steamrolling commies and I don’t want to miss it.”

I nodded and we began to walk from under the bleachers. “Three months until I get to kick you in the face every night to stop your snoring,” I remarked.

“Three months until I get to take a chainsaw to your stereo for playing that lousy Invalid Crones tape.”

“Three months until the party!”

Chapter Eight

“Solving the World’s Problems Through Really Violent Comedy Skits”

“...and that was Hey, We’re a Band!, with their classic single ‘Spank Me, Spank Me, Spank Me, Spank Me.’ You’re listening to WART radio—crank it up, and watch your pets explode! And now here’s the latest from Grrrrrrrrr, their hit ‘Roasting Weenies By Hellfire’...”

I turned up the volume and stared at the blank monitor. I’d received the computer as a graduation present from my parents, and it was certain to be helpful with my new resolution to get a lot of writing done. It was also harmful in that my other gift was a computer game entitled Squish The Mousie, which involved all manner of rodent destruction. It started out as a nice little diversion, but quickly became an addiction. The more mice I destroyed, the more I wanted to destroy, the more I had to destroy, until my obsession with sending those bastards straight to rat hell got out of hand. I found myself staying up until four in the morning searching for the hidden levels containing ultra-powerful mouse destruction weapons, and once my mom even caught me whispering “Die, you sons of bitches, die like the accursed vermin that you are!” which I don’t need to tell you was kind of embarrassing. When I began to hear the theme from Willard inside my head, I decided it was time to quit playing for a while.

There I sat, hands in perfect typing position, waiting patiently for my brain to think of a word for them to type. I had four hours of writing time until I had to go to work, at the fine dining establishment/hellhole known as the Twin Streams Lodge. I was a dishwasher, a job that I’d received through a rigorous interview:

“And what makes you think you’ve got what it takes to wash dishes here at the Twin Streams Lodge?”

“I don’t like to eat off dirty plates.”

“Okay, you’re hired.”

Since the restaurant was an elegant place to dine, I’d been under the impression that it would be a prestigious place to be a dishwasher. As it turned out, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between washing cheap gook off dishes and expensive gook off dishes. And I had to work with this fourteen-year-old power-hungry twerp named Larry, also known as The-Weasel-Faced-Kid-I’d-Really-Like-to-Asphyxiate. If nothing else, washing dishes at the place made me certain that pursuing higher education was going to be a good thing.

I cracked my knuckles in that way that always made onlookers cringe, then returned my hands to the typing position. After a few moments of staring at the screen some more, inspiration struck, and I began to type:

The

At least the screen wasn’t blank anymore. I continued to stare at the screen, waiting for my muse to get its butt in gear. An idea formed, didn’t dissipate instantly like so many others, and my fingers began typing in a flurry of motion.

The man

Now I had a main character. All I needed was a verb, and I’d be well on my way. I thought. I sighed. I thought. I groaned. I thought. I scratched myself. I thought. I slammed my head against six or seven blunt objects. I thought. I typed.

The man ran into the highway, letting a hailstorm of bullets jettison from his submachine gun, causing death and destruction everywhere his merciless gaze fell. Oh, what toll on humanity he wreaked! Oh, how could he be stopped?

I thought about it, then decided it needed a bit of editing.

The man ran

Okay, obviously I was doing something wrong. I needed some kind of starting point. What was I going to write? A short story? A novel? A haiku?

No, a comedy skit.

Now I needed a subject. Women having trouble deciding what to wear? Really stupid people? Mindless violence?

Mindless violence sounded good.

Now I was cooking.

And two-and-a-half hours later, I had something to show for my time.

[ Margaret’s office, where she sits typing at the computer. Howie enters. ]

HOWIE: Hi there, Margaret. Working hard, or hardly working? Tee-hee!

MARGARET: Hi, Howie. Boy, it’s been an awful day. I might just have to take out a machine gun and kill the boss and anyone else who gets in my path of destruction.

[ She takes a machine gun out of her briefcase. ]

MARGARET: Starting with you.

HOWIE: Oh no!

SOUND EFFECTS: Ratatatatatatatatatat!!! Spurt, spurt!

[ Margaret steps out into the hallway. The boss is standing there. ]

BOSS: Margaret! Whatever are you doing with that unregistered weapon?

[ Margaret squeezes the trigger, sending a burst of machine gun fire across her boss’ legs. A beautiful crimson spray jettisons from the multiple agonizing wounds as he cries out, his scream a chorus of sinners begging for forgiveness. As his body pitches forward, Margaret pumps more bullets into his chest, releasing an unbearably painful gout of marvelous scarlet life force. As his shrieks increase in intensity, so does the rapidity of the machine gun fire, tearing his flesh apart in a gruesome display of vengeance, but not granting merciful death. He falls to the floor, moaning, as Margaret points the barrel of the gun at his head and— ]

BOSS: Wake up! You’re fantasizing on the job!

MARGARET: My goodness, it was all a daydream! Good. Double the pleasure.

[ She takes out a machine gun and opens fire, ripping a ruby path across his waist. As he staggers back, she lowers the angle of the bullets, wiping out his infrequently-used manhood with a victorious grin. As the rapid fire continues, his arms are torn from their sockets and his kneecaps are pulverized into a reddish-whitish pulp. He smashes through the window and plummets sixteen stories into an open manhole cover, where he dies amongst the sewage he has helped to create. ]

HOWIE: Hello? Earth to Margaret?

MARGARET: Huh? What?

HOWIE: You just blew away the boss with a machine gun. Maybe you should run or something.

MARGARET: Oh, yeah, thanks. Got a little distracted there.

[ She kills Howie with another burst of gunfire, then runs out into the hall, dealing death and destruction left and right. An announcer steps out of one of the offices and addresses the viewer. ]

ANNOUNCER: My, this certainly is a violent little skit, isn’t it? The author sure has gotten carried away with this one. But you know what? That’s okay, because violent entertainment can curb violent tendencies in those who experience it. Isn’t that right, Susan?

[ Susan steps out of her office. ]

SUSAN: Indeed it is. I am a very unsatisfied employee at a law firm. My boss is a wiener from hell. But by watching this skit, I am able to live vicariously through it, and thus feel no need to personally murder my own boss and subject myself to the irritating legal penalties that would result from such an act.

ANNOUNCER: Exactly. And what do you think, Charles?

[ Charles steps out of his office. ]

CHARLES: If I hadn’t seen this skit, I’d be out there with a hunting knife and fish scaler right now. I owe my status as a free man to it. Thanks, Mr. Writer! My wife thanks you too!

ANNOUNCER: Yes, it appears that the author has done the world quite a favor by writing this skit. But material with such value to humankind doesn’t come cheap. That’s why we’re asking you to open your purses and wallets and give the money that you saved by not murdering your boss to the Save The World Through Violent Comedy Skits Foundation. What problem might he solve next? War? AIDS? The possibilities are endless, but he can’t do it without your help!

CHARLES: I’m going to give him my entire paycheck. The kids can sleep in boxes, which are, after all, in plentiful supply. Corrugated cardboard is a perfect insulator, and lacks all the maintenance hassles of an apartment or home.

ANNOUNCER: Absolutely! And isn’t it true that food can be widely found in garbage dumpsters?

CHARLES: That it can.

ANNOUNCER: So please, give everything you have! The world will be a much better place for it.

SUSAN: I just gave $5,000, enabling the great author to come up with a punch line to this very skit!

[ Margaret walks back into the hallway, mowing down Susan, Charles, and the announcer with machine gun fire. ]

MARGARET: The End.

Almost makes you want to weep, doesn’t it?

I printed it out on my brand spanking new printer, revised it to get rid of the typos, printed it out again, and took it to my mom to read. Now, I knew my mom well enough to realize that she probably wasn’t going to appreciate the humor inherent in a man graphically shredding his co-workers, regardless of how lighthearted the situation might be. But I was her only child, and she deserved to see the product of my creation.

“It was...interesting...” she said after reading the entire piece with her lips pressed together tight enough to form a thin white line across her face. I’ve heard the “it was interesting” reaction enough times since then to know its true meaning: “You sick, sick deviant.”

“Have you showed this to your father?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yeah.”

“Seth, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair next to her at the kitchen table. “There’s something you need to know about your father. He’s, how can I put this, not quite as... comfortable with your mental health as he’d like to be.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“He deals with it very well. I almost never hear him muttering any more. But if you let him read this, and give him proof positive that thoughts like these really do exist in your head, it might be too disturbing for him to handle.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s always liked being right about things.”

“Son, I don’t want to lessen your respect for me by pleading, but...”

“I guess I could do a censored version.”

My mom glanced at the printout again. “I don’t think so.”

“All right, I’ll keep it hidden. So, did you like the fish scaler gag?”

“It was interesting.”

“Well, I’ve still got time to write some more before work, so I’ll get back to it.”

“Okay. You know I always support you in anything you do.” The way she said it, it sounded like a mantra.

I took the printout, returned to my room, and shoved it into an envelope (the printout, not my room, though I suppose for literary purposes my room would have been both more original and more exciting). If anyone would appreciate the skit, it was Travis. And the people at the restaurant probably would enjoy it, so I made a mental note to bring a copy for them to read.

* * *

I stood behind the counter at Hank’s Ice Cream, my new place of employment. Hank’s Ice Cream wasn’t quite as prestigious as the Twin Streams Lodge, but it did have six delicious flavors: Chocolate, Vanilla, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl With An Emphasis On The Chocolate, Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl With An Emphasis On The Vanilla, and Superman Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl, which had red and blue food coloring in the vanilla part.

In the four weeks of summer thus far, I’d completed seven skits (including one where I got a staggering amount of momentum out of the phrase “your ding-dong”) and started but trashed about fifty. I’d also written one that was heavily influenced by the disgusting way Hank ate an ice cream cone, which I called The Vibrating Slurp & Gulp. Naturally, I wasn’t going to show it to Hank, but my co-worker Albert would certainly enjoy it.

* * *

“That’s good to hear, sir,” I said, filling my voice with an I’m-Getting-Sexual-Pleasure-Out-Of-This-Job degree of enthusiasm. “The reason for my call is that I’ve just noticed your subscription to Guitar Freak will expire in only seven months, and I wanted to give you this exclusive chance to renew at the low price of only 79 cents an issue!”

Yes, I was working as a telephone solicitor. Yes, there’s a black cloud of shame over my heart to this very day because of it. I never would have taken a job in such a vile, rotting, sweaty armpit of a career, but Albert had thought my skit was so hilarious that it just had to be shared with Hank. Hank disagreed about its humor value, and fired me with the promise that in the future he would personally piss on any ice cream cone purchased by one of my relatives. I needed work fast. The telephone-marketing corporation paid well and I could start immediately.

I know, I know, that’s no excuse for actually working there. I knew it was going to be a pretty miserable job, as are most jobs that involve contact with lots of people who hate your guts. From the very first call on my first day I knew I was in for a dark experience:

“Hello, may I speak to Christopher Netter?”

“No you may not! He’s just slit his wrists!”

Which wasn’t as bad as my second call:

“Hi, I’m calling for Mr. Dale Laymon, on behalf of Food Digest magazine.”

“Dale Laymon is dead! He ate his copy of Food Digest and the staples caught in his throat and killed him! It’s taken me three years of therapy to convince myself that his ghost is not seeking vengeance! Go away, Dale! You’re not real! Get back! Noooooooooooooooo—”

Or something like that. I’m not always the most reliable narrator.

After my first evening as a telemarketer, I was at home cleaning my room because of an unbearable need to do something constructive to make up for the anti-constructive time spent at work. So greatly had this job disturbed me that I was actually cleaning under my bed. I found all kinds of neat stuff. A ten-dollar bill, the glass of milk I’d been looking for, my dad’s ulcer medication, and the puppy I’d been given for my eighth birthday.

No, not a real puppy, a stuffed one. Even I wouldn’t do a dead-puppy-under-the-bed joke. A baby, maybe, but not a puppy.

And I found an old diary, one that I’d started in the fifth grade. I’d only stuck with it for a few entries, and those entries were pretty insipid (“Dear Diary, I wish I were Darth Vader”). But it started me thinking. Maybe there was some comedic material here.

Then the idea burst into my head, destroying several other brain waves in its path, including a wave that held the location of the glass of milk I’d just found.

I worked on this idea for the next two weeks, revising the hell out of the poor thing as I went. But once I’d finished, hey, I didn’t think it sucked!

And “The Private Diary of Leonard Parr” was born.

“THE PRIVATE DIARY OF LEONARD PARR”

by Seth Trexler

JAN. 1: Dear Diary, it’s a new year, and I’ve finally realized that my annual resolution to get in shape is a waste of time. If God had meant me to exercise, He wouldn’t have made me so lazy. So I resolve to keep this journal of my life, and write in it every single day, even those days where all I did was watch TV and practice clipping my toenails so that they pop up into my mouth. This is really going to be fun!

FEB. 3: Okay, I’ve fallen a bit behind. But from now on, Diary, I’m going to write every single day. Because when I look at these first thirty years of my life, I really wish I’d been writing things down. Maybe then I wouldn’t draw a complete blank for what happened between the ages of twenty-six and twenty-eight. And that four-year memory gap during my time in college still disturbs me, as does the stinging pain that rips through my brain when I try to recall my life before I turned sixteen. But that won’t be a problem anymore, right Diary? You’re going to be my best friend in the whole world.

FEB. 24: Today was a bad day at the laboratory. I think I came very close to finding the cure for the common cold, but I forgot the notes in my pants pocket when I did the laundry. So I went to find the lab mouse I’d been studying, but it had been in my pants pocket, too. Oh well. Simmons tried to give me a wedgie, but I fooled him by not wearing anything under my lab coat.

MAR. 11: Sorry I fell behind again. Work has been hectic, what with the lawsuits and all. The labels on the toxic waste containers clearly state “Do Not Get In Hair,” but a few members of the tour group didn’t pay attention. Lousy preschoolers. Anyway, their parents are suing us for ten million dollars a mutation, plus they want a written apology. And it has to be sincere or they’re just going to tear it up and make us write it over again.

APR. 2: I’ve decided to take up photography. It pays very well. I’m currently making $500 a week for a picture I took of the governor and his mistress.

APR. 28: Don’t look at me that way, Diary. I know I’ve been neglecting you, but I’m a busy man. I’ve got more important things to do than sit here and write in you all day. But I promise I’ll do better, okay? Still friends? Good.

MAY 17: Guess what? No, guess again! I have a date tonight! Her name is Kimberly, and she’s even more beautiful than the mother on Leave it to Beaver! She has eyes of the deepest blue, hair black as the night, lips red as a delicious apple, teeth the color of a wonderfully tart lemon, and brownish gums. We met this afternoon when the guided tour was coming through the lab right after Higgins had shouted “Specimen fight!” Some fungi with explosive properties we’d been previously unaware of struck Kimberly’s boyfriend, and she immediately thanked me for sparing her one of those uncomfortable breaking-up talks. Though I’ll admit to not being very smooth with women, the first thing out of my mouth was “Holy shinola!” There was a deadly virus right on her shoulder! But, warning her to keep still, I reached over and flicked it off, saving her life and the lives of everyone present, except the guy the virus landed on. I had the presence of mind to take advantage of her gratitude by asking if I could borrow a few bucks for lunch, and she asked me if I wanted to go to the movies with her. We’re going to see the new film by my favorite director, Alan Smithee, though for some reason her suggestion was something called Lord of the Unzipped Flies.

MAY 31: I forgot to write about it before, but my date was a complete failure. First of all, I got the idea right away that Kimberly was ashamed to be seen with me. I mean, we went to the most expensive place in town, The Devoured Cow, and before we even got our appetizers she was asking me to come back to her place! And the meal was awful. What kind of restaurant doesn’t serve Cheetos, for God’s sake? At one point Kimberly picked up a pickle and began to lick it very, very slowly, gradually working the entire thing into her mouth, moving it back and forth, looking into my eyes the entire time, the message clearly being “The longer I keep this pickle in my mouth, the less time I have to talk to you.” I could sense that the date was going to continue its disastrous path, but we went to the movie anyway. First off, Alan Smithee greatly disappointed me. The plot was non-existent, the cinematography poorly-conceived, and the opening credits grammatically incorrect. Plus I misjudged the size of the hole in the armrest when I set my drink into it and it fell right through. Halfway through the movie, Kimberly leaned over and stuck her tongue in my ear in a blatant attempt to make me miss an essential bit of dialogue. Hold on a second, the phone’s ringing...

JUN. 14: Oh, yeah, like you’ve never forgotten anything! You know, just because you get to lie around all day doesn’t mean the rest of us do. Now, where was I? Let me re-read that last entry.

JUN. 29: So I got distracted while I was reading that last entry! Does this make me a bad person? I donate money to help our schools, dammit! And all I get in return is a non-winning lottery ticket every week! So if my devotion to philanthropy causes me to skip a few days’ worth of diary entries, well, that’s just tough luck for you! If you don’t like it, you can pucker your softbound lips and kiss my sizable butt! I can’t write anymore, I’m too furious.

JUL. 25: Diary, last entry I said some things I shouldn’t have, and I apologize. Let’s just put this whole ugly incident behind us, okay? Anyway, back to my date with Kimberly. After the movie ended (with the hero surviving...as he did in Alan Smithee’s last film! The unoriginal bum is just reliving past glories now), we got in my car and I started to drive her back to her apartment. I knew we were almost there because I recognized the “Welcome! You’re in the bad part of town!” sign. Then she put her hand on my thigh. Can you believe it? She was trying to run me off the road! By the time I got the car under control I’d wiped out six pedestrians and a yak. We reached her apartment building, and after we hosed down the front of my car she invited me in for a nightcap and some Cheetos. She had one of the nicest apartments I’d ever seen, even with the pastel motif. “How do you pay the rent?” I asked. “Sleep with the landlord,” she replied. Then I realized that I recognized her from someplace. To be specific, the January issue of Silicone Sweeties. I happened to have the magazine with me, and when I showed it to her she reacted with a degree of anger (“I’m gonna kill Ron! He said those pictures were only for his friends!”). She then asked me if I was in the mood for a roll in the hay. Obviously she was making fun of my horse-like table manners, so I declined and went home.

AUG. 18: Today my aunt celebrated her tenth wedding anniversary. Well, actually the first anniversary of her tenth wedding.

SEP. 17: Don’t look at me like that.

SEP. 30: Don’t look at me like that, I said.

OCT. 9: Damn you, damn you, damn you! I don’t need this kind of guilt from a stupid diary! I own you, not the other way around! Had I known the misery you’d bring to my life, I would’ve left you on that K-Mart shelf to rot! Rot, you hear me, rot! Let me explain something to you, okay? ME: Master, writer, controller of my own destiny. YOU: Rotten little bastard of an inanimate object, and highly flammable. So screw you and the horse you rode in on!

OCT. 28: Diary? It’s me, Leonard. Please don’t turn the page on me...we need to talk. I’m sorry, okay? I’m not sure what came over me, but I swear it will never happen again. Look, I said I was sorry...what more do you want? You can’t leave me hanging like this! For the love of God, you have to forgive me! You’re nothing without me, nothing!

NOV. 6: I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Diary. I’m going to throw you into the incinerator. You won’t know when I’ll strike. Maybe tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But you’re going to die, engulfed by the hellish flames from whence you came, and I’m going to dance on your ashes! It’s over for you, Diary! Hahahahahahahaha!

NOV. 22: I hope you’re happy, you bastard. I got fired from my job today, because I was brooding about your imminent death instead of paying attention when we were experimenting on that Black Plague virus. My boss was going to give me another chance, but then we found out that a few rebellious teenagers have escaped the quarantine. If they were infected, then mankind is doomed.

DEC. 3: Well, mankind is doomed.

DEC. 18: The end is near, Diary, and you’re the only thing that keeps me going. I watch my friends fall, and I shed tears for their passing, and I fear joining them in death, but I know that you will give me permanence. Through the words you keep inscribed upon your very flesh, I shall live on! My body shall soon become but a lifeless shell, and my spirit shall vanish into the netherworld, but the life of I, Leonard Parr, will be forever preserved! I love you, Diary, and if this is the end, so be it. I am ready.

JAN. 1: Bought an exercise bicycle today. I really do need to get in shape before I die.

Chapter Nine

“The Summer of Love (But Not For Me)”

Dearest, darlingest Seth,

‘Tis your future roommate Travis, finally writing back! I admit it, I’m terrible about writing letters to people, and next time you see me feel free to superglue my nose to my belly button (or somebody else’s belly button) as punishment. Believe it or not, I’ve got some important things to share, which I couldn’t tell you over the phone because my grandma and grandpa take turns listening on the other extension. Someday I’m gonna call a 1-900 sex line just to test their pacemakers.

Finally got a chance to read the stuff you sent. Especially liked the ding-dong skit. If we ever perform it, I want to play the guy holding the dachshund.

Was at a bookstore a couple days ago and I picked up this magazine called Gleefully Disturbed. All kinds of strange stuff in it. Lots of weird humor. They only pay in contributor’s copies, but I thought it would be a cool place to send your diary story. (By the way, I really sympathized with Leonard. That pickle thing has happened to me more times than I can count.) I tore out the page with submission guidelines, so you should find it in this envelope somewhere.

And now, the big news! The previously uncharted territory of the nether regions of the female of our species has been explored, mapped, and claimed in the name of Travis Darrow! And there was no pleading or exchange of money involved! I didn’t even kidnap anyone!

In other words, Mr. Happy is extremely happy.

Not at the moment, of course. If I were typing while having sex that would indicate a lack of interest in the act that would turn off most participants, unless they were impressed by my ability to multi-task.

What’s that I hear? Your voice shouting from Sharpview, shrieking “DETAILS! GIMME DETAILS!” at the top of your lungs?

Okay, here are the details.

Her name was Roberta, which is a wonderful name to moan when one is losing one’s virginity. You just emphasize the “Ro,” draw out the “ber,” and gasp the “ta,” as in “Roberrr[pant]ta, Roberrr[pant]ta!” Some people make a case for single-syllable names being preferable in this situation, but I’d take a Roberta over a Gail any day.

She’s twenty-eight years old, so yeah, she’s a vicious cradle-robber. Blonde hair, tall, not quite bucket material but pretty close. She’s a waitress (a good one—she brought all the extra napkins I needed).

Basically, I was on my way back from the movies, around eleven o’clock. I really felt like a hot fudge sundae (speaking of which, did Hank ever get the chance to make good on his threat?) so I stopped by this cafe I’d never been to before. Roberta was the only one working there, and the place was just about to close.

I finished my sundae, which was excellent. The fudge was nice and hot, the ice cream was nice and cold, and the whole thing mixed together in a perfect gooey concoction. You know how sometimes the ice cream melts too quickly, and you’re left with a bowl of sludge? Well, this ice cream held its form admirably well, and I was quite pleased.

Then I realized I didn’t have any money, because I’d forgotten about the large popcorn I bought at the movies. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but this little moment of stupidity got me laid.

I went up to the cash register and told her I didn’t have any money. She looked at me for a long time, then said “Well, I guess you’ll have to find another way to pay me.”

Then I had a Leonard Parr moment, where for a second I thought I was going to have to do a hot fudge sundae’s worth of dishes. I asked her what she had in mind.

“I thought maybe you’d fuck me.”

I swear to God I’m not making this up. That’s exactly what she said. It was like a bad porno flick. I could almost hear the repetitive soundtrack in the background. I deliberated for about .0004 of a second and then said “okay.” I mean, I did owe her for that sundae.

She took me home to her one-bedroom apartment and let me call my grandmother to tell her I was sleeping over at a friend’s house (always the responsible one, I am). Then Roberta asked if I wanted something to drink, or if I’d rather her just get naked first. I expected a boom mike to dip into the frame at any second. I replied that naked worked for me. Then she led me to the bed (queen size, sagging a little in the center), and we proceeded to act out our own sex education video.

In case you’re interested (which you are, admit it!), here are the night’s statistics:

ORGASMS: Mine: 4, Hers: 3 (manually derived, unfortunately).

INTERCOURSE POSITIONS: Missionary (twice), Female Dominant “Riding” (once), and some weird one that’s hard to describe (see attached drawing).

ASSORTED ACTS: Kissing, tickling, groping, stroking, licking, sucking, slurping, biting, pinching.

If you’d like, I’ll give you the blow-by-blow (heh heh) description in person, complete with hand gestures. Talk to you then!

Pure no more,

Travis.

* * *

I SET ASIDE THE letter. Wow. The news about Gleefully Disturbed was interesting, of course, but the news about Travis becoming a !!!MAN!!! was even more so. He had become one with a woman, and lived to tell the tale. I hadn’t even had a chance to botch my first kiss yet.

Wow.

Of course, when I saw Travis in person, I was going to question him relentlessly about each and every pelvic thrust. In the meantime...well...maybe I had nothing resembling a love life (nothing resembling a partner, anyway), but at least I was getting a lot of writing done.

Grumble, grumble.

It was times like these that I was almost tempted to gather up my money and head for the nearest brothel, if I’d known where any were, and if I weren’t such a wimp, and if these days visiting a prostitute weren’t akin to inserting my penis into a microwave set on high.

But still, visiting the sleazy part of a big city did have its occasional appeal, if only as a private fantasy.

[ Pretend the book is shimmering here. ]

* * *

“I’ve got your crack!” shouts the drug dealer, showing his wares in an ornate display case. “I’ve got your LSD! I’ve got your stimulants, depressants, and hallucinogens! Lowest prices in the slum area! We will not be undersold! Ask about our special layaway plan!”

I walk by, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells of depravity. “Hello there, sir,” says the drug dealer with a friendly smile. “Would you care to purchase some narcotics for your reality-distorting pleasure?”

I shake my head. “Not today.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps I can interest you in today’s special: Potpourri-scented cocaine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about some high-quality heroin? It’s only addictive if you use it a lot.”

“No.”

“Tylenol? It’s the one more doctors give their own families.”

“I’m not interested in drugs,” I say. “They’re bad for you. I’m looking for a hooker.”

“Ah, prostitution solicitation is one block to the east. Watch out for the undercover cops. They’re the ones with badges in their nylons.”

I thank him and walk to the east. The women of the night are out in full force, their cheap wigs sparkling in the moonlight. I approach a slim one in an alleyway, who’s smoking a cigarette and dipping into some chew.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Vicky. Wanna date?”

“I think so,” I reply.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t a cop,” she assures me. “Actually, prostitution isn’t my real job, either. I’m really a topless dancer—I just do this on the side ‘cause there’s no dress code.”

I take out my wallet. “What can I get for twenty dollars?”

“For twenty dollars you can play with yourself while I give you moral support.”

“Thirty?”

“For thirty I’ll dress up as one of your relatives and let you lick my boots.”

I think about that, and decide it’s not quite what I’m interested in. “No thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

The prostitute nods her understanding, but suddenly I find myself staring down the cold, metal barrel of her revolver. “Give me your wallet,” she says. I can see in her eyes that for me to resist will mean death, so I remove the money and credit cards and hand my brand-new snakeskin wallet to her.

She runs off with it, leaving me with nothing but the pockets in my jeans to hold my cash.

A pimp sympathetic to my situation walks over to me. “I don’t think you’re ready for a genuine ho’,” he says. “You should go one block south to the strip clubs.”

I thank him and head south. The first establishment I see is called Lust & Honey. I approach the large, burly bouncer.

“Hello,” I say. “I’d like to enter, please.”

“Perv,” he says with disgust.

“Excuse me?”

“I called you a perv.”

“Why did you do that?”

“You want to go inside to see naked ladies. That makes you a perv. Pervie pervie pervie. When’s the last time you washed your hands, you perv?”

“I just wanted to go in for a minute,” I tell him. “If you’re so appalled, why do you work here?”

“I work on the outside, where stray breasts are few and far between,” he explains. “However, I hear that Momma Helga’s Fetish Delights and Hardware Emporium is always glad to see pervs. Next building down.”

I walk to the next building down and approach the bouncer. “Hey, a perv, I like that!” he says, and ushers me inside.

The air in the strip club is thick with the smell of smoke and Lemon-scented Pine-Sol. Horny men sit watching a woman on the front stage bump and grind to the Dukes of Hazzard theme song. Her g-string contains several dollar bills and a couple of credit cards. She leans over to allow a man to insert a bill into her cleavage, then takes out a change dispenser and hands him fifty cents.

I sit down at an empty table and take in the sights. A waitress wearing a dog collar. A waitress with a barrel of whiskey under her neck. A dancer on a side stage does an erotic routine that involves smearing herself with chewing gum. A woman in a diaper lies on a table, where men can change her for twenty dollars.

“Excuse me,” says a woman wearing a bra and panties with see no evil, hear no evil, and taste no evil symbols on them. “Would you care for a lap dance?”

I nod. She leaps up onto my lap and starts clog dancing, leaving several nasty bruises. When the dance is completed forty-five minutes later, she asks me how I liked it. I admit that it wasn’t really my thing.

“Well, maybe we’ve got something that is your thing,” she says. “In the back room you can experience the hottest, most sensual thrill known to man.”

“You mean...?”

“No.”

“Then you mean...?”

“No.”

“Then you mean...?”

“Yes,” she says, looking me in the eye. “I mean—”

* * *

This is where the fantasy always ended, and I’d return to reality wondering what I meant. Then I’d wonder why the hell I was having a sexual fantasy that didn’t involve my having sex. Then I’d get depressed and go somewhere to mope.

Chapter Ten

“Yeeeee-ha!!!”

“WAKE UP! WAKE THE HELL UP! WAKE UUUUUUUUUUU—”

I reached over and shut off the Screaming Psychopath alarm clock, which had been funny in the store but was much less amusing in actual use. I stretched and groaned. Since there were only three days until school started, I’d been trying to condition myself for getting up early again, even if it meant setting the alarm for the ungodly hour of eleven-thirty. I’d stayed unemployed after getting fired from telemarketing for reading a skit (involving a talk show host interviewing a corpse) to a customer over the phone, and had therefore become embarrassingly lazy over the past month.

I showered and got dressed, just to get back in the habit. I trudged downstairs in a sleep-deprived stupor, giving my mom a good morning grunt as I walked past the living room.

“You got a letter,” she said. “It’s from something called Dearly Demented.”

“You mean Gleefully Disturbed?”

“Yes, that’s it. It’s on the kitchen table.”

Suddenly wide-awake, I hurried into the kitchen and picked up the letter. Now, don’t get too excited, I told myself. It takes most people dozens, even hundreds of submissions before they sell their first story.

I opened the envelope, but didn’t slide out the contents yet. I wanted to savor the suspense.

Yeah, but most people suck. I want to sell something NOW!

I slid out the letter. It was three pages, folded together. Was it an acceptance letter and a contract...or a really long, detailed rejection? (“Dear Mr. Trexler, your story was awful. Awful, awful, awful. So awful that I’m going to fill the next three pages with the word awful. Awful, awful, awful, awful...”)

There was one way to find out.

I took a deep breath.

I opened the letter and read the heading.

“Dear Mr. Trexler...”

Okay, so far so good. At least he’d bothered to write my name before rejecting me. I continued to read.

“I am pleased to inform you...”

Yes! Success! Unless, of course, he was pleased to inform me that he’d burned my story so it wouldn’t be harming any more innocent readers.

“...that I liked your story ‘The Private Diary of Lionel Parr’ and wish to use it in the next issue of Gleefully Disturbed, which should be out in november. Enclosed are 2 contracts; please sign 1 and keep the other for your records. Sincerely, Michael Garrett, Synex Publishing.”

Okay, so, he got the title of my story wrong and was a bit shaky on the rules regarding the capitalization of months. That was fine. I was going to officially be a published writer! The name of Seth Trexler was going to be in print for all of America to see!

If Mr. Garrett spelled it right.

I let out the breath I’d been holding for the past few sentences. A couple of flying insects dropped to the ground, writhing in agony.

I rushed into the living room waving the letter. “He’s going to publish my story! Now my weirdness is justified!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” my mom exclaimed, standing up and giving me a big hug. “I always knew you’d be successful, even if what you write isn’t what I like to read.”

My dad reacted to the news with similar excitement. “Neat,” he said. “Now why don’t you write that historical novel I’ve been giving you ideas for?”

I gave Travis a call at his grandparents’ house. “Hey, guess what incredible news I’ve got to share,” I said when he answered.

“You shaved your head.”

“No.”

“You grew a second tongue.”

“No.”

“You ate an entire squid that washed up on Lake Erie.”

“No.”

“You learned to perform a hysterectomy.”

“No.”

“You found a creative use for a coat rack.”

“No.” I knew this could go on for weeks, so I finally took the initiative to end it. “I sold that story to Gleefully Disturbed.”

“No way! Congratulations!”

I could hear heavy breathing that was coming from the other extension on Travis’ end. Apparently his grandfather’s asthma was acting up again.

“I just got the letter this morning.”

“Wow, you’re gonna be famous!”

“Yep, and then it’ll be my turn to pork a waitress named Roberta.”

Somebody, either Travis or his grandfather, inhaled sharply.

“Anyway,” said Travis, with more than a hint of Ix-nay on Oberta-ray You Stupid Idiot in his voice, “congratulations again. I can’t wait for it to come out.”

“Me either. Well, I’ll talk to you when you get back. See you then, roomie.”

“See you then, you stupid idiot.”

I hung up and spent the next couple hours dancing around like a hyperactive preschooler attached to a sugar IV. My mom answered the phone when it rang, and extended the receiver toward me. “It’s for you. Somebody named Garrett.”

I grabbed it excitedly. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Trepler,” said a low, gravely voice. “How are you doing?”

“Great. How are you?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. Okay, I guess. This is Mike Garrett, editor of Gleefully Disturbed. How are you doing?”

“Great still.”

“That’s good. That story you sent worked for me, so I mailed you a contract. You should be getting it in a few days.”

“Actually, I got it this morning,” I told him.

“Really? No shit? The postal service usually sucks. One time they lost something of mine for two months. Two months. That’s not even funny. In fact, it’s pretty sad. Pisses me off.”

“What was it they lost?”

“Oh, hell, I forget. Some catalog.”

“Yes, well, your letter arrived just fine.”

“You’d be amazed how many letters I get with coffee stains on the envelopes. There’s no pride anymore. Nuke the whole planet, that’s what I say. Start over with microbes.”

I was starting to wonder if my story appealed to him simply because it ended with the demise of humanity.

“Sorry,” he said, after a moment of silence. “I’m ranting. My girlfriend hates that. Of course, she doesn’t seem to mind the way she bitches about every little thing whenever I take her to a restaurant, but that’s my problem, I guess. So how are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. Rare these days, you know. Anyway, Steve—”

“Seth.”

“Who the hell is Seth?”

“I’m Seth Trexler, I wrote ‘The Private Diary of Leonard Parr,’ which you just sent me a contract for, and I’m doing fine today.”

“I’m sorry, man. I knew that. I got this big assortment of scented candles last night and I was up until about two hours ago sniffing them, so I’m kind of zoned right now. Shit, why’d I call?”

We were silent for a full thirty seconds as he tried to remember. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I wanted to make a couple changes in your story, if that’s okay.”

“What kind of changes?”

“You know that part where the guy is bleeding out his nose all over the dog?”

“You’re thinking of somebody else,” I said.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry. That’s this other thing I got a couple days ago. Worst piece of shit I ever read. I wanted to call the asshole who wrote it and tell him to shove it up his dick.” He cleared his throat for several seconds. “I’m sorry, my girlfriend doesn’t want me to talk like that anymore. Helium-voiced little skank. Anyway, in your story, there’s a part where you talk about a movie called Lord of the Unzipped Flies. Could I change that to Gore Slaughter?”

“I, uh, guess so. Why?”

“My friend, he’s trying to get funding to make a movie called Gore Slaughter, and I thought this might get him some attention.”

“Well, I mean, if you do that it sort of wrecks the joke.”

“You’ve lost me. I’m confused.”

“The whole point is that Kimberly is seriously hot for Leonard, but he doesn’t realize it,” I explained. “That’s why she wants to take him to an adult movie. If we turn it into a horror movie, it defeats the purpose.”

“I don’t get it. Oh, wait, now I do. Yeah, keep it the way you had it. Scott can just kiss my unshaven ass.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. There’s this slut Agnes who keeps calling me even though I tell her that anorexic chicks just don’t make the blood rush to my prick. I want to change ‘Kimberly’ to ‘Agnes’ just to piss her off.”

“I’d rather not,” I admitted. Anyone who found Mr. Garrett appealing obviously had mental problems, and I didn’t want them coming after me.

“Okay, forget it then. No big deal. It would just have added another level of meaning to your story. Look, I’m already three months behind on my phone bill, so I’m gonna cut this short. Nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you,” I lied.

“You don’t happen to know what happened on Guiding Light yesterday, do you? I missed it, and today’s episode just didn’t make any sense.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Oh well. Talk to you later.”

We hung up. My day was starting to decline.

Chapter Eleven

“Beware the Dormitory”

“I feel like I’m about to open the gates of Hell,” I remarked, placing my hand on the doorknob. In the distance I swore I could hear the screams of souls in torment.

No, Tanglewood Hall was not the dormitory of choice for students at Trade Point University. No mints on the pillows, no clean towels delivered to your door, and certainly no massage therapists making daily visits. Tanglewood was a sewer pit, and to be placed there was to know beyond all doubt that you were truly freshman scum.

If I were being paid by the word, I’d list everything that was wrong with the dorm. As it stands, I’ll just give you a brief rundown. The carpet had faded to a lifeless grey, except for the stained parts, and contained a generous portion of loose threads, holes, and burn marks. The walls were also heavy on the holes and stains, and were often sticky to the touch. The bathrooms were...well, let’s just say that when venturing into the bathroom, many of us preferred to use the buddy system. The shower was a mildew paradise, and the substance that emerged from the spigots may or may not have been water. The sinks were usually filled with dirty dishes. Most horrendous were the toilets, which I liked to describe as having attitude problems—they didn’t take shit from anybody.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. At the point where this chapter begins (“‘I feel like I’m about to open the gates of Hell,’ I remarked, placing my hand on the doorknob.”), I had only been at Tanglewood for a few minutes. I’d bid farewell to my mom and dad that morning, promising to keep my teeth brushed, hair combed, and underwear changed in case of surprise inspections. Packing had been a surprisingly quick and easy process. It wasn’t meant to be a quick and easy process, but I’d decided to use the time-tested organizational plan known as Waiting Until The Last Minute. Upon receipt of my deadline, in the form of my dad telling me to get my lazy butt moving because Travis and his parents would be here any second and why the hell hadn’t I packed last night like I was supposed to and Jesus Christ when was I going to learn a little bit of responsibility, I proceeded with the creative and effective solution of throwing everything into random garbage bags.

We managed to squash the bags into the back of Travis’ station wagon through the use of sheer brute force, though, surprisingly, the profanity involved didn’t go beyond the s-word. I squeezed into the car with Travis and his parents, and we took off toward our college adventure, with only a brief delay.

“What’s that smell?” his father demanded, rolling down the window.

His mother took a big whiff. “You’d think there was spoiled chicken in here.”

In an incredible coincidence, my mom had thrown away a spoiled chicken the night before. Most likely, it had been placed in a garbage bag of the same brand I’d used to pack my stuff. We made a brief detour at the next dumpster then took off toward our college adventure.

Four hours and six hundred eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall later, we arrived in Trade Point. Five minutes later we arrived on campus. Forty-five minutes later we arrived in front of Tanglewood Hall, which we would have located much earlier had the name not worn off the building years ago.

Mr. Darrow wasn’t keen on leaving the car parked in front of Tanglewood, which he figured to be a high-crime district, but he relented and we all entered the building, holding each other’s hands for protection. I felt an overwhelming desire to chant “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” as we slowly moved into the lobby.

“Welcome to Tanglewood Hall,” said a cheery-looking guy in a Tanglewood Hall T-shirt. “You must be Farley Abrahams and Tim Lloyd.”

“Um, no,” I said. “Seth Trexler and Travis Darrow.”

“Ah.” The guy flipped through a notebook, found our names, and put a checkmark next to them. “Each person I check off increases the odds that I’ll guess the next name right.”

“It certainly does,” Travis agreed.

“Okay, let’s take care of business,” the guy said, handing us each a rust-encrusted key. “If you lose these, there will be a five dollar replacement fee, so you’ll want to be careful.”

“Do we have to pay if they decompose?” I asked.

The guy ignored that and gave us a piece of paper. “The first thing you should do after you get your gear stowed is fill out this checklist about what’s wrong with your room, so at the end of the year we’ll be able to tally the new damages.”

Mr. Darrow had been glancing all around the lobby, calculating whether or not he was getting his money’s worth in housing fees. “I don’t mean to complain,” he said, “but isn’t this place a bit run-down?”

The guy grinned. “Tanglewood Hall was the first dormitory on this campus. There’s a lot of history here. It was built right after World War I.”

“They could have at least cleaned up the shrapnel,” I said.

“It may not look like much, but once you’ve been here a while, you’ll never want to leave,” the guy said, giving us a reassuring smile.

“Or we’ll never be able to leave,” I remarked, envisioning the entire place crashing down upon us.

Now I think we were starting to get on the guy’s nerves. He sighed. “There’s a floor meeting at eight tonight. You’ll get to meet all your neighbors, and we’ll put a little of the ol’ Tanglewood joy into you.”

“Sounds kinky,” said Travis.

“You’re at the end of the hall and just around the corner,” said the guy, gesturing to the left. “Room 126. Once again, welcome to Tanglewood Hall.”

We walked down the corridor, trying to avoid the cobwebs. I thought I heard a bat, but it may have been my imagination. We turned the corner and stopped outside of a room labeled as “Room 1 6” that was probably just missing the 2. With some effort, I managed to wrestle the key into the lock.

“I feel like I’m about to open the gates of Hell,” I remarked, placing my hand on the doorknob.

I opened the door, which let out a creak like something in a horror film. And there, lying in a pool of blood in the center of the room, were the fifteen dismembered corpses of previous residents. The withered old man at the gas station had been telling the truth about the Tanglewood curse. Why hadn’t I listened?

Okay, there were no dead bodies. But there was half of a dead roach lying on one of the beds. There was a small desk for each of us, and chairs that looked like they’d be fine as long as we made sure our legs supported most of our weight. The beds contained mattresses that probably didn’t even look comfortable to the dead roach. The walls were the least appealing yellow color I’d ever seen, and the custodians hadn’t quite been able to remove the words “This Place Sucks!” that were spray-painted on the ceiling. For some reason that I’m thankful remains a mystery to this day, there was a pubic hair taped to the dresser.

“Sort of lacks that welcoming feeling, doesn’t it?” I commented.

Mrs. Darrow had turned a disturbing white color. She looked at Travis and clenched her hands into tight little fists. “Sweetheart, are you absolutely positive you need a college education? I’m sure you could get a good job at the factory.”

“We just need to clean up a bit,” said Travis, though I noticed that his voice had developed a minor tremor. “Once we get some posters up, and vacuum the floor, and wash the walls, and disinfect the dresser, and exorcise the evil spirits everything will be great.”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Darrow said.

“Did you bring another spoiled chicken?” asked Mr. Darrow, sniffing the air.

I shook my head. “I think this smell lives here. This is its home.”

We were mostly silent as we carried everything into the room. The original plan was for Travis’ parents to help him unpack, but his mother’s color wasn’t getting any better so they left early.

Then we were alone. On our own at last. Adults.

Nah, not adults. But on our own at last.

Okay, to improve my chances of selling the movie rights for big heaping gobs of money, I’m going to make this book more cinematic by adding a music video sequence. What you need to do is find a stereo and play a rock-and-roll hit single at top volume. If you’re reading this on a plane or in a corporate board meeting, play the song anyway, but try to select one that doesn’t contain lyrics like “Gonna bone your momma all night long.”

Now envision a montage of quick-cutting images as Travis and I straighten up our dorm room, including but not limited to the following:

—Travis and myself washing the walls with industrial strength cleaner and a scouring pad. Add gas masks and/or decontamination suits for additional wackiness.

—Hanging posters of such celebrities as “Weird Al” Yankovic, some half-nekkid fashion models, and a hairy plumber with his butt crack showing.

—Running around in speeded-up motion trying to catch the pair of hairless rats that want us off their turf.

* * *

I guess those three images aren’t enough to fill a music video, so just repeat them in a cycle until the song ends, concluding with:

—The entire ceiling collapsing, dumping the contents of the room above onto us. It didn’t really happen, but it makes a nice ending to the montage.

* * *

By early evening, Travis and I pretty much had the room in livable shape. However, nothing we could do would eliminate The Smell, which I almost believed was a sentient presence. Though I wouldn’t swear to it, I’m pretty sure that The Smell intensified whenever we mentioned it...almost as if it were mocking us.

At eight o’clock we went into the study room for the floor meeting. About twenty other guys were already there, all of them blatant examples of freshman scum. Since all the seats were taken, Travis and I sat on the questionable floor, figuring that we could always buy new pants.

A tall, muscular guy with close-cropped brown hair stood in front of us, holding a clipboard. “Thanks for showing up,” he said. “My name is Rex, and I’ll be your resident advisor for the year. And I’m gay.”

He looked around the room, gauging the reaction. “Sorry to be so blunt, but I just thought I’d get that out into the open. I’m not in the closet, haven’t been since I was twelve, and I’m happy to be who I am, no matter what others think. I don’t have a boyfriend, I don’t believe in public displays of affection, and I think we can all get along fine if we accord each other the proper respect. I hope nobody’s going to have a problem with that.”

Everyone exchanged glances to see if anybody was going to have a problem with that. Rex made sure everyone was paying attention, then began to read from his clipboard.

“Homo, faggot, queer, limp-wrister, fairy, fruit, flamer, poofter, weak-fisted Nancy boy—I’ve heard them all, and I’m immune. They’re just words. They don’t mean anything.” He gestured to a black guy seated on the couch. “Isn’t that right, nigger?”

The black guy leaned forward. “Oh no, I did not just hear you say that!”

“What’s the matter?” He pointed to a Hispanic guy. “Excuse me, Mr. Spic, but did you find anything wrong with my comment?”

The Hispanic guy shrugged and returned to staring at some movement under the carpet.

Rex gave a look of mock surprise. “But...but those were only words! How could they hurt?” He turned serious. “Words do hurt, and I don’t want to hear any kind of slurs that put down another person on my floor. Are there any questions?”

Travis raised his hand. “Is the word ‘poofter’ really slang for homosexual? I’ve never heard that one before.”

There were some murmurs of agreement through the crowd.

“It’s a British word,” Rex explained.

“Ah, that would explain it.”

Rex glared at him. “I hope my message is clear. Respect. That’s the name of the game. By the year 2050, it’s predicted that at least half of the world population will be gay, so let the respect begin now before you’re all outnumbered.”

He gave us a moment to let this informational tidbit sink in, then returned his attention to the clipboard. “Okay, here are the rules. No loud music before ten a.m. and after nine p.m., except on weekends, when it’s no loud music before noon and none after ten p.m. None of you are of the legal drinking age, so keep the alcohol out of my sight. You may have noticed a problem getting the toilets to flush, and all I can say for now is to just be persistent. Are there any other questions?”

The black guy raised his hand. “What’s up with the smell in this place?”

Rex bit his lip. “That’s a good question. There does seem to be something of an aroma. I’ll be honest with you—I can’t pinpoint it. Have any of you had any luck?”

There was another general murmur as everyone expressed their lack of success in determining the source of The Smell.

“I don’t know what to tell you right now,” Rex admitted. “I’ll see what I can find out. Okay, now we’re going to go around in a circle and tell everyone your name, hometown, and something interesting about yourself. Let’s start with you.” He pointed at me. I always get picked first for these damn things.

“My name is Seth Trexler, I’m from Sharpview, and I’ve never purposely caused a camel to spit on somebody for reasons of revenge.”

Rex raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“And I have a story coming out in the magazine Gleefully Disturbed, available in November. It’s a very homosexual-friendly publication, so we can all enjoy it.”

Rex glared at me, then pointed to Travis. “And you are...?”

“Travis Darrow, I’m also from Sharpview, and I once wrestled a grizzly to the ground with my bare lips. I think ‘poofter’ is a vile, vile word, and will never use it in casual conversation. Thank you.”

We went through the rest of the people, who shared such exciting details as their ages (all of them eighteen or nineteen, except for one guy who was thirty-six). Once everyone had introduced themselves and we all felt like a happy family, Rex passed out a list of useful information, including library and cafeteria hours, and all of the words he never wanted to hear used on his floor.

“I guess that’s about it,” Rex said. “If you ever have any problems, or just want to talk about what it means to be gay, I’m always available.”

That night, Travis and I lay in our beds, marveling at how the milk we’d purchased went sour before it even made it to our portable refrigerator. Freshman orientation was to begin promptly at eight in the morning, so I was in a state of behoovement to get some sleep.

There was a knock at the door. “Rex probably thought of some more words to add to his list,” said Travis, getting out of bed.

He opened the door. It was Mick, a football-player type who lived across the hall. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re all heading over to a party at Kappa Omega Kappa.”

“Fraternity or sorority?” Travis asked.

“Sorority. We’re all gonna get lucky. You guys probably haven’t had much of an opportunity to make any friends yet, so this’ll give you a chance to get drunk enough to forget all about that. C’mon, let’s go!”

Chapter Twelve

“Party Animal Seth”

A group of about ten of us walked through campus, led by Mick, whose libido was a few steps ahead of him, running in circles and barking loudly. You’d think my stomach would have felt like it was wringing itself out, but really, I wasn’t all that nervous. Because, let’s face it, despite what Mick said, I knew I wasn’t heading for some two-drink-minimum orgy. That kind of stuff just didn’t happen.

The sorority was on the opposite end of campus, and as we got closer, the music got louder. It was clearly a live band, which seemed to be doing a heavy metal rendition of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” that included a line about being bitch-slapped.

When we reached the sorority house, there was a huge crowd of people outside, drinking and smoking and, I assume, having serious academic discussions (this was college, after all). The live band consisted of three scary-looking guys with their instruments set up on the grass. The lead singer finished the song with an aesthetically pleasing screech, then grabbed his crotch and gave it a hearty tug. It stayed in its new location, which I found a bit discomforting.

Mick flapped his arms and rushed into the fray, screaming “PARTY ‘TILL YOU’RE PUTRID!” The rest of us made a less hyperactive entry into the crowd. There were no unconscious bodies to step over, so the party clearly was just beginning.

As we navigated the perimeter, I noticed that very few of the partiers looked like our caste of loser freshmen. “You think we’re crashing this?” I asked Travis. Actually, to compete with the music it came out more like “YOU THINK WE’RE CRASHING THIS?!?”

“PROBABLY!!!” he replied.

“COOL!!!” I said.

We made it to the front of the sorority house, where a guy in Mickey Mouse ears and a chef’s apron was standing in front of an immense cooler. “You!” he said, pointing at me. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!”

I didn’t think it was all that bad, because I absolutely loathe the taste of alcohol. I’ve never been drunk. It’s not hangovers, or memory blackouts, or the fear that I might end up like this guy I knew in high school who got amazingly intoxicated one winter and tried to eat an entire snowman—it’s the taste. I hate it. Despise it. Gag me with a spoon.

(Yes, I actually put “gag me with a spoon” into this book. No, I have no shame.)

The guy thrust a beer into my hand. “You!” he said to Travis. “I see no beer in your hand! That is bad!” He rectified the foul situation, then repeated the procedure with each of the seven other members of our group. I don’t know my beers very well, but I figured that this was not a top-notch brand, since the can was blank save for the word “beer.” And “beer” was mostly worn off.

A few of the other Tanglewood inmates began to mingle, while Travis, myself, and a couple of other freshmen moved to an area where we could lean against the building. Travis pulled the tab off his beer.

“There doesn’t seem to be any fizz,” he said. He tilted the can a bit. “And it’s thick.”

The rest of us opened our beers, and yes, they all had a syrup-like consistency.

“Oh well, it’s free,” said one of the inmates, Dominick, taking a big swig. We all watched for his reaction. “Oh, God,” he moaned, after the coughing fit subsided. “That’s worse than the time I got my nose stuck to the rubber cement tube!”

“I think I’ll teetotal for the night,” Travis said.

“I’ll join you,” said another inmate, Robert, taking a whiff of the liquid. “Whoa! That’ll clear your sinuses out like battery acid!”

We stood there for a few minutes, just leaning against the building, trying to look cool with our beers. I wanted to look even cooler by swaying to the musical beat, but with what was playing I would have appeared to be having an epileptic fit.

After the few minutes were up, there was a general consensus that we probably didn’t look all that cool. Travis and the other inmates made their way into the main flow of the partiers. I would have followed had I not promptly collided with the most gorgeous hunk of femininity I’d ever seen.

Even the slimy beer I spilled all over her blouse didn’t detract from her beauty. I had a moment of sheer terror, thinking that maybe the beer was going to eat right through her skin like the creature’s acid blood in Alien. My instinct was to rip off her blouse to save her life, but a little bird told me that my action would be taken the wrong way.

“You stupid jerk!” shouted the woman of my dreams.

She was truly a sight to behold. She had black hair that spilled over her shoulders as her tiger eyes shone with a beautiful fury. Her slender fingers were curled into the most attractive fists I had ever seen. Those lips, pressed together in a glorious pissed-off expression, made my heart race.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she exclaimed. Her voice was like heavenly music.

I pried my eyes away from her long enough to check for Travis, but he was gone. Though the bonds of loyalty may be strong between two best friends, they don’t include sticking around to share in the shame when one of you has made a complete jackass out of himself.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, lamely.

“Good. I’m glad you’re sorry. You standing there being sorry is much more productive than getting me something to clean this up with.”

In a perfect world, I would have ripped my own shirt from my chest, revealing rippling, glistening muscles that would have filled her with a ravenous passion. In the real world, I proceeded to bumble around in search of a towel or napkins.

There were, of course, none to be found outside. “Go inside,” she said, as if speaking to a very young, very dumb child. “Get a towel. Once you’ve done that, bring me this towel so that I don’t have to stand here like a moron.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with genuine humility.

I walked around the sorority house to the front door. I went inside, walked past a staircase, and found myself in a TV room. Two girls were in there, watching a stand-up comedian share his hilarious views on how bad the food is on airplanes.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for a towel.”

“We don’t keep towels in this sorority,” the first girl informed me.

“What about some napkins?”

“No napkins either,” said the second girl.

“Where’s the bathroom? I’ll just use toilet paper.”

“No bathrooms.”

“What?”

“No bathrooms,” the second girl repeated. “We have nothing to hide from each other.”

I stared at them for a moment, incredulous.

“We’re only kidding,” the first girl assured me. “You really should lighten up.”

I forced a smile. “Lightening-up isn’t on tonight’s schedule of events. But if I got a towel or something I could at least get out of total panic mode.”

“The laundry room is right across the hall,” said the second girl. “Someone’s left a load in the dryer for the past couple hours. You can probably find a towel in there.”

“Thanks,” I said, hurrying across the hall. The moral dilemma of smearing somebody’s clean towel with the vile beer didn’t even occur to me. I opened the one dryer that wasn’t currently in operation, quickly searched through the contents, and found a bright orange towel. I rushed out of the building, immediately colliding with my beer-splattered beauty and knocking her to the ground.

“Ow! My ankle!” she cried out.

I reached down to help her, but she slapped my hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she said. “Your stupidity might be contagious!”

She got to her feet, her left leg wobbling just a bit. I held out the towel, which she grabbed out of my hand and pressed against her blouse.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to be an idiot?”

“I’m really, really sorry.” Since I wasn’t exactly overflowing with dignity at this point, there was no reason not to grovel. “I’ll pay to have the blouse cleaned if you want. Or I’ll wash it myself in a demeaning fashion of your choice.”

She was silent for a moment. “That’s okay,” she said, appearing to have lost a small chunk of her anger. “You’re plenty demeaned enough.”

I chuckled good-naturedly. “By the way, I’m Seth.”

“Don’t assume that just because I’ve stopped yelling at you I want to get to know you better.”

“Sorry.”

“Say you’re sorry one more time and gain a nostril.”

I checked my watch. “I think it’s time for me to go somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Good idea.”

I left her and wandered around for a couple of minutes until I located Travis. He winked and gave me the thumbs-up sign.

“She wants you.”

“Shut up, Travis.”

“No, really. I moved as far away from you as possible, and I could still sense it.”

“Shut up, Travis.”

“Seriously. I could feel the boiling waves of heat coming from her sensuous body. It’s like she had a flame-thrower between her legs.”

“Shut up, Travis.”

He grinned. “At least you got rid of the beer. Making yourself look like a jerk does have some benefits.” I decided a change of subject was in order. “You think Mick has arranged a ménage a quatro yet?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Travis said. “I saw the way you were looking at her. And she’s your type. You should have turned your incompetence to your advantage and gotten her phone number.”

“How do you know she’s my type?”

Travis began to count on his fingers. “Brunette. Slender build. Colored eyes. Dominatrix. Decent-sized—”

“Remember me telling you to shut up?”

“Okay, all kidding aside, she’s your type, Seth. You know it and I know it.”

“I don’t know anything! All she did was yell at me!”

“Well, yeah, if you want to get into personality...”

Sometimes the whole idea of friendship seems stupid.

“I’m going back to the dorm,” I said. “I’d rather hang around Tanglewood than here. Which is a heart attack concept.”

“Oh, come on,” said Travis. “You need to lighten up.”

“I’m not going to lighten up tonight, and that’s final!”

“Okay, okay. Did you even get her name?”

“No.”

Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and faced a tall, well-built irate-looking guy. “Are you the asshole who spilled beer on Laura?” he asked.

Oh, Laura, what a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman...

“Yes, I’m that asshole,” I admitted.

“Do you realize that you stole my girlfriend’s towel?”

I ran.

Chapter Thirteen

“Let’s Get Oriented”

“Hello?”

“Is this Seth Trepler?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi, Mike Garrett, Gleefully Disturbed. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good.”

“Listen, I’m on a stolen calling card, so I can’t talk for long, but I have some news. I made all those changes we discussed last time, and I just finished the layout of the November issue.”

“Cool. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Well, that’s the thing. Money has been kind of tight around here, and these jerk-offs keep calling saying ‘We’re gonna shut off your electricity! We’re gonna shut off your electricity!’ like they think I’m gonna give them money or something. It’s bad enough that they shut off my water. Shit, the way things are going, pretty soon I won’t be able to pay for cable, either.”

“Times are tough.”

“Yeah, they sure are. Release a worldwide nerve gas, that’s what I say. Anyway, I know how much you and the other contributors were looking forward to seeing your stories in print, so I figured I’d call and ask for a couple hundred dollars from each of you. That’ll get the November issue published, and we’ll worry about the February issue when the time comes.”

Long pause.

“Seth, are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“What do you think?”

“I really don’t have any extra money right now.”

“Shit, that’s what everyone else says. You’d think I bought stories from a bunch of goddamned vagrants. Come on, man, why won’t you help me out?”

“I just started college, I’m broke.”

“College is a freakin’ joke, man! You don’t need to pay money to learn that Shakespeare bullshit. All those ‘prithees’ and ‘thou arts’ and all that other dick spew—you’re wasting your time!”

“Look, I have to get going.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. It’s these pills, man. Spike said double vision was the only bad side effect, but that piece of shit lied again. By the way, what time is it there?”

“Four a.m.”

“Oh, man, that sucks. I’d buy a watch, but that’s how the government controls you.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Hold on a second, my girlfriend’s whining at me about something. [ muffled ] It’s not your calling card, so what are you getting your tits in a twist for? It’s not like she keeps track of her phone calls!”

“I really have to get going.”

“Seth? I’ve gotta get going. This wench-bag I call my girlfriend is having a... THE CANDLES! YOU FORGOT ABOUT THE CANDLES! NOW THE GODDAMN CURTAINS ARE ON FIRE! I CAN’T— WE DON’T HAVE ANY WATER TO DOUSE THEM, REMEMBER? CALL 911, YOU DUMB BITCH! YES, I KNOW I HAVE THE PHONE— DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING! Seth, I’ll talk to you later. JESUS CHRIST THE COUCH IS BURNING AND MY STASH IS UNDER THE CUSHIONS! MOVE, WOMAN, MOVE! THAT STUFF COST ME ALMOST—”

Dial tone.

* * *

About an hour later Travis staggered into the room. I sat up in bed as he turned on the light.

“If you’re drunk, watch out for the loose section of carpet,” I warned him.

“No, I’m sober. Just tired and brain-fried.” He shut the door behind him, made a beeline for his bed, and flopped down on it. “Seth?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me never to flop down on this bed again. The springs hurt.”

“Never flop down on that bed again. The springs hurt.”

He stood up and got undressed. “How long before we’re supposed to be at orientation?”

“About three hours.”

He considered that. “How important is it that we actually show up for this orientation?”

“Very.”

He let out a soul-rending groan. “I’m never going to another party again. Oh, who am I trying to kid? Are you sure we have to go to orientation? We’re already signed up for classes.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I am.” He grunted with frustration. “Why can’t I get these pants off?”

“Shoes first, Travis.”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t believe I stayed for the whole thing. Hearing that band play commercial jingles really messed up my mind. I’ll never think of Chex Mix in the same way.”

“Did you all get lucky?”

“Nope. Just Mick. Watching him work is very educational. He explained that seduction is a volume business, and that even the most feeble opening line will work if tried on enough people. I mean, sure, he got kneed in the groin by six women tonight, but lucky seven made up for it.”

“What was his opening line?” I asked.

“I think tonight’s was ‘My lips are your aphrodisiac.’”

“He actually said that to human beings?”

Travis nodded.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, at least that’s better than ‘I almost tested negative.’”

“Did you know that when he goes bar-hopping he actually carries around a Filofax of opening lines to use?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep. He says he doesn’t want to have to think any more than absolutely necessary. When he sees somebody who appeals to him—meaning she has at least one body cavity—he just flips to the right line and uses it.”

“That is truly sad.”

Travis shut off the light, then I heard the springs creak as he eased himself into bed. “He says that he tends to blurt out things that he shouldn’t, and having his material already written keeps him out of some sticky situations.”

“Or at least postpones them until the right moment.”

“Exactly. Anyway, we just hung out around the sorority house the whole time. I got to know some people pretty well. You should’ve stuck around. Laura was asking about you.”

“Really? What did she say?”

“Ummm, she wasn’t asking about you in a good way...”

“Never mind. Go to sleep.”

* * *

The next day we got up bright and early to go to Freshman Orientation. Travis wasn’t exactly cooperative in the morning, but having an entire bag of ice dumped on him seemed to facilitate his awakening process. We were in separate groups, so we split up and I headed to room 213 in Marksman Hall.

I entered the room and sat down with about fifteen other freshmen. In a world of delightful irony, Laura would have been my orientation leader. As it turned out, we did live in a world of delightful irony, just not quite what I expected.

“Hi, I’m Rex, your orientation leader. I apologize if I don’t fit your stereotypical view of what one should look like, but I am a gay man, and will be until the day I die.”

After Rex gave us an insightful fifteen-minute lecture on the importance of sexual diversity, he passed out some schedules. “These show most of the events that are planned for this semester,” he explained. “If you’ll look at September fifteenth, for example, you’ll see that the Gay Pride Banquet, which I’ll be organizing, will be held at eight p.m. Because we believe in acceptance, you heterosexuals are more than welcome to attend and learn. And on October first there will be a Gay Pride Parade, which will be held at three p.m. and will weave its way all the way around campus, spreading our message. You can also see that the Gay Pride meetings are held every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday in Carbine Hall from seven to nine p.m. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll sign you up. Any questions?”

A girl raised her hand. “Do you have a chess club?”

“I think so...you’ll have to ask around. Any other questions?”

I scanned the list of events, then raised my hand. “What’s this Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition?”

“It’s something that our illustrious university has chosen to schedule against the Gay Pride banquet, to keep our numbers down. That’s okay. It’s a free campus.”

“Do you know where I could get more information on it?”

“I’m not sure,” Rex admitted, “but if you attended one of the Gay Pride meetings, somebody there could probably steer you in the right direction.”

“Thanks.” A comedy competition was definitely something to look into.

Rex sat down on top of one of the desks. “Okay, now we’re going to do a little getting-to-know-each-other exercise. I want everyone to think of a secret in their lives, something that is perfectly natural but would invite persecution if it were made public. Then we’ll share these secrets and discuss why there’s nothing wrong with them.”

* * *

Freshman orientation ended at five. I hadn’t learned all that much about Trade Point University, but I did know every single accomplishment made by a gay man in the past two centuries. When I met Travis back in our dorm room, he was wearing a dangling earring.

“Our orientation leader said that a good way to get acquainted was to adorn each other,” he said. “It worked. I’ve got a date tonight. Her name’s Chi-Mao Johnson. I think her parents wanted an oriental.”

“Where are you two going?”

“The cemetery.”

“No, really.”

“I’m not kidding,” Travis insisted. “We’re going to the cemetery to pay homage to her dead grandmother. She does this once a week and invited me along. It would have been rude to refuse.”

“Well, have fun.”

“Oh, before I forget—you heard about the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition, right?”

“Yeah! What do you know about it?”

Travis sat down at his desk and began to rifle through the papers he’d been given at orientation. “I guess this guy, Saul Rawlins, always wanted to be a stand-up comedian. But he sucked. Like, people would throw poisonous reptiles on stage to shut him up. He refused to quit, until he turned fifty and won the lottery. So to get his name associated with comedy, he funded the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition, which is held every year at colleges around the nation. First prize is ten thousand dollars.”

“I could use an extra ten thousand dollars,” I remarked. “We could paint the room.”

“Ah, here we go,” said Travis. He began to read from one of the sheets. “Are you funny? Are you willing to prove it? Then enter the blah blah blah...all styles are permitted, from a stand-up routine to a hilarious song you want to perform. No more than five minutes, please. It will be held September 15 at blah blah blah. The winner at each school will get to perform in the finals at New York State University blah blah blah.”

“I’m doing it!” I said.

“I was thinking we could do a collaboration,” Travis said. “We could write a skit to perform together, like we’d kinda sorta planned to do when we were talking after graduation.”

“Sounds great! It’s a deal.”

We shook hands.

“Have you noticed how greasy our hands get as soon as we step into this building?” Travis asked. “I bet if we did some research we’d find out that a bunch of nuns were murdered here.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I began. “You go out with Chi-Mao and say hi to her grandmother for me. Tomorrow after classes we’ll start getting ready to win that ten grand.”

“And win it we shall...partner.”

* * *

I’m not sure exactly how pathetic this is, but I spent the rest of the evening alone in the room, writing. I considered starting on a skit, but figured I should wait and let Travis in on it from the beginning. So I wrote a love poem instead. It was not dedicated to Laura.

“Our Never-Ending Love”

by Seth Trexler

Our love is a love that will never end

For I love you from the depths of my soul

On a moonlit beach our bodies will blend

As soon as you make parole.

Your well-chapped lips and your bloodshot eyes

Unlock passion I never knew I possessed

How I long to drool on your sun-burnt thighs

Oh, why did you resist arrest?

As soon as you’re free I’ll kiss both your teeth

We’ll be a modern day Bonnie and Clyde

But to show respect we’ll place a wreath

On the graves of your victims who died.

I wish my hand could squeeze through these bars

So I could caress your double chin

But soon we’ll make love under the stars

Along with your identical twin.

So no matter what violence you intend

Our love is a love that will never end.

I went to bed and dreamt of romance.

* * *

Travis came back around two in the morning. This time, instead of brain-fried he looked freaked.

“What happened?” I asked, as he turned on the light. “Jeez, Travis, are you hyperventilating?”

“I’m going to hell,” he whimpered.

“What’d you do?”

“It started out nice. We went out and got a pizza. We talked, found out that we had a lot in common, and I was thinking, wow, I’d like to spend more time with her. Then we went to the graveyard, where she spoke to her grandmother’s tombstone for about an hour. She tried to get me to participate, but I was a little uncomfortable, so she settled for having me sing ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider,’ which was her grandmother’s favorite song.”

Travis wrung his hands together. “So, then she starts wrapping it up, and I’m thinking that we finally get to leave, when she gives me this slow kiss on the lips. Then leans over and whispers in my ear that she wants me! Right then and there!”

“Next to grandma’s grave?”

“On grandma’s grave! She said she wanted her grandmother to know that she was happy!”

I gave him an incredulous look. “And you did it?”

“I...I...it wasn’t my fault!”

“You actually had sex with her on top of her grandmother’s grave?”

Travis looked distraught. “Oh, God...this makes me evil, doesn’t it? What if she got pregnant? It’ll be Satan’s child!”

“So what did you two do afterward? Smoke a cigarette and sacrifice a goat?”

“I haven’t even told you the worst part. She was a wild woman! Totally out of control! I tried to calm her down, but she was just going nuts, and...”

“And what?”

“And she hit her head on the tombstone and gave herself a concussion. I had to take her to the hospital.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. I got to meet her parents. They seemed nice.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “So when’s your next date?”

“I’m never going to date again. All I’m going to do is study. That’s it. Study, study, study, and write our skit. No social life for me. I’m done.”

“Congratulations. Join the No Social Life Club and get some sleep.”

“Do you think her grandmother could hear us?”

“Go to sleep, Travis.”

Chapter Fourteen

“The Birth of Out of Whack”

You may be looking at the title of this chapter and thinking “It’s about damn time!” Well, stop that. It’s rude.

My first day of classes consisted of Biology 101, Sociology 101, and English 112. Aside from discovering that I had approximately $350 worth of books to purchase, and that 66.6% of my teachers were blithering incompetents, the day went fairly well.

I was done with classes by four, so I waited until Travis finished at five and we went to the cafeteria for a delicious dinner consisting of Ooze on a Bun and cold, wet French fries. Travis seemed to have mostly recovered from the trauma of last night (at least he was eating solid foods again), and after our meal we headed back to the dorm room to write.

“All right,” I said, taking out my official-looking notebook. “The official Seth and Travis comedy brainstorming session has begun.”

“Should we have caffeine for this?” Travis asked.

“Yes, we should,” I declared.

Twenty minutes later, we returned from the convenience store with a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew and a large bag of Raisinets.

“All right,” I said, taking out my official-looking notebook once again. “The official Seth and Travis comedy brainstorming session has begun.”

“Hold on, I have to take a leak,” said Travis. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, I leave you my artificial turnip.”

Travis had owned this stupid plastic turnip for as long as I’d known him. He couldn’t remember where he got it and had no particular use for it that he was willing to reveal, but he didn’t want to throw it out.

He returned four minutes later, so I was saved the hassle of forming a search party. “All right,” I said, clenching the official-looking notebook tightly. “The official Seth and Travis comedy brainstorming session is about to begin, unless member Travis is willing to have his heart removed with his own toenails.”

“I’m ready,” said Travis. “Where should we begin?”

“Probably with a cool name,” I suggested. “The Comedy Duo of Seth and Travis isn’t all that spectacular.”

“Nope,” Travis agreed. “Though The Comedy Duo of Travis and Seth has a nice ring to it.”

“Bite me hard and for a long time.”

“Getting all the sophisticated humor out of your system before we start writing?”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll spend the next few minutes just coming up with as many names as we can. I’ll write them all down and we’ll decide which ones are terrible later. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Let’s begin.”

I still have the official notebook, by the way. And right there, on the first page, are some of the name ideas that we rejected:

The Amazing Travis Darrow And His Pet Nerd

A Couple of Idiots

You Suck If You Don’t Laugh

Fallen Weebles

The Amazing Travis Darrow And His Twistable Tongue

Chucklefodder

Overstepping the Boundaries

Levity Loonies

Mayhem

Over The Top (Not the Sylvester Stallone Arm Wrestling Movie)

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!

We Do Funny Skits And Stuff Like That

Ugh: The Group

I read off the list. “Which one do you like best?” I asked.

“Ugh: The Group.”

“Ugh: The Group doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s part of its appeal.”

“Personally, I like Overstepping the Boundaries best.”

“Nah.”

“What if we shortened it? Out of Bounds?”

Travis considered that. “Hmmmm...that’s not so bad, actually. Are you sure you won’t go for Ugh: The Group?”

“I’m positive.”

“Okay, then Out of Bounds works for me. Let’s go with it.”

“No, wait!” I said. “Out of Whack! That’s what we should call it! Out of Whack!”

Insert an incredibly dramatic pause here.

“Nah,” said Travis.

“Oh, come on! It’s perfect!”

“What’s wrong with The Amazing Travis Darrow and his Twistable Tongue? Think of the groupies!”

I pointed toward the door in horror. “Behind you! It’s the rotting corpse of Chi-Mao’s grandmother! And she’s horny!”

“That’s not funny,” Travis said.

“Actually, it was,” I corrected.

“I’m just messing with you. Out of Whack is fine. So who gets to be Out and who gets to be Whack?”

I ignored him. “Now, we need a skit...”

Four hours and eighty-seven arguments later, we had one.

* * *

[ Travis will be seated behind a desk, dressed as a newscaster. ]

TRAVIS: Good evening, and welcome to the evening news. Our top story: False flashers have been sighted around the parks of our fair city. These trench-coated fiends seem like genuine flashers at first glance, but when they throw open the raincoat their collective doodles are covered with signs reading “Fooled You!” thus robbing our women of even the tiniest glimpse of the Six Inch Delight. And in more local news, Vinnie Faltermeyer was found dead in his apartment last night, apparently the victim of a stabbing, as evidenced by the knife protruding from his chest.

[ Travis looks at the newssheet more closely. ]

TRAVIS: Wait a minute...I know this guy! Yeah, I remember Vinnie!

[ He calls off-stage. ]

TRAVIS: Hey, Chuck! Vinnie Faltermeyer’s dead! Yeah, Vinnie! The beer-chugging king bit the dust!

[ Seth, in the glorious role of Chuck the stagehand, walks over to him, holding a sandwich. ]

SETH: Are you serious? Dang, I liked him.

TRAVIS: Remember that one time when you and me snuck into Vinnie’s dorm room and shaved his armpits? And all the next day Vinnie was walking around going “Hey, who shaved my armpits?” and we blamed it on that geeky guy at the end of the hall who never bathed and ate soap?

SETH: That’s right! And remember how Vinnie could make that really cool popping sound with his belly button and he would call people he didn’t know and not say anything but just make that popping sound into the phone and then hang up?

TRAVIS: Man, those were some times.

SETH: You’re not kidding.

[ Seth walks off-stage. Travis continues with the news. ]

TRAVIS: The president has just been shot. We’ll have more details as they trickle in. And now here’s Butch with sports.

[ Seth is at another desk, wearing a different sweater to signify that he is no longer Chuck the stagehand, but Butch the sports guy. ]

SETH: In football, this blue team played this red team, and I think the blue team won. In bowling, a couple of players got strikes, and one guy picked up a spare. In swimming, nobody drowned. And another four cities banned the sport of squirrel hurling. Back to you, Jim.

TRAVIS [ calling off-stage ]: Hey, Chuck, remember that one time when Vinnie got so drunk he couldn’t remember who he was, and so we changed his identity and sent him to live with those Amish people? Boy, was he mad!

SETH [ as Chuck ]: But that beard did a lot for him.

TRAVIS: This just in. The home at 431 Tucker Street burned to the ground today. Nobody was injured, though neighbors expressed regret that, and I quote, “the weenie didn’t get roasted.” Firemen say...

[ He realizes something. ]

TRAVIS: Oh...oh, this is just great. Dammit, I told my wife again and again, the grill is for outdoor use only! But does she listen? Noooooooooooo. She’s too busy cooking her precious shish kabobs!

[ He flips through the remaining newssheets quickly and without enthusiasm. ]

TRAVIS: Okay, we’ve got a burglary, a festival, another murder, a tax hike, a glee club bake sale, some reject with a big cabbage, blah blah blah, that’s the news, I’m done.

[ The end...or is it? ]

- An Incomplete Catalog of Arguments -

1. Who would be playing the newscaster. (Resolved with a line reading after the skit was completed. I was forced to admit defeat and Travis got the role.)

2. Whether “collective doodles” or “collective penises” was funnier. I fought for doodles. I won. I’ll let you make your own decision.

3. How long the Six Inch Delight should be. We debated everything from two to eighteen inches. If you knew just how long we spent discussing this, I guarantee you’d shake your head sadly and sigh.

4. Nearly two dozen names were rejected before we agreed on “Vinnie Faltermeyer.” I kind of wish my own name was Vinnie Faltermeyer sometimes, even if thoughts like that do make me a nerd.

5. Travis wanted to exaggerate the stabbing gag to “apparently the victim of a stabbing, as evidenced by the six knives protruding from his chest,” but my gift for subtlety won him over.

6. Vinnie could have been “the nose-picking king”, “the distance-spitting king”, “the kitten-sniffing king,” or even the “yak-tugging king.”

7. Travis thought the shaved armpits bit was stupid. I agreed with him 100%, but I wanted to keep it in. There’s a blatant lack of good shaved armpits gags in comedy today, and I aim to change that, once and for all!

8. We narrowed it down to “ate soap” from virtually every disgusting substance it is possible to put into one’s mouth. Be glad you weren’t there for the conversation. If you don’t believe anything else I’ve said in this book, trust me on this one.

9. We didn’t argue about the belly button pop, but Travis wasted a good three minutes trying to do it. He never could, and the world is a better place.

10. I didn’t want to add the line “We’ll have more details as they trickle in” after the president had been shot, but Travis thought it worked better that way. I was forced to concede since he’d let me have the armpit hair bit.

11. On the sports bit, we agreed on everything except the colors of the teams. Go figure.

12. Travis had a really vulgar alternative to the part where we changed Vinnie’s identity. I mean, it was filth in its rawest form. I personally would not have stood in front of actual people and recited these foul lines, and absolutely refused to put them into the skit. I’m not going to divulge what he wanted to include, but for those of you who are into mathematics, if you add every bit of non-G-rated humor in this book so far, plus all of the vulgarity to come (and there’s plenty, including a really cheap “come” double entendre that you may have just missed), it still won’t be as obscene as what Travis had in mind. He called me a wimp.

13. When we were at the burning home news story on the first draft (this was after three hours of working on this thing), Travis wanted to quit for the night. I called him a wimp. He called me a name inspired by the rejected material I mentioned in #12, but stuck with it until we finished the skit.

Now, we had a name. We had something to perform.

Like that giant maggot in the remake of The Fly, Out of Whack was born.

Chapter Fifteen

“Comedy is a Frightening Thing”

The day of the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition started like any other, with a huge THUMP and bits of plaster falling into my open mouth. Every time the guy upstairs would jump off his bunk bed, we’d get a plaster rainfall. I was trying to get out of the habit of sleeping with my mouth open, both to avoid getting poisoned and because I’d often wake up with my mouth so dry I’d have to stagger out of bed making gasping noises in the back of my throat and rush to drink the melted ice from an old glass of Coke.

Anyway, on this fine Friday morning, I got up, performed the requisite hygiene duties, plucked my eyebrows with a pair of fingernail clippers so they’d be their pluckedest, and went to class, where I promptly discovered that I’d forgotten about the English quiz. One “F” later, I went back to the dorm and looked over my lines again.

We’d practiced over and over to the twenty-seventh power, and I thought we had it down pretty well. We’d argued over several of the line readings, explaining to each other in very sarcastic detail why it was funnier to emphasize one word over another, or why a line should be divided up into two breaths, and finally had compromised with an “I’ll read my lines any damn way I please, and you read your lines any damn way you please” deal.

Aside from preparing for the competition, nothing overly exciting had been happening in my first three weeks of college.

I’d made a few friends and gone to most of my classes, but not much else. I spent an incredible amount of time thinking about Laura, usually when Travis reminded me by saying something like “That’s as stupid as when you spilled beer on that girl.” I hadn’t seen her again, though. Travis had seen her entering Sniper Hall a couple of times, but I was too scared to try and find her there.

Travis had gotten over his little dating trauma, and the previous Friday had burst into the room. “Seth, buddy, paragon of generosity, I need the room tonight.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I met this girl at Snorty’s and she came back with me. We need the room.”

I gasped in mock surprise. “Travis! Are you suggesting intercourse!”

“Yes, I am, and unless you want to watch my gyrating butt all night, you’ll sleep in the lounge.”

“The lounge has rats.”

“So does the room. What’s the big deal?”

I shook my head. “I just don’t know. I’m expecting an important call.” At last! Revenge for the Brady Bunch song in eighth grade, all the more precious because of the delay!

“I’ll take a message. C’mon, you know I’d do the same for you.”

“Where is she now?”

“In the bathroom throwing up.”

“You’re going to take advantage of her in a drunken state?”

“She’s not drunk. Stomach flu.”

“Travis, where do you find these women?”

“Can I borrow the room or not?”

“For ten bucks you can. Half that for anything under five minutes.”

“I’m not paying you ten bucks!”

“Why not? That’s probably less than the girl cost.”

“Oh, ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Please, from one hormonally hyperactive male to another, get the hell out of the room.”

“Will you buy me a cookie?”

“Yes, I’ll buy you a stupid cookie. Can I use the room?”

“With milk?”

“Yes, with milk.”

“Vitamin D milk?”

“I’ll get you breast milk if you want it, just go away!”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll go. Just let me pack a few things and tidy up a bit.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Don’t you hate dealing with a smart-ass?”

I figured I could always crash on somebody’s floor, so I folded up my blanket and got my toothbrush out of the closet.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Travis as I headed for the door.

“Yes?”

“Ummm...you know how my bed has those uncomfortable springs...?”

“No way! Uh-uh! You’re not using my bed! Absolutely not!”

“I’ll set down a plastic sheet or something.”

“No!”

“If we use my bed she could get impaled!”

“I don’t care. And don’t use the floor, either. I have to walk on that thing.”

“Fine. I’ll figure something out.”

“See you tomorrow,” I said. “If you want to videotape it you’ll want to put the camera on the left side of the room to avoid glare from the window.”

“I really do appreciate this.”

“No problem. That’s what spineless friends are for.”

Aside from that, Travis was easy to live with, during those moments when I didn’t envision his head in a spiked vice.

I got off the subject again, I know. Just slap me next time I do that.

Okay, the competition was at eight o’clock in Fodder Hall, but the participants were supposed to be there by seven. Travis and I arrived on time and in costume. To make his hair more like a newscaster, Travis had put in three types of gel, hardening it to the point that he could break down walls if he butted his head against them. Since I was playing two characters, being the versatile actor that I am, I wore a flannel shirt for Chuck the stagehand, as well as a fake mustache and a ball cap. Underneath the flannel shirt I wore a nice sweater for Butch the sports guy.

There were going to be ten acts, with Travis and I being the only duo in the group. We all stood in the backstage area, hanging around various corners practicing the routines. I overheard one very confident guy adding the comment “Hold for laughter” after every line. “Women are so unpredictable. Hold for laughter. I mean, my girlfriend changes her mind every two seconds. Hold for laughter. Guys, now they don’t do that. Hold for laughter.”

“All right, everyone, listen up!” said Jim Zucker, a short pudgy guy with thick glasses that looked more like swimming goggles. “We’re starting in half an hour, so everyone draw a number out of this hat for your starting order.”

He went around with a ten-gallon hat, clearly to get us in a comedic mood, and each of the contestants took a number. Travis reached inside and held up a slip of paper with “8” on it.

“Eighth. Well, that’s a good place,” I said.

Travis shrugged. “Depends. If the other people are lousy, the audience may have graduated from rotten fruit to sharp objects.”

He had a point.

A girl with hair so red it looked combustible approached us. “Do you know who the judges are?”

“No idea,” I said.

A bearded guy next to us groaned. “I heard that one of them’s a Catholic priest! A priest! How am I supposed to do my tampon routine with a priest judging?”

“I guess you’ll have to stuff it,” Travis remarked.

Tampon Man sighed. “Have any of you been in this before?”

Flaming Hair nodded. “Last year. I came in second.”

“Oh yeah,” said Tampon Man. “I remember. You were a blonde then. I’m graduating, so I only get one more chance at this. I’m gonna win or take everyone out with a machine gun trying.”

“He’s kidding,” Travis told me.

“I know,” I informed him.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Travis said. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Of course I’m nervous.”

“I could ask them to remove the women from the audience if you want.”

Flaming Hair turned to me. “If you feel like you’re gonna pass out, bite the inside of your cheek really hard. That’ll keep you going for a few more minutes.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” I assured them. “I’m fine.”

“Your color isn’t so good,” Tampon Man said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Really.” Immediately after saying this I began to feel dizzy. “I just need some fresh air.”

“I think there’s an oxygen tent out back,” said Tampon Man.

Travis put his hand on my shoulder and guided me out of the backstage area into the hallway. “Seriously, are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“We can cancel, you know. I’d resent you for the rest of our lives, but we can cancel.”

“Which way is the bathroom?” I asked.

“Right around the corner, I think.”

“Meet you back here after I throw up.”

I sprinted ahead, rounded the corner, and smashed into Laura. She fell to the floor, where she was promptly regurgitated upon.

“Son of a bitch!” she wailed, wiping it out of her eyes. “What the hell’s the matter with—”

She recognized me and frantically scooted backwards. “Get away from me! Just get away!”

“I’m sorry,” I insisted, covering my mouth and sprinting into the men’s room before Vomit Phase Two began. I didn’t make it to the toilet, but at least I hit the sink. After the process was completed to my satisfaction, I rinsed out my mouth and wiped it with a paper towel.

A student emerged from stall #2, wiping his mouth as well. “You too, huh? I’ve done this competition four years in a row...you’d think it’d get easier.”

As I splashed cold water on my face, the realization that I had just yakked on Laura hit me full force. Slimy beer was one thing, but a recycled egg salad sandwich was something else. I hurried out of the bathroom, but the hallway was empty.

Okay, I’d worry about it later. For now, Travis was counting on me.

“Feeling better?” he asked as I returned to the backstage area.

I gave him a thumbs-up sign. “Just a little panic attack.”

“What was that shouting I heard outside?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. Nothing worth thinking about. Really.”

A few minutes later, Jim waved his hands for attention. “All right everyone, listen up. We’re starting in ten minutes. I want you all to line up according to your numbers, and as Mr. Rawlins does his spiel you’re going to file across the stage. If you want to laugh at Mr. Rawlins’ material feel free, but you’re not obligated to.”

Travis elbowed me in the side. “Laugh at it.”

We lined up at stage right. Hold For Laughter, who’d been unfortunate enough to pick #1, peeked out into the audience. “Wow, there must be two hundred people out there!”

“I think attendance is a requirement for Public Speaking 101,” said Flaming Hair.

A few minutes later, Saul Rawlins himself came backstage. He was a heavyset, ruddy-featured man in a nice-fitting tuxedo. “I wish all of you the best of luck,” he said, walking down our line. “I mean that.”

“Why is he here?” Travis whispered to me. “I thought this was a nationwide competition.”

“It is,” said Tampon Man. “Each of the semifinals takes place on a different day during the fall semester. He goes to all of them. It’s the only thing he does. He likes the attention.”

The lights in the theatre dimmed, and Saul went onstage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” a perky announcer said over the sound system. “Welcome to the Trade Point University semifinal round of the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition! And here’s your master of ceremonies...Saul Rawlins!”

There was enthusiastic applause as the stage lights brightened. Saul waved to the audience. “Are you ready to laugh?”

The audience cheered its assent.

“Well, then, let’s meet our contestants!” announced Saul.

“Okay, go!” Jim told us. “Walk slowly. Don’t look up at the stage lights or they’ll blind you.”

As the line of comedians began to walk onto the stage, an upbeat rock-and-roll melody played. The audience applauded loudly. “Here they are!” said Saul. “The eleven comedians who are going to make you howl with laughter...or make you sit through some really uncomfortable silences! Each of them has the chance to go to the finals, where they can win ten thousand dollars!”

Just as I made it on-stage, the music abruptly switched to a funeral march. “But comedy is a cutthroat business,” Saul told the audience. “It can chew you up, spit you out, and trample you into the ground. It can crush you like a bug. It can burn you like a kerosene-soaked rag. These men and women are the truly brave. Look at them, walking across the stage like cattle to the slaughter. They are comedians. Pray for them.”

The music regained its upbeat tempo, and we filed off the stage. “Last time he had a guillotine,” said Tampon Man. “It was pretty cool.”

A few of the contestants went off to practice some more, while the rest of us stayed near the curtain so we could hopefully watch the competition botch their routines. Hold For Laughter squeezed his eyes shut and whispered “You’re funny, you’re funny, you’re funny,” until he was introduced as Jason Kierar.

“Wish me luck,” he said, stepping onto the stage.

No amount of luck I could impart upon him would have helped. It was gruesome. I don’t think I’d ever witnessed anything more painful than watching the poor soul hold for laughter when there were no laughs forthcoming.

A minute into the routine, Tampon Man smiled at me and made a sound like a bomb dropping and exploding.

“You’d think after twenty years of buying clothes, she’d know which ones to pick,” said Jason, stumbling over his words. The audience was dead silent.

“Someone find him a noose,” one of the contestants said. There was some chuckling from the others.

I didn’t chuckle. This was no longer a simple case of pre-show jitters. I was absolutely terrified. All of my fantasies about this event had involved giving a slam-bang performance and having the crowd roar with laughter. I didn’t until that moment realize that this could be a nightmare. An audience will applaud a bad singer out of politeness, but they won’t laugh at a bad comedian just to be nice.

Five minutes alone with a silent audience is a long time.

“Oh, God, make it stop,” wailed Tampon Man in mock agony.

Some sweat from my forehead ran down into my eyes. I wiped it away and continued to watch Jason, who was no longer even trying. He ran his lines together without any inflection or sense of timing. He finished and quickly strode off the stage to lackluster applause.

As he walked past me, I reached out and touched his shoulder. “Hey, you sounded pretty good out there. Not your fault the audience was dead.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” he said, his voice cracking a bit. “Jesus, I can’t believe I asked all my relatives to come see this.”

“Well, it’s hard to be the first one.”

“Especially if you suck.” Jason turned and headed for the exit. I watched him go, feeling sick to my stomach.

“I really feel sorry for him,” Flaming Hair told me. “I know him pretty well. He’s been wanting to do stand-up for as long as he can remember, but this is the first time he’s ever worked up the courage to actually get up on stage. I guarantee he’ll never do it again.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

Flaming Hair nodded, then shrugged. “It’s sad, but let’s face it, he didn’t have any talent. I don’t care how much you want to be a comedian, if you’re not funny, you’re not going to make it. At least now he doesn’t have to wonder any more.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Our First Performance”

The next two performers also did stand-up comedy, and though they fared much better than Jason, they didn’t get anything more than some decent chuckles from the audience. I don’t know how good their material was, because at this point I wasn’t hearing much else beyond the voice in my head shouting “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!”

Now, after countless hours of rehearsal, I was starting to doubt whether our skit was any good. However, expressing these doubts to Travis was not one of my more astute tactical moves.

“What do you mean, is our skit any good?” he demanded. “Of course it’s good!”

“Are you sure?”

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with a little healthy tension,” he said. “But take some deep breaths, count to ten, think of a happy time in your childhood, and get the hell over it. It’s getting close to our turn.”

Number four was currently on stage, doing a song and dance number where the “humor” was dependent on singing very, very badly. Even though the audience wasn’t responding, this guy was tough to feel sorry for. I wanted something very heavy to fall on him.

“Should we go over the skit one more time?” I asked.

“No, we should not. You need to relax. Seth, we really have a chance at this! So far everyone else has been pathetic!”

The song ended, and after making an anti-witty joke about the president, Saul introduced Flaming Hair. She strode onto stage with a confidence that made me jealous. To this day I’m positive that she was a confidence-sucking vampire who’d made me her victim.

Her routine was about the trials of visiting a hairdresser, and she got a big laugh right away. The laughs kept coming as Travis looked at me with genuine concern.

“Seth, you’re green. I didn’t even know that people could actually turn green, but you are one green person.”

“Is he all right?” said another girl who hadn’t performed yet. “His face is all grey.”

“It’s green,” Travis corrected.

“No, it’s a dull grey.”

“That’s just the light back here. If you look closely, it’s green.”

The girl looked closely and shook her head. “Grey.”

“Yeah, whatever, you go ahead and believe that.” He looked me in the eye. “Seth, we’re going to do a green-removal exercise, okay?”

I nodded.

“Now, I want you to breathe in, slowly and deeply.”

I breathed in, slowly and deeply.

“Now, I want you to exhale the entire breath, slowly.”

I exhaled the entire breath, slowly.

“Now, I want you to breathe in, once again slowly and deeply.”

I hiccupped.

Travis raised an eyebrow. “Did you just hiccup?”

I hiccupped in response.

Genuine panic filled Travis’ features. “You have to talk out there! We can’t do our skit with you hiccupping!”

Flaming Hair’s routine ended with a huge laugh and loud applause from the audience. She walked off stage, grinning.

“They’re on number six now,” Travis told me. “I need you to get rid of those things pronto!” He gestured to Awful Singer. “Could you get us a cup of water?”

“Sure, no problem.” Awful Singer hurried over to the stage exit.

I tried to hold my breath, but the hiccups burst through. The second performer approached us. “You should scare him,” he said, helpfully.

“How about this?” asked Travis, glaring at me. “If your hiccups don’t stop, I’m going to murder you in your sleep. Is that scary enough?”

Flaming Hair walked over to me. “What you should do is grab that little dangly thing in the back of your throat and give it a nice tug. Cures them every time.”

“Swallowing sugar works,” said the guy who was last in the lineup.

“Do you have any?” Travis asked.

“No.”

“Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup,” I remarked.

“Listen to me, Seth,” said Travis. “I can understand you being nervous and wanting to ralph all over the place. But if you screw this up because of a case of hiccups, I will destroy you and everything you stand for.”

“It’s not my—hiccup—fault!”

“Get him a paper bag to breathe into,” Flaming Hair suggested.

Tampon Man was watching the proceedings with amusement. “I think if you punch him in the stomach they’ll go away.”

Awful Singer returned with a Styrofoam cup of water. “You need to drink this upside-down,” he said.

“Say—hiccup—what?” I asked.

“No, really, it works. Can you do a handstand?”

“Oh, sure, have him do a handstand while he’s hiccupping so he can break his neck,” muttered Travis.

“Well, I guess he can put his head between his legs and drink it,” Awful Singer said.

“I think it’s supposed to be seven sips of water, followed by seven more sips,” said Flaming Hair.

“While you recite dirty limericks,” added Tampon Man.

I let out an exceptionally loud hiccup that hurt my throat.

Travis looked at the guy with number ten. “Do you want to trade us numbers?”

The guy shook his head. “No way.”

“It’ll give the judges time to forget if you bomb.”

“Nope. You know, I think if you try to do fake hiccups, it makes the real ones stop.”

“Shut the—hiccup—up,” I told him, taking the cup of water. As I took a drink, I hiccupped and sprayed water all over my shirt.

“I’m almost up,” said Tampon Man. “Hope you get those taken care of in time.”

I hiccupped a couple more times. I tried to use Jedi mind tricks to make them go away, but nothing was working. I didn’t want to cancel, but what were we going to do?

“Seth, we’re good friends, right?” Travis asked.

I nodded with a hiccup.

“And so we can have rough times and sometimes hurt each other and still come out of it friends, right?”

I nodded without the hiccup. On-stage, Saul was introducing Tampon Man.

“Good. So you’ll get over this.” He drew back his hand and slapped me hard across the face, nearly knocking me out of the chair.

Several of the other competitors winced. Tampon Man looked shocked, then hurried on-stage to do his routine. I glared at Travis and massaged my stinging cheek as I did a missing tooth check.

“How are the hiccups?” Travis asked.

I waited for a moment. “I think they’re gone.”

“Are you positive? I’d be more than happy to smack you again to make sure.”

“No, they’re gone. Thanks. We’d better get ready.”

I stood up and we walked over to the other side of the stage, where the desks we had procured to use in our skit were waiting. Although, to be completely accurate, I’d have to revise that last sentence to read “were supposed to be waiting.”

“Where the hell are the desks?” Travis demanded.

“They were right here!” I insisted.

“I know they were right here,” Travis snapped. “I put them here! Where are they now?”

On-stage, Tampon Man was receiving all kinds of laughs, having found a deep mine of comedy in feminine hygiene products.

Travis and I scurried around the backstage area, trying desperately to find our desks. A quick survey of the other contestants revealed that none of them had any idea where they had gone.

“Please trade numbers with us,” Travis begged Number Ten. “I’ll hire somebody to bear your children.”

Number Ten shook his head. “Nope.”

The onstage laughter continued. I looked around for something that could substitute as a newscaster’s desk, but there was nothing. “We’re dead,” said Travis.

Tampon Man ended his routine to wild applause. “Okay, we’ll just use chairs,” I said, grabbing one. “The audience can use their imaginations.”

Saul’s voice boomed from on-stage. “Was that great or what? And we’ve got even more great stuff for you tonight, with the comedy duo Out of Whack! Let’s give them a big hand!”

Travis glared at the entire world, grabbed a chair, and walked onto the stage. My stomach felt like it dropped to my knees, bounced up, hit me in the chin, then ricocheted like a pinball machine through my entire chest area.

I watched through the side of the curtain as Travis set down his chair and had a seat. I forced myself to take a breath. Then I hiccupped again.

Travis stared out into the audience, then began to speak in his carefully rehearsed newscaster tone. “Good evening, and welcome to the evening news.”

I bit down on my finger to stifle another hiccup as Travis smoothly performed the opening bit, earning a big laugh at the “Fooled You!” sign.

It was working! So far our skit was working!

I prayed to the goddess of hiccups to release her hold on my throat. I put both hands over my mouth and held my breath. Please please please please make them go away.

“...apparently the victim of a stabbing, as evidenced by the knife in his chest.” Another solid laugh. I closed my eyes and continued to hold my breath and concentrated my entire being on getting rid of the hiccups. Travis continued to perform flawlessly.

“...yeah, the beer chugging-king bit the dust.” The audience was really enjoying it!

The laughs died down. Why was Travis still pausing?

“I can’t believe Vinnie Faltermeyer is dead,” Travis said, raising his voice. “I just can’t believe it.”

Why was he ad-libbing? Did he forget the line?

Crap! I missed my cue!

I hurried onto stage. As the lights hit me, I came to the sudden unpleasant realization that I couldn’t remember one word of what I was supposed to say. Not one word. I just stood there, silently, legs trembling.

Travis looked over at me expectantly.

I broke the silence with a hiccup.

“Chuck, you’re drunk on the job again!” Travis said. “And our good buddy Vinnie Faltermeyer is dead. Remember that one time when we snuck into Vinnie’s room...”

As Travis went through the shaved armpits segment, I frantically tried to remember my lines. They were gone without a trace.

“Oh, man, those were some times,” said Travis, his chuckle sounding significantly more forced than it had in rehearsal.

Ad-lib something, you idiot! shrieked my inner voice. But I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, and nothing emerged but a hiccup.

The audience chuckled mildly.

“And remember that really cool popping sound...?” asked Travis, performing my lines for me. The audience’s reaction had dwindled significantly from the opening of the skit. It’s tough to get laughs when they know you’re screwing up.

Travis got the lines right, but it had to be blatantly obvious that he was covering for me. “Well, Chuck,” he said, “you’re interrupting the newscast. Get the hell off the set.”

I nodded, hiccupped, and managed to walk off the stage.

“Was that planned?” Flaming Hair asked.

“All of it,” I said. I could hear Travis performing the Butch lines in a low, overly masculine voice. He was doing a decent job, but the momentum was gone and the audience was silent.

“...that’s the news, I’m done,” finished Travis. As the audience began applauding politely, I moved away from the curtain and retreated to a private corner to accept the immense truckloads of verbal abuse he had in store for me.

At least we hadn’t done as bad as Awful Singer.

Travis walked into the backstage area, accepted congratulations from Flaming Hair, then strode over to me. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yeah. A little,” I responded, avoiding eye contact.

“What was that all about? We practiced that stupid skit for two weeks. What, did you have too many lines?”

“I’m sorry,” I said in a weak voice. “I just...I don’t know what happened. I got nervous.”

“No, no, I got nervous. Getting nervous is when there’s this little tingle in your stomach. What you did is called fucking up! Which is okay, because you didn’t look like a jerk in front of all those people, I did.”

“It wasn’t that bad. You covered for me.”

“It was a disaster, Seth. Do you know how good it felt to be out there at first? There was this incredible energy, and the people were loving it! They were laughing! It was like the best feeling in the world, and I’m not even a virgin. There I am, enjoying this more than anything I’ve ever enjoyed in my life, and then all of a sudden I have to sit out there in front of two hundred goddamn people pretending that my best friend isn’t ruining it for me!”

There was an uncomfortable silence as I realized that a few of the other contestants were watching us. “I didn’t mean to mess it up,” I said. “You know I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“That doesn’t help,” he said. “I never should have worked with you.”

He walked away. I just stood there, feeling terrible. I didn’t move as the last two competitors finished up their acts and Jim asked everyone to line up so they could march on-stage for the judges’ decision. Travis got in line and glanced over at me, but didn’t ask me to join him.

They all walked through the curtain, and I listened as Saul said his closing words. And then he announced the results, from last to first place.

Awful Singer won. To this day I can’t believe it.

Flaming Hair came in second. Tampon Man took fifth, presumably because he offended the priest. Hold For Laughter didn’t come out on-stage either, but he took ninth.

Out of Whack came in dead last.

Chapter Seventeen

“A Double Dose of Groveling”

“Gooooood morning,” I said, walking into our dorm room with a grocery bag. “It’s time once again for the Shameless Groveling From Seth Show! It’s pathetic, it’s dehumanizing, it’s pleading in its lowest form! But that’s not all! On today’s episode, we’ve also got bribery!”

I opened the bag and took out a jumbo-size Cadbury chocolate bar. “Our first bribe comes to us direct from Ma and Pa’s Quik-Stop. Rumor has it that Ma and Pa were never married, and in fact may be a very liberal brother and sister team, but that doesn’t change the fact that they carry the greatest chocolate bar in the nation!”

Travis, who was lying in bed with the blanket over his head, didn’t move.

“Yes, a full eight ounces of scrumptious chocolaty goodness, purchased expressly to gain forgiveness for last night’s debacle. The judges know that Travis Darrow is a big fan of Cadbury’s chocolate bars, but will this be enough to regain his friendship? Let’s see!”

I tossed the candy bar onto Travis’ bed. He didn’t react.

“Bzzzzz! I’m sorry, forgiveness has not been reached! Now we enter round two, where the stakes are even higher!” I took out three large bottles of iced tea. “That’s right, iiiiit’s Snapple! All-natural Snapple iced tea, in lemon, raspberry, and peach flavors! It’s a delicious taste sensation that our Travis Darrow is more than a little fond of, and it’s our next bribe! But...is it good enough?”

I placed the bottles on Travis’ bed. He still wasn’t moving.

“Bzzzzz! Oh no, we have another negative response! That means it’s time for the bonus round, where the game gets really wild!” I took out the last of the bag’s contents. “Yes, that’s right, it’s a yo-yo! There’s nothing like a good bout of yo-yoing to cure those I-hate-my-best-friend blues. With this top of the line Duncan yo-yo, in its eye-pleasing shade of periwinkle, you can yo and yo and yo all the livelong day! While we realize that Travis Darrow has never expressed any great desire for this bribe, the simple fact remains that everyone loves a yo-yo.”

This time I achieved actual movement. Travis rolled over to face me.

“Yes, this fine yo-yo product is the final bribe on today’s episode of Shameless Groveling From Seth. And the ultimate decision from the judges is...?”

“Will you shut up and let me sleep?”

I pretended to think about it. “Ummmm, no. Next question?”

“Go away. I was having a good dream.”

“Can I confess something?” I asked. “You know that dream where you’re in the school hallway in your underwear and everyone is staring at you? I love that one. I dream it on purpose. Here, have a yo-yo.”

I handed him the yo-yo. He set it on the floor. “All I want to do is get a little sleep without having to listen to your mouth. Is that so much to ask?”

“Not at all. But as it turns out, I’ve made plans to stay here and bug you until you forgive me. Oh, the sights you’ll see! There’s no limit to how far I can degrade myself if I set my mind to it.”

Travis sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time has no meaning in the land of humiliation.”

He let out a sigh of frustration. “Okay, I forgive you! Will you shut up now?”

“Maybe. Are you sincere?”

“Listen, I’m sorry I threw such a tizzy fit last night. I overreacted. It could have happened to anyone with your personality defects. You’re not the Anti-Christ on steroids.”

He was being a wise-ass. That was a good sign.

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” he continued. “Sure, two hundred students will be turning in papers describing our outrageous incompetence, but that’s okay. If I cared what people thought about me I would have gotten rid of you long ago.”

“So things are cool?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Can I take back the chocolate and Snapple?”

“No. And from now on, if I want to bring a girl back to the room you’re sleeping out in the Dumpster, no questions asked. I’ll put up a ‘Reserved For Seth Trexler’ sign.”

“It’s a deal.”

“And you have to give me a weekly pedicure, complete with wart removal and a tender kiss on the big toe to make me feel all special inside.”

I shook my head. “I’ll scrape off the warts, but I’m not kissing your toe. Even without my tongue.”

“Good enough. Now go away and let me get back to my mud wrestling dream.”

“No problem. I’m heading out anyway.”

“Where are you going?”

Where, indeed? On a mission. On the most frightening quest of my life. To face something far more terrifying than anything I’d ever dealt with before. Even scarier than the mystery crust in the toilet stalls.

“Remember Laura?” I asked. “I’m going to find her.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Oh, I puked on her last night, by the way.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“It slipped my mind.”

After purchasing my bribe supplies, I’d stopped off at Sniper Hall and flipped through the directory searching for the name Laura. There were two, Laura Cowfull and Laura Stricklen, in rooms 108 and 401. I decided that, barring a last-second descent into cowardice, I was going to go to her room and talk to her. It seems brave, but, let’s face it, I wasn’t taking much of a risk. It wasn’t like she could think I was more of a loser than she already did.

So, with bribe bag #2 in hand, I returned to Sniper Hall. It was an all-female dormitory, which meant it smelled about 8000% better than the average all-male dormitory. This also meant that I was required to have a female escort at all times, lest I embark upon an impromptu panty raid.

I didn’t know anybody in the dorm, so I decided to risk a no-escort castration and went to room 108. There was a poster on the door of a perfectly tanned, muscular hunk, naked except for a very large beer bottle over his privates. I knocked, avoiding the poster.

“Hi,” said a slightly hefty blonde as she opened the door.

“Hi. I’m trying to find Laura.”

“She’s not here. Want me to tell her you stopped by?”

“First let me make sure I’ve got the right person. Do you know if she went to the comedy contest last night?”

The blonde nodded. “She said she met a nice guy there. Was that you?”

“No, somehow I kind of doubt she would describe me that way. Does she have black hair?”

“No hair.”

“Wrong person. Sorry to bug you.”

I continued down the hall and entered the stairwell. I climbed up to the fourth floor, passing such graffiti as “Dicks are like weeds. They’re always popping up when you don’t want them to, and the best solution is to yank them out.”

(Congratulations! You have just read three penis-related jokes in less than two pages! Give yourself a big hand!)

(And while you’re at it, congratulate me for avoiding a fourth joke involving “a big hand.”)

I went through the stairwell door into the hallway and walked over to room 401, which turned out to be the furthest one from the stairwell. I passed three different girls, but none of them screamed out an alarm regarding the unescorted male in their presence, probably because they thought I looked like a sissy.

The door was already open. A girl with actual functioning pigtails sat on the floor, reading a novel called Food Fight of the Living Dead.

“Excuse me,” I said, standing in the doorway. “I’m looking for Laura.”

“She’s studying with a friend. I think they’re still in the building. I could probably get a hold of her if you want.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.” Don’t wimp out, don’t wimp out, don’t wimp out...

The girl stood up. “And your name is...?”

“Seth.” Don’t wimp out, don’t wimp out, don’t wimp out...

Her eyes widened. “Seth? Beer and vomit Seth?”

I nodded sheepishly. “That would be me.”

“No way! You’re actually coming to see her? On purpose?”

“Yeah.”

“You, my friend, are one brave man.” She picked up the phone. “Are you really Seth? This isn’t a joke?”

“I’m really Seth.”

The girl laughed in amazement. “Actually coming to see her,” she said to herself as she punched in a phone number. I was jealous of her. Our phones in Tanglewood were rotary dial with uneven holes.

I fidgeted nervously as the girl talked. “Becky? It’s Trish, let me talk to Laura. Laura? You will never believe who is here at this very moment. Go ahead and guess. Nope. Nope. Nope. Here, let me give you a clue.” She made a vomiting noise into the phone. “Yes! I’m completely serious! I’ll do your laundry for the next month if I’m lying!”

Trish listened for a few moments, her grin widening at an even rate with the feeling leaving my legs. “Okay, I’ll tell him. You bet. Bye.”

She hung up and blinked innocently at me. “She’s on the second floor. She wants you to come down.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. She most certainly does.”

I felt like an ulcer spontaneously generated. “Which room?”

“I forget the exact number, but I know where it is. You need an escort, and I don’t want to miss this. Just let me put a new roll of film in my camera and we’ll go.”

Let me tell you, the urge to drop to my knees, wail “MOMMY!” and suck my thumb was very strong indeed. Trish kept letting out this creepy little giggle while she got ready to go. As we walked toward the stairs, she kept glancing over at me and smiling.

“Is Laura a violent person?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Really violent?”

“Yep.”

“Is this a huge mistake?”

“Yep. Walk a little faster, sweetie. We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

We proceeded down the stairs, which is quite a task when your legs are numb. The numbness was spreading through my entire body, which meant that any second my words were going to sound like “munnhhhhh munnhhhhh.” That is, if I didn’t forget how to talk altogether.

* * *

* * *

* * *

(I put in three segment breaks to draw out the suspense.)

We stopped in front of a room with a “Becky & Winky” sign on it. I wondered if Winky was going to be there to share in my destruction.

Trish rapped on the door. Each knock seemed to echo menacingly throughout the hallway. I swore I heard a wolf baying at the moon.

“Yes?” a voice asked from inside.

“It’s me,” said Trisha. “And him.”

“One moment, please.”

God, that was a long moment.

The door swung open, slowly. Laura, looking breathtakingly gorgeous, was seated at the other end of the room, legs crossed primly, textbook on her lap, wire-framed glasses on her face. Becky, a split-end-laden peroxide blonde, smiled kindly at us.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked.

Trish walked into the room. I hesitated for a moment, but upon coaxing from Trish I entered as well. Becky shut the door behind us.

“Hi,” I said, shocked that my verbal skills were still present.

“Hello, Seth,” said Laura, closing her textbook. “And how are you?” She spoke with exaggerated politeness, her eyes not giving any clue to what evil intent might lie within.

“Not too bad.”

“Are your classes going well?”

“They’re okay, yeah.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. My classes are also going well.”

“Do you think maybe we could go somewhere to talk in private?” I asked.

Laura shook her head slowly and deliberately. “Anything you wish to say, you can say in front of my friends.”

“Okay, I’ll start with ‘Please don’t gang up and beat the living crap out of me.’ I’m here to do some serious groveling.”

“Groveling is good. I like groveling.” Laura regarded her friends. “Do the rest of you like groveling?”

“I like groveling,” said Trisha.

“Groveling works for me,” Becky added.

“But you have to grovel without saying ‘I’m sorry,’ because my threat to kill you if I hear you say that one more time stands,” Laura explained.

“I understand.” I took a moment to compose myself, which was made fairly difficult with all three girls staring at me. “Okay, I guess it’s obvious that we got off to a bad start. And I’m going to freely admit that the bad start was entirely due to my own clumsiness and lack of control over certain bodily functions.”

“I’m pleased that you understand that,” Laura said.

“Now, why I’m here. Basically, I was a little antsy knowing that there may be someone out there carving ‘Die, Seth, Die!’ into local livestock. I mean, you know, having people make voodoo dolls of you is nothing but a hassle, especially trying to get your fingernails back. I think women started wearing fake nails to keep the voodoo doll producers away from them.”

Laura furrowed her brow. “You’re trying to be amusing. I don’t think you came here to be amusing. If you did come here to be amusing and make peace, you should know that you’re failing at both.”

Tough crowd. The voodoo doll observations were supposed to continue for another three jokes, but I decided to let it drop.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I want to make up for all the laundry problems I’ve caused you.” I reached into the grocery bag and took out a bouquet of eleven red roses. I’d purchased a dozen, but while arranging them I’d discovered an interesting new fact (thorns hurt), causing me to drop one and knock off most of its petals.

I gave the roses to Laura, and for the briefest fraction of the briefest second I saw a flicker of a smile on her lips. Her expression quickly returned to Bad Momma territory, but I was encouraged. I wanted to glance at Trish or Becky to gauge their reactions on how I was doing (“Run, you poor bastard, run!”), but kept my eyes on Laura.

“There are only eleven,” she pointed out. “It goes well with your inadequate personality.”

I wondered how many guys she’d performed fellatio on. My curiosity was strictly concerned with whether her tongue had severed their penises.

(Let’s hear it for Number Four!)

“Yes,” I agreed humbly. “It does.”

“You’re doing a little better,” said Laura. “Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” I told her, reaching into the grocery bag again and taking out a box of Tide. “I figured you could use this if we ever ran into each other again. And,” I said, making my voice sound like an announcer, “it also makes a handy—”

“Don’t try to be amusing,” Laura warned.

“I’m done,” I said.

“Okay, I can use some more detergent.” Laura took the Tide from me and set it on the desk. “Any other offerings?”

“One last thing,” I said, taking two candy bars out of the bag. “Here, Milky Way and Milky Way Lite. I figured Milky Way would be insensitive if you were on a diet, and Milky Way Lite would be insulting if you weren’t, so I got both to cover my butt.”

“I’m allergic to chocolate,” said Laura.

I felt a cool breeze blow across my butt.

“But Becky and Trish aren’t,” she continued, “so I’ll pass your gift along.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Laura gestured to the door. “Now, get out of here and stay away from me. We’re even now.”

“Get out of here. I can do that.” I crumpled up the grocery bag and headed for the door. Trish winked as she opened it for me.

I started to turn around.

“Don’t turn around,” Laura said. “Just go.”

I left.

As I walked down the hallway, I wondered if that had been a success or a failure. She hadn’t hung me from the ceiling by my belly button (an outie, making this a physical possibility), but I couldn’t help feeling a bit depressed. What had I expected? Her to throw her arms around me when I gave her the roses? A relationship between us was ridiculous—I’d only come there to make peace, right?

Becky and Winky’s door opened. Laura stuck her head out.

“Hey, doofus, you need an escort!” she said. She hurried down the hallway after me, then took my hand. “And I need somebody to take me to lunch.”

We interrupt the plot to bring you the educational segment of our book...

10 Ways To Tell That You’re Not A Trout (for all of you who asked)

1. You don’t live underwater.

2. You don’t have gills, fins, or scales.

3. You have a job.

4. You have hands and feet.

5. You can read, write, and solve mathematical equations.

6. You can answer a telephone in the correct manner.

7. When somebody says “Hi, Trout!” you don’t respond.

8. When you stare into the mirror, you honestly believe you don’t look like a trout.

9. The last time you saw a trout hooked, reeled in, gutted, and eaten, it really didn’t bother you much.

10. Your parents insist that they would never have raised a trout, and still they raised you.

This information may seem unnecessary, even frivolous. But as long as any of you have any doubts about whether or not you may be a trout, I intend to help ease your turmoil. Because, as much as I try to fight it, I care.

—Seth Trexler, Your Friend

Chapter Eighteen

“Love Me, Baby, Love Me”

I’m going to get philosophical for a moment. If nothing else, it will balance out all those penis jokes in the last chapter.

What is love? Where does it come from, and what does it mean?

Or, more specifically, why was I wildly, insanely attracted to somebody who had treated me like I was covered with a five-inch thick layer of mutant fungus? Sure, she was gorgeous, but this wasn’t just a physical I-Wanna-Stand-At-The-Foot-Of-Your-Bed-And-Do-Gross-Things-While-You-Watch love, this was something deep! I mean, this was an attraction that could have entered stalker territory! I might have built a shrine to her in my dorm room, except that the danger of gas leaks made lighting candles a bad idea.

Why was I feeling this way? Why did her touch make my internal organs feel as if they were rearranging themselves like furniture? Why was I envisioning scenarios involving us complaining that the grandkids never came over for Thanksgiving anymore?

“Ugh, your hand is all sweaty,” said Laura, removing her hand from my grip as we continued down the hallway.

See the way she talked to me? Why was I obsessed with her?

Stupidity certainly played a role, but, really, Laura had a certain... aura, for lack of a better word. If you would like a worse word, she had a certain “thingie” about her. And though she’d been insulting me constantly, I didn’t detect any real malice. Okay, maybe a little real malice, but at least no hatred. But, hey, here I was, walking down the hall with her, and we’d actually spent three seconds holding hands!

So maybe she was attracted to me, too.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Love. Don’t try to explain it. That’s what Hallmark is for.

* * *

Without speaking, we walked outside to the Sniper Hall parking area. Laura led me to her car, an incredibly used blue Plymouth. There was a yellow sign in the rear windshield that said “Dead Baby On Board.” I wanted one. Maybe several to give as gifts.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to it.

“From a catalog. There’s this place that has all kinds of sick stuff like that. I place an order every couple months.”

That’s why I was so attracted to her! We were both sickos!

She got in the automobile, shoved about six years’ worth of fast food refuse off the passenger seat, then unlocked and opened the door for me. I climbed in and she started the engine.

“So, where are we going?” I asked.

Laura shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I know a place that has great steak and lobster if you don’t mind paying.”

“Actually, the roses came pretty close to wiping me out,” I admitted.

“I was only kidding,” Laura said. “How do hamburgers sound? Dutch treat.”

“That sounds fine.”

She pulled out of the parking area, and after a seatbelt-inducing left turn we were on Trade Point’s main street.

“I have a question,” I said.

“Shoot.”

I pointed my finger at her like a gun. “Bang.”

No, I didn’t really do that. I was just testing how much of a geek you’d believe I could be.

Rewinding...

* * *

“I have a question,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“The first two times we met, did you really hate me?”

Laura thought about it for a long moment. “Yes,” she said, finally. “Yes I did.”

“So where are you now? On a scale from hatred to passionate love?”

“I’d say somewhere around mild dislike.”

Only mild dislike! Yes! Let the fireworks begin!

“No, really, I don’t have any special opinion of you,” she said. “I’m enough of an optimist to hope that our previous two meetings were exceptions. I did like you bringing me roses, candy, and Tide. I think that there’s a smidgen of a chance that we could become friends. How about that?”

“Sounds good to me,” I replied, reaching over and squeezing her breast.

No, I didn’t really do that, either.

Rewinding...

* * *

Oh, what the heck? Let’s see that again.

“Sounds good to me,” I replied, reaching over and squeezing her breast.

Rewinding...

* * *

“Sounds good to me,” I replied, keeping my hands to myself.

Okay, my inner voice said, you’re really nervous but you’re doing fine so far. For round two, you need to maintain the appearance of an interesting person. Prove that you can keep a fascinating conversation flowing.

“What’s your major?” I asked.

God, what a loser, my inner voice muttered, throwing up its hands in resignation. It vanished, and I’ve never heard from it to this day.

“Theatre,” she replied. “I want to be an actress.”

“Really? Movies? TV? Politics?”

“The stage. Live audiences.”

“You want the live audiences?” I asked with disbelief. “If I’d been performing to a crowd of mannequins I might not have messed up so bad at the comedy contest last night.”

“That was you?”

“That was me,” I admitted. “You heard about it, huh?”

“Oh, sure, everyone was talking about it after the show. I came back after I got cleaned up but they were already on the last act.”

“What’d they say?”

“They said that...you didn’t remember your lines as well as you could have, but that your friend did a decent job of covering for you.”

“And they expressed it that kindly, huh?”

“Oh, of course,” said Laura. “I certainly wouldn’t try and spare your feelings. Did you really look like you were about to give birth?”

“I hope not, but probably.” I sighed wistfully, which I thought made the whole conversation all the more romantic. “I really don’t know what happened. I mean, my brain just shut down. It was like I was back in algebra class.”

“Well, you deserve points for walking out on stage, at least. Some people wouldn’t have even been able to do that. Who wrote the act, you or your friend?”

“We collaborated. I’ve written a few comedy skits on my own, actually. I even had a humorous piece accepted for this magazine called Gleefully Disturbed.”

See how I effortlessly worked those credits into the conversation? Pretty swift, huh?

“Gleefully Disturbed?” Laura asked, excitedly. “You sold something to Gleefully Disturbed?”

“Yep. Have you read the magazine?”

“No, but I think maybe I’ve heard of it somewhere.” We stopped at a red light behind a Volkswagen. “I can’t remember where, and I’m probably confusing it with something else, and, yeah, now that I think of it I’m sure it’s a different magazine I’m thinking of... Twisted or something, but that’s really neat. When does it come out?”

I paused. “Eventually. Maybe.”

“Well, I’d like to read it when it does.”

“I’ll forward a copy to your retirement community.”

The light had been green for about two seconds, so Laura honked at the Volkswagen and leaned out the window. “Are you waiting for an earthquake to propel you forward? Go!”

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re an aggressive driver?” I asked, smiling.

She took a sharp left turn across traffic that I thought was worth at least three flippings of the traditional bird from other drivers, and we pulled into the hamburger joint. A neon pink sign flashed its name: The Burger Bordello. With a tender comment about the quality of parking performed by a sports car in the handicapped spot, Laura selected a space and shut off the engine.

I glanced over at the restaurant. “The Burger Bordello?”

“It just opened last semester. They’re trying to appeal to a younger, hipper crowd. The food’s lousy but it’s got a nice atmosphere.”

We walked across the parking lot, wove through the Christian picketers, and entered the lobby. A studly man and voluptuous woman stood at the door, their combined uniforms containing approximately as much material as a shoelace.

“Hi there,” said the man in a studly voice that seemed to say “I’m the hottest, firmest, most incredible lover you could ever imagine. You’ll need a wheelchair for two weeks after a night with me.”

“Welcome to The Burger Bordello,” said the woman in a sensuous voice that seemed to say “It’s too early for this shit.”

“Would you like to sit in the Cigarette Afterward section, or the No Cigarette Afterward section?” asked the man.

“No Cigarette Afterward,” Laura told him.

“Okay, follow me.” Our host led us into the main part of the restaurant, where the walls were covered with pictures of half-naked people holding hamburgers and French fries in an unwholesome manner. We passed one of the waiters, who was carrying a high chair to a nearby family of six, then were seated at our booth. The tablecloth looked like a blanket, and there was a pair of pillows at the end.

“Your Madame of Beef will be with you in a moment,” said our host, handing us our menus. “We hope you...savor your experience.” He walked away, his muscular buttocks glistening in the red lights.

“Come here often?” I asked Laura.

“Every once in a while. It’s nice for a change of pace. The restrooms are especially interesting.”

I touched the tablecloth. “I wonder if they wash these things each time.”

“You look a little uptight,” said Laura. “It’s just an adult-themed hamburger joint. Lighten up a bit.”

“I’m lightened. Really.”

“You look nervous. I bet you’re the kind of person who would go to an orgy and make everyone wear name tags so you knew who you were screwing.”

I was thankful I didn’t have a drink to choke on.

“I’m not nervous,” I insisted.

“Yes you are.”

Yes, I was. But it was the company, not the environment.

“Welcome to The Burger Bordello,” said our waitress as she approached the table. She was a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a slinky pair of red pajamas adorned with feathers. “My name’s Maude, and today I’ll be fulfilling your wildest burger fantasies.” She pulled a notepad out of her garter belt. “Would you care to order a foreplay, or are you ready for the main penetration?”

“What are your specials today?” Laura asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have mentioned those before I tried to take your order. Sometimes I just get enthusiastic and go off too soon. Let’s see, we’ve got the Doggy-Style Deluxe, which is a lean, hot patty of beef mounted by grilled onions, a ménage a trois of bacon, and a generous orgasm of mayonnaise. And there’s also the Steak & Mushroom Burger, S&M for short, which comes tied up and includes onion ring handcuffs. Both come with sixty-nine fries, and if you’re feeling pure, you can get a cherry tomato on the side. Oh, and make sure to leave room for our Rear-Entry Hot Fudge Sundae.”

I looked over the menu for a moment. “I’ll just have the regular old Missionary Burger.”

“And what protection would you like to use?”

“Excuse me?”

“Condom-ents. I recommend the pickle.”

“Everything but mustard, please.”

“Okay, one Missionary Burger, hold the lubrication.” She turned to Laura. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the Dominatrix Deluxe, with a side order of Fetish Fries.”

“And what would you two like to spit or swallow?”

“I’ll just have ice water,” said Laura.

“Me too,” I said, frightened to hear their drink selections.

Maude tucked her notepad into her garter belt. “Your order will be ready to stimulate you shortly. If there’s anything I can do to you, don’t hesitate to whisper suggestively into my ear.” She left.

“So, you write comedy, huh?” asked Laura. “I think that’s really cool. I used to date a guy who thought he could write humor, but his stuff was really childish—it just went overboard on sex, vomit, and bathroom jokes.”

“What a loser,” I said.

“I have no writing ability whatsoever, but I like performing comedy quite a bit. I was in plays all through high school and my two years here, and I think I have good comic timing. I was okay in the dramatic roles, too, but making people laugh was a lot more fun.”

“This is really weird,” I told her. “Well, actually, nothing seems weird when you’re in a place called The Burger Bordello, but my friend Travis and I were planning to form a comedy group called Out of Whack. That’s the name we used at the competition. After last night I think the whole idea was pretty well established as a ‘No way in hell are we ever doing this again’ one, but maybe if I stuck to the writing and you and he stuck to the performing it could work.”

Quite frankly, it was not my place to invite Laura to become a member of Out of Whack, considering that, a) I had no idea if she had any talent, b) I hadn’t consulted with Travis first, and c) I was only doing it to make her like me. Plus, where would we perform?

“There’s a club called Laugh Attack in town,” said Laura. “They have amateur night on Tuesdays. Why don’t you write up something, and if it’s any good maybe we can perform it there.”

At this point, I really needed the little voice in my head to return to say “Whoa! Hold it! Slow down!” But instead, the big voice in my mouth said “It’s a deal!”

“Shouldn’t you ask your friend first?”

“Nah, he’ll love that idea.”

Most likely, Travis was going to freak. But details like that were unimportant. Laura and I were hitting it off beautifully, and Out of Whack was reborn!

( Narrator’s note: We really went to McDonalds. Sorry for the deception.)

Chapter Nineteen

“The Chapter That Starts With Travis Freaking”

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on, Travis. I had no idea you’d act this way.”

I’d just returned from lunch. Laura and I had enjoyed a nice conversation about comedy, school, and, briefly, freshness dating on soft drinks.

Travis took an angry bite of his chocolate bar and sat on his desk. “Maybe it’s just me, but I have this really vivid memory of having been completely humiliated last night! And now you want to do it again?”

“It’ll be different. You trust me, right?”

“Is the Pope a Hare Krishna?”

“Listen,” I said, “the reason things went so badly before is that I froze on-stage. But this time I’m not going to be anywhere near the stage! I’m going to write the skit, and you and Laura are going to perform it.”

“I don’t even know Laura.”

“Well, neither do I, really, but this will give me a chance to get to know her.”

“That’s really pathetic,” said Travis. “You’re like one of those sleazy, greasy Hollywood producers who accost innocent girls right off the bus from Iowa and promise them a starring role in their next film...if they pass the ‘audition.’”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that. I’d been wanting to do something big, something important, and it turns out that last night wasn’t it. But this could be! What if it works out? What if we’re a hit? The new, improved Out of Whack could be the biggest thing in the history of comedy!”

Gotta love hyperbole.

Travis sighed. “I’ll have to think about it.”

There was a knock at the door. “That’ll be Laura,” I said. “Think quick.”

“Why do I get the feeling I don’t have any real power in this partnership?” Travis asked.

I opened the door, revealing Laura looking positively radiant as she held her nose and grimaced at The Smell. “What deity did you blaspheme to get stuck in this place?” she asked.

“All of them,” I replied.

“Hi,” she said to Travis. “I’m Laura.”

“I know. Seth has told me all about you.” My good buddy Travis said this in such a way that it implied a detailed physical description, inside and out, plus a catalog of moans.

“Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh. Seth is nothing if not thorough.”

“Well,” said Laura, “he’s told me very little about you, but I understand that you’d be extremely receptive to the idea of me joining your group. No problems with it whatsoever.”

“Uh-huh. Seth is nothing if not full of shit.”

“Would you like a root beer?” I hastily asked Laura.

“Sure,” she replied, then continued speaking to Travis. “Look, there’s no commitment here. If you don’t like me, or I don’t like you, or I don’t like Seth’s scripts, or Seth doesn’t like the way my left earlobe bobs when I talk, then we can just forget the whole idea.”

I hadn’t noticed the thing with her left earlobe before. It was seriously sexy.

“All right,” said Travis, “I’m willing to try this out, only because Seth and I have been through so much together, and he’s got blackmail material out the wazoo.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Laura checked her watch. “Like I told Seth, I can’t stay because I have a study appointment, but what do you two say to dinner tonight?”

“That sounds great,” I said.

“Travis?”

I had no way to signal to Travis that I would enjoy this dinner a great deal more if his presence were non-existent. But he knew that, right?

“Sure, I’d love to come,” he said.

Yep. He knew it.

“How about Cecil’s? It’s a casual seafood place, not too expensive. Eight o’clock?”

“That works for me,” I told her. “But Travis, didn’t you have that French club meeting?”

The only foreign language Travis knew was Pig Latin. But I hoped he’d take the hint.

“Darn, that’s right,” said Travis, feigning disappointment. “I’m not going to be able to go.”

“Well, maybe next time,” Laura said.

“Yeah, maybe next time. They probably aren’t going to do anything important in French club tonight anyway, so it’s not that big of a deal. Should we meet here or at the restaurant?”

Evil. Travis was an evil, evil man.

“How about we meet outside Tanglewood Hall about a quarter to eight so I don’t have to actually come inside this place?”

“Sounds good,” said Travis. “We’ll see you then.”

“I’ll be there.” Laura smiled at us and left the room.

“She certainly seems like a nice young lady,” Travis observed as he shut the door. “Very well-mannered. Good breeding.”

“You prick,” I said, only half-kidding.

“Me? Prick?”

“Would it have been so difficult to restrain your jerk tendencies for one night? Why not give Chi-Mao a call and see if her grandmother needs some more entertainment?”

Travis shrugged. “I was invited on a social outing. I felt it would have been impolite to refuse her kind offer, and my rude behavior would have transferred to you in her mind because of our status as close friends, and therefore her opinion of you would have diminished and I would have done you no favors by letting you have dinner alone with her.”

“No, you’re just trying to be a prick.”

“I owe you some prickish behavior for last night. So quit griping. We’re doing this for Out of Whack. Oh, before I forget, there’s a message on the answering machine for you.”

I went over to the answering machine and pressed play.

“Hi, you have reached Seth and Travis’ room,” my recorded voice said. “We’ve recently lost a number of close friends and relatives in phone-related accidents, and therefore cannot bring ourselves to answer at this time. But if you leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you after therapy cures the problem.”

Beep.

“Hey, this is Mike Garrett, editor of Gleefully Disturbed. You’re not gonna believe this, but I’ve got some bitchin’ news about the magazine. Not only that, but I’m gonna be close to Trade Point this weekend, and we ought to get together. Seth? Hey, Seth, you there? Hello? Seth? Aw, shit, I must be talking to his goddamn answering machine! Son of a bitch! [ muffled ] Shut up, wench! If you’re such a freakin’ genius how come you locked the keys in the rental car? Yeah, yeah, bite my morning wood! [ clear again ] Listen, Seth, give me a call at, um, I don’t know the goddamn number here. [ muffled ] What’s the goddamn number here? [ clear again ] Nobody knows anything in this place! Just call the operator, get the number for Rebecca Weiss, and give me a ring. Talk to you then. [ muffled ] Are you really gonna wear that? It makes you look like a—”

Beep.

“He’s a rather jolly fellow,” Travis noted.

I didn’t much want to give him a call, considering that the man was a reprehensible lunatic. But he was a reprehensible lunatic who might possibly publish my story, so I got the number from information and called.

“Yeah?” asked an unbearably shrill female voice.

“May I speak to Mike Garrett?”

“Who?”

“Mike Garrett.”

“Who?”

I spoke more slowly. “Mike Garrett.”

“Who?”

“Is this Rebecca Weiss?”

“Who?”

“I think I have the wrong number.”

“Oh, wait, wait...I thought you were saying Mark Garrett. Yeah, Mike’s here. MIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE!!! TELEPHOOOOOOOOOOOONE!!!”

“Yeah?” said Mike after a long moment, just enough time for my ears to stop ringing.

“Hi, this is Seth Trexler. You left a message on my machine.”

“Hey, Seth. Yeah, look, I’ve got some cool news about Gleefully Disturbed. I was at a red light when this dipshit rear-ended my Datsun, and it’s like, fuckin’-a, whiplash! I had him so scared I was going to sue his ass that he emptied his bank account to keep it out of court. So now I’ve got a new distributor, and we’re looking at a circulation of about ten thousand copies. I can pay you for your stories from now on, man! A hundred bucks!”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Hell yeah it’s great! I’m putting stretch marks in my Levis just thinking about it. So, anyway, my girlfriend and I are here visiting this hellhound she calls a mother, and I’m getting to the point where I’d rather have the skin on my nuts melted off with an iron than listen to her mouth for another two seconds. [ muffled ] I know you heard me! I wasn’t trying to be subtle, dog-woman! Woof, woof, woof! [ clear again ] Still there, Seth? I’m about an hour from Trade Point, so I was thinking that my girlfriend and I could drive down there this evening and take you out to dinner. Maybe you could tell me some other ideas you’ve got for the magazine. What do you say?”

“Oh, you know what, I’ve already got dinner plans for this evening,” I told him.

“Going out with a babe?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“All right, Sethie! Wet her down and make her squeal! Where’re you two going?”

“Well, it’s three of us, actually. My roommate’s coming along. We’re going to a seafood place called Cecil’s.”

“Cecil’s? Man, you take her to Cecil’s and you aren’t getting so much as a toenail down your pants. How about this? Since your roommate is screwing things up for you anyway, why don’t you let me take the three of you out to someplace expensive? Chicks love expensive places. We treat her to a five-star restaurant and before dessert she’ll have her tongue so far in your right ear it’ll be sticking out the left.”

Okay, so, what would you have done? If Gleefully Disturbed really was going to become something spectacular, well, I wanted to be part of it. But there was also no way in hell I was going to cancel my dinner with Laura.

Perhaps Mike would behave himself in an upscale environment. Maybe things would go smoothly.

And maybe I’d quit school to live as a hermit and devote my life to yodeling.

I thought about it until Mike spoke: “Hey, Seth, you dead or something?”

“What time?” I asked.

“How about eight?”

“Could we make it eight-thirty, in case Laura wants to change her clothes beforehand? She was expecting casual seafood.”

“Oh, yeah, give her a chance to switch to the crotchless panties. No problem. I’ll pick you up at your dorm—how do I get there?”

I gave him instructions (“follow the smell”) and hung up. So, I was going to be having dinner with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and not only was my smart-ass best friend coming along, but also my appalling editor and his girlfriend.

How bad could it possibly be?

Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Chapter Twenty

“My Elegant Dining Experience”

“Seth, if you don’t stop pacing, you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” said Travis.

I would have continued pacing, but he was being serious. We were going to have to enforce a No Shoes rule to keep from wearing through to the sewage tunnels below and being eaten by giant alligators. Laura had been very receptive to the idea of a fancy dinner, even though I told her that Mike was “interesting.” She’d returned to her room to upgrade her attire, leaving me to pace and listen to Travis attempt to calm me down.

“This is going to be the worst night of your life.”

“Please shut up.”

“This is going to be a nightmare from beginning to end. Twenty years from now you’ll wake up screaming with memories of this evening. Your face is going to be permanently locked into an expression of pure terror.” Travis put an expression of pure terror on his face.

“You could improve the situation by staying home.”

“Nope. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“What’s this sick thrill you get from torturing me?” I asked. “Are you trying to make up for not getting spanked sufficiently hard when you were born?”

“Nah, I’m just filling your head with worst-case scenarios. No matter how bad things turn out, and we both know that they can turn out pretty darn bad, they won’t be as awful as I’m predicting.”

“Thank you so much for your kind effort,” I said. “If there were more people like you in this world, I’d be so giddy you couldn’t pry the grin off my face with a crowbar.”

Travis checked his watch, which showed a man screaming in pain as his arms (the minute and hour hands) were twisted around in unnatural positions. “We’d better get going. We don’t want to miss a second of this exciting evening.”

We walked out of Tanglewood Hall just as Laura was approaching. She was wearing a sleek black dress, and mere words cannot express how beautiful she looked. (Pretty neat way of getting out of a potentially difficult paragraph of description, huh?) My heart went from pitter-patter to BAH-BOOM, BAH-BOOM when I saw her. In stiletto heels and light makeup, it was all I could do not to pour concrete over her to preserve her beauty for the ages.

“Wow,” whispered Travis under his breath. “She looks better than Betty Boop.”

“Hi, Laura,” I said. “You look pulchritudinous tonight.”

Where the hell had that word come from? And was it good?

Laura gave a radiant smile. “Thank you.”

Yeah, it was good. Now I remembered. I’d heard it on a popcorn commercial or something.

“And you’re looking very handsome,” Laura told me.

She was lying, of course. I looked like I should be sold in stores as Dork-in-a-Sack. I hadn’t really planned on visiting any dining establishment of a higher class than Gus’ Greasy Grit Emporium, so I was forced to make do with slacks and a sweater with a squished bug stain on the collar. Travis wore a nice dress shirt, but no tie, since we’d been unable to find a single person in all of Tanglewood Hall who knew how to tie one.

“Mike should be here any minute,” I said, feeling like I was foretelling the arrival of an ancient evil that was arising one hundred years to the day after it was first vanquished. I’d never smoked in my life, but God, I needed a nicotine patch.

“Tonight’s going to be fun,” Laura said, the poor deluded soul. “I’m really looking forward to trying to make Out of Whack work. And that’s such good news about Gleefully Disturbed!”

She was actually perky! This was incredible. Go a few hours without barfing on somebody and their entire personality changes! Any second now she’d be breaking out the pom-poms. Two, four, six, eight, this is such a special date!

A moment later, a station wagon came around the corner and pulled up alongside the curb in front of us. The driver’s side door opened and a man wearing a nicely pressed dress shirt and pants stepped out. He had slicked-back hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and looked about thirty. He could have been a male model.

“You must be my dinner guests,” he said. No mistaking that voice—it was Mike. “Which one of you is Seth?”

I raised my hand.

“Very pleased to meet you, Seth. Now, if you’ll open the door for that lovely lady next to you, the three of you can squeeze into the back seat and we’ll be off.”

Mike was charming. Laura was perky. I was in the Twilight Zone.

I opened the door, and Laura slid into the back seat. I was prepared to violently shove Travis out of the way if he tried to get in next, but he graciously allowed me to sit by Laura. I slid next to her, and was forced to squeeze tightly against her to make room for Travis.

“You’re not too scrunched back there, are you?” Mike asked, getting back in the car and shutting his door.

“Not at all,” I said, never having been more positive about anything in my life.

“Good. This is my girlfriend, Natashia.” He patted the shoulder of the beautiful redhead in the passenger seat. Actually, she had a beautiful facial structure, but had declared war on it through the use of bright red lipstick that looked like it was half an inch thick, and an arrangement of makeup that gave her the appearance of having been punched in the face a few dozen times.

“Hiya,” she said in a high-pitched voice that sounded like she was about to administer a karate chop.

We made introductions all around and engaged in idle chitchat as Mike drove us to the restaurant. Natashia had the cheery disposition that can only come from a deep-rooted stupidity, but Mike was enchanting. There was no trace whatsoever of the vile wretch I’d spoken to on the phone.

This was going to be a fine evening.

We pulled in front of a restaurant called Genevieve’s. Just looking at the place made my wallet go “Yip, yip, yip!” like a hurt puppy. We were entering a whole new stratosphere of high class here. This was the type of establishment where an unsocialized cretin like myself had to make sure not to slurp when drinking out of the finger bowl or request peanut butter for my fries. It certainly wasn’t the type of place where the waiters would say things like “Eat your asparagus first, since it’ll go bad the soonest.” The squished bug stain on my shirt felt two feet wide.

We got out of the car as a uniformed valet with long brown hair and a goatee approached us. “Take good care of her,” said Mike, handing him a ten-dollar bill and the keys. “Maybe you could wash the windows if you get a chance.”

The valet gave him a “yeah, right” nod then drove off with the car. The five of us walked into the main lobby of the restaurant, where the snottiest-looking man I’d ever seen in my life stood waiting to greet us. Every inch of his aura seemed to say “If I should choose to let you lick the lint between my second and third toe it is only because I’ve taken pity upon you.”

“May I help you?” he asked in a spectacularly snotty voice, regarding us as he would a six-day-old dung beetle corpse.

“We have reservations for five,” Mike told him.

“Your name?” inquired Mr. Snot, in a tone of voice that suggested Mike would have a name like Cooter or Chuckles The Toothless Gimp.

“Mike Garrett.”

Mr. Snot glanced at his clipboard. “Very good, sir. Follow me.” Translation: “It appears that we are in fact allowing cattle to graze here tonight, so I’ll take you to your cud.”

We were led to a corner booth and seated. Mike pulled out Natashia’s chair for her. I pulled out Laura’s chair for her, smacking it into her shin because she wasn’t prepared for a gesture of chivalry.

“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” Mr. Snot informed us. Translation: “The restaurant staff will now draw straws to see who is given the miserable task of smelling your collective odor.”

“Thank you,” said Mike.

“You’re welcome, sir.” Translation: “I must now take a six-week shower to wash away the vile pollution your presence has cast upon my being, you scummy repugnant waste of evolution. I hope you choke on a fish bone, die in extreme agony, and have disappointing attendance at your funeral. Then I hope everybody you’ve ever cared for is maimed in a series of similar but unrelated attacks by wild buffalo, and your name is spat upon for the next decade, after which you fade into an infinite obscurity not unlike Samuel Hiyam, who you’ve never heard of because he’s too obscure.”

After a moment of perusing the menus, we were greeted by our waiter, who had a mustache that must have weighed two pounds. I’m surprised it didn’t sprain his neck. He introduced himself as Lionel, and seemed to have a significantly smaller quantity of snottism than our host.

“May I take your drink orders?” he asked. Translation: “Can I take your drink orders?” (He wasn’t quite as polite mentally as he was verbally.)

Mike and Natashia both ordered incredibly expensive booze. Travis ordered an incredibly expensive Coke. Laura ordered a free glass of water with an incredibly expensive twist of lemon, and I showed the good taste to order an iced tea instead of chocolate milk with a twisty straw.

While Lionel went to get our drinks, we engaged in idle chitchat over what to order. “Order anything you want,” Mike announced. “Remember, the—” he held up his fingers in quote signs “—whiplash is paying for it.”

There was no doubt that this was a high-class restaurant, because many of the menu items were things that you’d have to be an eccentric millionaire to want to eat. Even the foods I would normally like were covered with creepy sauces or unnerving garnishes. You couldn’t even get a hamburger without spinach topping.

“Everything looks so delicious,” said Laura.

I noticed Mike grimacing slightly as he looked over the selection. I guess he wasn’t a gourmet, either.

Lionel returned with our drinks. Travis’ beverage may have contained a drop of Coke hidden somewhere amidst the ice, but I sure couldn’t find it.

“Are you ready to order?” Lionel asked.

“I think we are,” said Mike. “Seth, why don’t you start?”

“Ummmm...how’s the prime rib?” I asked. I don’t know why I even bother asking a waiter how the food is. What’s he going to say? “Well, sir, once the dishwasher finishes rubbing lemon juice on the spoiled parts, the meat should taste just fine.”

“Excellent,” said Lionel.

“What about the marinated salmon?”

“Excellent,” said Lionel. (“I plan to spit in it before I serve it to you, but since I’ve just had a tasty meal that should improve its flavor.”)

“What about the seafood pasta?”

“Excellent.” (“It sucks.”)

“I’ll have the salmon.”

“Excellent choice.”

After everyone ordered and Lionel had returned to the kitchen, Mike turned to me. “Seth, you’ll be happy to know that starting with the issue you’re in, Gleefully Disturbed is going to have a glossy cover and proofreading.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I do have some more ideas for things to send you.”

“Hey, send ‘em on! I like your writing style. Pardon my French, Laura, but most of the submissions I receive are written by complete and total illiterates, dammit.”

“Illiterates have done some great things for the world,” said Travis, going off his good behavior diet for a moment. “My Uncle Max was an illiterate, and he crossed a slug with a Dalmatian.”

“What’d he get?” asked Natashia.

“A really slimy Dalmatian.”

I kicked Travis under the table. He kicked me back. We kicked each other a couple more times, then smiled politely at the others.

“That reminds me of when I was eight,” said Natashia. “My brother told me that if you put salt on a slug, it’ll dissolve. Well, my brother was always lying to me and putting dirt down my dress, so I thought I’d try it for myself. I went and got the salt, then I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find a slug.” She bit her lip. “Well, I found one. There it was, just sliding along a leaf, not bothering anyone. And I poured some of the salt on it. For like a second nothing happened, and then its skin got all liquidy and it stretched out, like it was screaming. Screaming.” Her voice cracked and she wiped a tear from her eye. “The poor thing melted away before my very eyes. There was nothing it could do. It died in pure agony, and I just stood there, watching it, not doing anything to help. I could have poured water on it—maybe that would have saved it—but I was so selfish back then. God, children can be so cruel! The poor little thing...”

She couldn’t speak any more. Mike put his arm around her shoulder, but I noticed his fingers curling inward as if he might be considering a bit of strangulation.

“So, Mike, how long have you been publishing Gleefully Disturbed?” Laura asked.

“Six years. It used to be called Chicks Licking Di—, er, it used to have a different title and content. But then I started putting words in with the pictures, and gradually the words took over, and I changed it to Gleefully Disturbed.”

“I need to get some fresh air,” said Natashia, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin. “Travis, why don’t you join me?”

Travis looked taken aback, glanced at Mike as if unsure how to respond, and nodded. The two of them left in the direction of the lobby.

“I have great plans for the magazine,” said Mike. “I think you’re involved in something really big, Seth.”

“Who’s your new distributor?” I asked.

“They don’t have a name yet,” Mike admitted. “Actually, it’s my friend Scott, the one who’s doing that movie Gore Drenched. But he can be trusted, trust me.”

“I thought it was Gore Slaughter.”

“It was. He decided to go with the more commercial title.”

“And who’s printing up the ten thousand copies?”

“Scott’s handling that, too. He’s got connections. Believe me, if you’d seen how good those counterfeit bills looked, you’d have no doubts whatsoever about their ability to publish a magazine.”

As I tried to think of a suitably polite comment, I glanced over at the window. Travis and Natashia were out in the parking lot. Mike’s back was to them, which was good because it prevented him from seeing when Natashia threw her arms around Travis and gave him a passionate kiss. Travis pulled away, and she dove at him again.

Mike gave me a strange look. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got distracted for a second.” The way Travis was reacting, I figured Natashia had to have a high-powered vacuum cleaner lodged in her throat.

I heard Laura gasp as she noticed the commotion.

“Is something wrong?” Mike asked.

“No, nothing,” she said, quickly. “I’ve got asthma. It acts up every once in a while, and I have to gasp.”

Mike studied our faces for a long moment. “Is that bitch out there jumping Travis?”

Laura and I both looked at each other, then nodded.

Mike sighed. “Why does she always have to do this? Will somebody please explain to me why every goddamn time we go out in public she has to do something like this to make me jealous?” He leaned toward me. “Can you explain that?”

“No, I can’t,” I admitted.

“For two hours before we left, she’s like ‘Behave yourself tonight! Behave yourself tonight! Don’t say the f-word! Don’t say the f-word!’ Well, pardon my fucking French, but what kind of shitbag tramp goes and bangs some guy in front of the window at Genevieve’s and calls it behaving herself?”

“Technically she’s not banging him,” I clarified. “Right now Travis is trying to get away and...wow, good move on her part...she’s got him in a headlock, and...oooh, the shirt’s over his head, I think she ripped it...maybe we should go out there and help him.”

“Nah, she’ll let him go. She’s just trying to get a reaction from me. I’m not even going to turn around.”

“Okay, they just moved away from the window,” I reported. “No, wait, now they’re back, and she’s going for the zipper...he deflected her first attempt, but I don’t know how much longer he can hold out...attempt two deflected with a wicked elbow move...now an elderly man sitting near the window just dropped his dentures in his pasta...whoa, Travis just did an incredible twist and duck escape and now he’s free!”

I wanted to applaud, but that would have been inappropriate.

Mike shook his head in annoyance. “When the slutmobile returns, pretend like nothing happened. I don’t want to encourage her.”

We engaged in idle chitchat until Travis and Natashia came back to the table a minute later. Travis seemed a bit frazzled, while Natashia had a satisfied look on her face.

“We’re back,” said Travis unnecessarily. “Look at this, I ripped my shirt on the paper towel dispenser.”

“How was the air?” asked Mike.

“Oh, it was fine. Good air. Good, good air.” He took a drink, and flinched as he noticed the lipstick smear he left behind. “I’m looking into becoming a transvestite,” he explained. “Just starting small.”

Lionel stepped out of the kitchen, wringing his hands nervously. He approached our table. “How are your drinks?”

We all said that they were fine.

“Oh, that’s good. I’m so glad you’re enjoying them. I don’t want to cause a commotion, so I’m only talking to the parties that came in around when you did. Did you use our valet service?”

“Yeah,” said Mike. “Is there a problem?”

“That all depends. It’s just that the valet service you used may not necessarily have been our valet service, if you understand my meaning.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

Lionel smiled nervously. “The boy in the red uniform who looked like a valet may not in fact have been what he claimed to be, and if you gave your car to somebody with long, brown hair and a goatee, he stole it.”

“He stole my mother’s car?” Natashia asked, horrified.

“Yes,” said Lionel. He had the humble look of a waiter who knew his tip was shot to hell.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” screamed Mike, jumping to his feet and attracting the attention of every person in the restaurant, except for the old guy who was still digging for his dentures. “You stupid used-condom slurpers let them steal the car? What kind of dipped-in-shit establishment is this?”

“Mike, chill,” said Natashia.

“Chill? Chill? You’re not the one who’s going to have to listen to your mother screeching like a cow with its bloated udder caught in a taffy puller!” He returned his attention to the waiter. “If you don’t get that goddamn car back in the next five minutes, I’m going to shove a red-hot fire hydrant up your ass and then up the ass of every worker in this place without washing it in-between ass shovings!”

“He’s really crude,” Travis whispered to me. “I bet when he eats a chocolate rabbit he starts at the butt.”

“Sir,” began Lionel, “if you would please lower your voice, I assure you we’re doing everything we can to help—”

“Lower your own pansy voice!” Mike thundered. “I got dressed up in this freakin’ strait-jacket of a suit and drove all this way and acted like the kind of stuck-up rich dickhead that would go to a place like this and ordered shitty food for more than it would cost to breed the goddamn cattle myself and got this fancy-ass wine that tastes like whoever stomped on the grapes had Athlete’s Foot and you didn’t even have goddamn peppercorn ranch salad dressing and my wench girlfriend went and tried to pork some loser outside the goddamn window because she’s a worthless bitch who can’t even aspire to be a bimbo then you told me that the car I borrowed has been stolen by a nutless fake valet and the slut told me to chill and then you stand there with a constipated look on your face while I tell you all about my shitty evening from the part where I got dressed up to the part where the freakin’ car got stolen and then I run out of breath and shut up!”

Lionel looked at his feet. “I’m sorry you had a disappointing dining experience.”

* * *

We stood in the ditch, staring at the station wagon. Every one of the windows had been smashed, and Mike’s ten-dollar bill was taped to the hood.

“Was the vehicle insured?” the police officer asked.

“No,” said Natashia. Mike was standing a few feet away, wringing his hands and looking like he wanted to say something objectionable.

“He’s done this at a few other restaurants,” the officer informed us. “But don’t worry, we’ll catch him. Last week he got the Slappy-Happy Frankfurter Car, and lots of people are hunting for him.”

As the tow truck began to pull what remained of the car out of the ditch, Natashia patted Travis on the back. “I’m sorry about what happened. I guess I’m just kind of insecure about whether or not Mike really loves me. Him always calling me a mindless wench probably has something to do with it.”

“That’s okay,” said Travis. “It made me feel desirable.”

“We’re going to call a cab. You could catch a ride back to your dorm with us, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“We’ll find our own way home,” I said. “I guess I’ll go say good-bye to Mike.” I glanced over at him, and saw that he was cursing loudly at the grass. “Or maybe you could say good-bye for us.”

“I will. Nice meeting you all.”

As we left the scene of the vandalism, I mentally crossed Gleefully Disturbed off my list of things that would add meaning to my life. I’d expected a disaster, but I’d at least expected to get to eat. I wondered how impressed Laura was with my selection of social peers.

“That was a new experience for me,” said Laura. “And, wow, I was even embarrassed! That takes a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, then winced and hoped she wouldn’t punch me.

“Don’t be. We’ll have something to laugh about later.” She stepped out of her high heels and picked them up. “Listen, it’s going to take us more than an hour to walk back home. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“A Completely Irrelevant Chapter”

“Everybody dance!”

“You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out, you put your right foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Left foot!”

“You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out, you put your left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Third toe on the left foot!”

“You put your third toe on the left foot in, you put your third toe on the left foot out, you put your third toe on the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Right edge of the toenail on third toe of the left foot!”

“You put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, you put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot out, you put your right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Fungus on right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot!”

“You put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, you put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot out, you put your fungus on the right edge of the toenail on the third toe of the left foot in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Pancreas!”

“You put your pancreas in, you put your pancreas out, you put your pancreas in, and you shake it all about, you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Now, everyone—drop your togas!”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Friends, Lovers, Or Ships Sinking In The Night?”

During the walk home, I had a moment of sudden realization.

There we were, walking down the road, being honked at every few minutes by jerks who felt they should inform us that they were mighty motorists while we were lowly pedestrians. The conversation had drifted from the events of the evening to songs we hated to the future of Out of Whack. Travis admitted that he wasn’t all that fond of the scripting process and agreed to turn the writing duties over to me. For some odd reason, he was also very agreeable to not having me act any more. Laura was extremely enthusiastic about the whole venture, and about half an hour into the walk I had my realization.

I was completely comfortable around her.

I’m not sure when it happened, but it did. It was a scary idea, not being scared of Laura. I mean, I was still insanely attracted to her, and though I wasn’t planning any time soon to extend an invitation to smear ourselves with peanut butter and roll around on a jelly-covered mattress, I was definitely hoping this would be more than a professional relationship. And yet I could actually speak coherently in her presence.

Travis seemed genuinely fond of her, too. But, in one of his few sweetie-pie acts, he wasn’t flirting or favoring his pelvis when he walked or “accidentally” dropping credit cards on the ground. He could be fiercely annoying at times (lots of them) (lots and lots of them), but he wasn’t going to try to move in on Laura when he knew how much I wanted her. What a guy.

Not being experienced in such matters, I couldn’t quite gauge whether or not Laura was interested in me in a romantic way. She certainly wasn’t flirting or favoring her bosom when she walked or “accidentally” dropping prophylactics on the ground. But she also didn’t seem to be using us just to become a part of Out of Whack. If anything, I was getting the impression that she wanted us all to be good friends.

I supposed I could handle just being friends. She was exceptional friend material—obviously intelligent, and surprisingly cheerful. Had she just been in a bad mood when I spilled beer on her, or was she just in an unusually good mood now? I suspected the former. It seemed to suit her better.

My first attraction had been physical. Then physical had blended with that “thingie” she had about her. And now even her personality was getting into the Let’s-Drive-Seth-Absolutely-Mad act.

She was a fun person! I loved talking to her! And I didn’t feel like an incredible lily-livered chickenshit when she was around! What more could I possibly ask?

Finally we crossed the street and reached the edge of campus. Travis stopped in his tracks and smacked his forehead.

“Oh, crap! I forgot that I was supposed to meet my friend at the student union! He’s gonna kill me!” He reached out and shook Laura’s hand. “It was really nice meeting you. Set a time when we should get together again and we’ll make Out of Whack work. Oh, man, Hank is really going to throw a fit!” And with that, Travis quickly took off, muttering about how much trouble he was in.

We continued walking in the direction of her dorm. “So, that’s who I’ll be acting with, huh?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“I hope his acting in Out of Whack will be better than the performance we just saw.”

There wasn’t a whole lot I could do besides nod. While I was certainly grateful to Travis for arranging to leave me alone with Laura, I had to admit that he could’ve been less obvious.

“So,” Laura began, “it appears that we’ve been left alone in order to give Cupid the chance to whip out the ol’ crossbow and open fire, huh?”

“Look, I know this seems like a set-up, but really, I didn’t tell Travis to do that, because, you know, that would be...you know, sneaky and disrespectful and, really, I’m not trying to pull anything and, God, I hate it when I babble like an unsocialized imbecile.”

“You can relax. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of accusing me of anything, I just—”

“Seth. Quiet.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m quiet.”

“Good. So, it’s out in the open that your friend thinks there may be something between us. What’s your opinion on the subject?”

The comfort I’d been feeling around Laura was immediately flushed down the toilet.

“Um, I dunno,” I replied, the words sticking in my throat as if they’d been spackled there.

“No opinion at all?” Laura asked.

I shrugged.

No! This was no time to wimp out! If ever there was a time in my life when I needed to be brave and outspoken, this was it! I needed to tell Laura exactly how I felt, and then drop to my knees and pray at the top of my lungs that she felt the same way.

“Well...” I said.

Okay, I was one word in the right direction. If I could say one word, then damn it, I could say two!

“I...” I said.

Two words! After getting out two words, three words would be no problem whatsoever!

“Well...” I said.

No, no, backtracking wasn’t any good! I was losing ground! My chances of having Laura for my bunny-o-love were pouring through my fingers! If I passed up this moment, there may never be another! I couldn’t mess this up!

“Laura, I love you,” I blurted.

Whoa. Not what I meant to say. I’d meant to say “I think you’re neat,” which my brain censored at the last moment because it would have made me sound like the King of Dweebs.

Laura stopped walking. She looked me in the eye. “Really?” she asked with genuine surprise.

Had I screwed up? Was I now one of those scary guys who said “I love you” to people they barely knew? Was she going to file a restraining order against me?

Figuring that I had nothing to lose at this point, I nodded.

“I don’t know quite what to say,” Laura admitted. “That’s a little more extreme than I was expecting.”

“A little more extreme than I was expecting, too.”

“Do you take it back?”

“No!”

Laura seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. If not for the rising cost of copyright infringement suits, I would include the full text of War and Peace here for you to read to simulate how long her response seemed to take.

“Seth, I think you’re a very nice guy...”

Eeeeeeek! Even I knew that being thought of as a nice guy was the kiss of death! Aauck! Aauck! I’m choking, I’m choking!

“...and I don’t want to give out any false impressions...”

So, Mr. Trexler, we hear your heart is just about to be put into a vice and squished to a flat gooey icky pancake! Any words for the public?

“...but...”

Why, yes, Roy—may I call you Roy?—I certainly do. THIS SUCKS!!!

“...I don’t think it’s a good idea to start anything that could affect our work on Out of Whack.”

I was speechless. I’d invited her into Out of Whack to impress her, and now she was telling me it was the reason we couldn’t be together? Forget appreciation for irony! I wanted Laura!

“Okay, you’re fired,” I said, trying to grin.

Laura gave me a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Do I get to hit you for saying that?”

“If you really want to.”

“Nah.”

Laura shrugged. “But, who knows? Maybe Out of Whack won’t work out, and from that point anything’s possible.”

We resumed walking. I was definitely hurt, but her last comment suddenly added a new emotion to the rejection buffet. I was mad.

“Wait just a second,” I said. “You’re saying that if Out of Whack blows up in our faces, there’s a chance we could have a relationship?”

Laura nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I may seem like a pathetic puppy yapping at your feet for the chance to lick your face, but writing comedy is important to me, too, and where do you get off trying to make me choose between them?”

“Excuse me?” Laura was taken aback.

“What is this ‘No relationship unless Out of Whack doesn’t work out’ deal? So, which one am I supposed to root for?”

“You’re supposed to root for Out of Whack. That’s what’s important right now.”

“Okay, okay, let’s pretend that Out of Whack is in fact the more important of the two. Let’s pretend that we have a strictly professional relationship—”

“We don’t have a strictly professional relationship. We’re friends.”

“Fine. We’re friends. Now, pretend with me. We have a strictly professional and Just Friends relationship that revolves around working together on a comedy troupe. Why would you tell me that we could possibly be more than friends if the comedy troupe didn’t work out? What purpose does that serve?”

“It’s the truth.”

“I don’t care if it’s the truth. It’s not fair to make me root for Out of Whack to fail.”

Laura sighed. “This is stupid.”

“No, it’s not. I just told you that I love you, and you said that Out of Whack stands between us. So you’ve just taken the joy out of working on Out of Whack, because by doing that I’m sabotaging our chances of a relationship!”

“I didn’t mean to do that. I just wanted to get things out into the open. I should have just kept my mouth shut and let you wonder if you stood a chance. And when you finally worked up the nerve to ask me out on a real date, I should have just made up excuses for the rest of my life.”

“No, that’s not it,” I said, stumbling over the words. “You could have said let’s just be friends and been done with it. You didn’t have to make Out of Whack failing a pre-requisite for being more than friends.”

“Seth, that’s where it stands! I apologize if this makes your life more difficult, but yes, I guess I see you as potential boyfriend material, and no, I will not date somebody I’m working with! It’s that simple. Take that information and do whatever you want with it.”

Aw, great...now I didn’t know which one of us was right. I wasn’t even in a romantic relationship yet and everything was so damn complicated.

“I don’t think I can work with you under those conditions,” I stated.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m not interested in having you in Out of Whack any more.”

“Seth, you’re just angry.”

“Yes, I am. But I’m serious. Out of Whack is now officially defunct. Again. I’ve chosen you over the comedy troupe. Now where do we stand?”

“Right now we stand at the point where you’re being a jerk.”

“Most women seem to like jerks. Maybe I need to quit being a nice guy. I should be an asshole who gets laid.”

“Oh, that’s such a beautiful thought,” said Laura, her voice like acid. “Gosh, how can I resist your charms?”

“The comedy troupe is over. Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so. Have a nice life.”

I started to walk away from her. “Wait just a second,” Laura called after me. “You’re giving up on it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure I can.”

“Okay, how about I make things easy for you? We will never be more than friends. But I think we could put this behind us and still work together.”

I shook my head. “I’m not interested.”

“Seth—!”

“Laura, Out of Whack is nothing but three people who haven’t so much as sat down to look at a script yet. I don’t know why you think it’s so important.”

“It is important.”

“Not anymore.”

I walked back to my dorm alone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Guy Talk”

Travis, who was seated on his bed cutting out obscene paper dolls, looked surprised as I walked in. “Jeez, Seth, you’re at least supposed to give them a couple minutes of snuggling afterward!”

I didn’t say anything. “Be gentle when you shut the door,” Travis informed me. “I think the light bulb is about to drop out of the socket.”

I gently shut the door, sat down on my bed, and looked at the floor. That depressed me even more because, well, we had a really depressing floor.

“From your ‘life really, really sucks’ expression I’m getting the feeling that things didn’t turn out as well as they could have,” Travis observed. “So what’s the deal?”

“I kicked her out of Out of Whack.”

“Well, that was stupid.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “Things seemed to be going so well, then all of a sudden we’re practically yelling at each other.”

“Damn. That’s not supposed to happen until you’re married.”

I rubbed my forehead. I felt the onset of a really serious headache, one that was going to bash me between the eyes with a “Muahahahahahahahahaha!” laugh.

“So what’d you do that pissed her off?” Travis asked.

“I didn’t do anything. It was her that pissed me off.”

“Really? You got mad at her first?”

“Why are you so shocked?”

“Well, it’s just that you were sort of like a puppy following her around,” Travis explained. “You know that Clint Eastwood western where he keeps spitting on that dog, but it follows him anyway? I figured you’d be like that.”

“Thank you for your confidence.”

“I’m just being honest. You’re a whippable kind of guy.”

“This is just what I need, to come home after losing the one girl I’ve ever loved and have you make jokes about it.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Travis seemed genuine. “Tell me everything that happened.”

I recounted the waking nightmare as well as I could. Travis listened attentively, and though he tried to keep a poker face I could tell that his opinion of me was swayed more and more toward “Dumb Guy” as I spoke.

When I finished, he stared at me for a full twenty seconds. Then he spoke: “What?”

“What?”

“Seth, you’re my best friend, and if I weren’t having a homophobic moment I’d even say I love you, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“You’re taking her side?”

“Not one hundred percent, no, but you didn’t need to go off like that. On her part, it was cruel to pull that ‘What’s your opinion on us having a relationship?’ thing, but she’s a woman, it’s in her genetic structure to manipulate and torment. It was most definitely not a reason to throw a tizzy fit.”

To be completely honest, I’d been thinking that ever since the argument ended. But I still wasn’t absolutely sure I’d been wrong.

“Travis, she set me up!”

“What do you mean, she set you up?”

“She tried to make me choose between Out of Whack and her.”

“No, she didn’t. Her point that was she didn’t want anything complicating your ability to work together. It’s not that easy to work creatively when she’s still mad because you snored all night and drooled all over her favorite pillow.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I do not.”

“Nobody believes that they snore, but some people obviously do or else the word ‘snore’ wouldn’t appear in dictionaries all across the nation. You’re asleep, so how would you know? If you want me to tape record you some night, you can hear yourself. Hoooocccch-shhhh, hoooocccch-shhhh, hoooocccch-shhhh!”

“At least I don’t talk in my sleep. I hear you asking for your pink blankey and complaining that your thumb is all shriveled up.”

“Okay, Seth, I am now going to do something unprecedented and be the one to get us back on the subject. You need to call up Laura and apologize.”

I sighed. “I just made the apology rounds.”

“You’re going to have to do it again.”

“I don’t have enough money to buy another bribe bag.”

“I’m serious, you need to get this worked out. The only reason you reacted so poorly is because you were so anxious for the two of you to be more than friends. It wasn’t that Laura did anything especially wrong, it’s that you were so upset over her not wanting to jump you that she could have said ‘I think ducks have too many feathers’ and it would have sent you into a fury. Call her.”

“I can’t.”

“Call her, you ignorant doofus.”

“No, really, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

(As a note to those of you who may sense a punch line approaching, let me state that this conversation will not end with “I don’t have her number.”)

“No, I’m not going to do it. Look, if Laura is to be nothing but a memory for me, I want the memory to end with a suitably dramatic final fight, not me pleading for forgiveness and her laughing in my face.”

“Don’t suddenly develop pride,” Travis warned me. “Get on that phone and call her.”

The phone rang.

“It’s fate!” said Travis. “Answer quickly before she changes her mind and hangs up!”

“I don’t want to talk to her,” I told him.

“Pick up the goddamn phone!”

I picked up the goddamn phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Seth, it’s Mike Garrett, Gleefully Disturbed—”

“Fuck off!” I said, then hung up.

“Okay, bad call on my part,” remarked Travis.

“No, it’s fine, it was Mike.”

“Oh. You should have told him to fuck off for me, too.”

I grabbed my portable CD player off the desk. “I’m going for a walk.” Maybe listening to the group Everyone Should Die But Us would calm me down.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to call Laura.”

“Quit bugging me about this, I mean it.”

“If you don’t call her, I’m going to call her myself.”

“The whole thing is over. Let it drop.”

“Nope. I’m part of Out of Whack, too.”

I was getting exasperated. “What is it with you people? There is no Out of Whack.”

“There will be after I call her.”

Travis got up and picked up the phone. I could have wrestled it out of his grip or thrown part of the wall at him, I suppose, but I just stood there. Though I desperately wanted Laura back in my life, I just couldn’t see her having any desire to return after what happened.

Travis glanced over at Laura’s phone number, which was on a piece of paper designed to hold the wide array of numbers we planned to accumulate. So far it contained the numbers for Laura and Stinky’s Pizza Parlor.

He dialed.

“Hi, may I speak to Laura?... Laura, hi, it’s Travis... yeah, I know... yeah... yeah.. .okay, see you then. Bye.”

He hung up.

“Everything’s cool,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re going over there tomorrow night at eight. You’ll need to have a script ready.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pretty wild, huh?”

“What’d she say?” I demanded.

“She said she figured you’d change your mind, and that all was forgiven. Personally, I thought the conversation went fairly well.”

I sat back down, flabbergasted.

“Now, I expect you to behave yourself tomorrow,” Travis informed me. “If we can get through the evening without you killing Out of Whack again, we should be fine.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“We Actually Accomplish Some Stuff”

Larry knelt down next to the coffee table with his five year-old daughter, Ashley. They had blank paper, crayons, and a pair of plastic scissors spread out in front of them.

“Okay, Ashley, what do you want to draw?” Larry asked. “Do you want to draw our house?”

Ashley shook her head. “I want to draw a person.”

“Do you want to draw Bill, our mailman? Miss Polyer said that her art class enjoyed drawing him so much that they hired him for private sessions.”

“Uh-uh. I want to draw Aunt Margaret.”

“Oh, Aunt Margaret is a good person to draw. You had a good idea, Ashley.”

Ashley began to scribble on the paper. Larry looked on with approval.

“You’re doing a very good job, honey. Can you draw Aunt Margaret’s brown hair?”

Ashley nodded, then picked up a brown crayon and began to draw in some hair.

“That’s very, very good,” Larry told her. “You’re going to be a famous artist when you grow up. Now can you draw those huge copper earrings that Daddy bought her as a joke, that Aunt Margaret feels obligated to wear whenever Daddy is around?”

Ashley drew in the earrings.

“Oh, that is very, very, very good, honey. Now can you draw the tumor that’s slowly killing her?”

“Uh-huh.” Ashley continued drawing.

“Wonderful, sweetheart. Daddy is so proud of you. Now, what color will Aunt Margaret be after the tumor kills her?”

“Green!”

“That’s right!”

Ashley used her green crayon to color over the picture.

“Okay, let’s play a game,” said Larry. “When the worms finally make it inside her coffin, what parts will they eat?”

With the plastic scissors, Ashley cut off both of the arms and one of the legs.

“Once again I can see why I love you so much. Now, let’s suppose that cultists break into the graveyard and exhume her corpse. Which part of Aunt Margaret would they find most useful for their unholy rituals?”

Ashley cut off the head.

“Exactly! And what would they do with the head?”

“Burn it.”

“And why aren’t you going to show me that?”

“It’s dangerous to play with matches,” Ashley said, beaming with pride.

“That’s absolutely right! You’re Daddy’s girl, no doubt about it.”

* * *

Laura set down her script. “This is really sick,” she said with a grin, dropping the little girl voice.

“Why, thank you very much,” I said.

Travis dipped his chocolate bar into his glass of Mountain Dew and took a bite. It was a new taste sensation he’d discovered that was gradually getting on our nerves. “I think it sounds good.”

Laura nodded. “I like it, but do you think it’s too, um, dark for us to perform in front of people?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Uh-uh,” Travis said.

“Okay, as long as we’re in agreement. What about the paper? Should we have a really big piece, so they can see what I’m drawing?”

“We should have a pre-drawn picture,” I suggested. “You can just pretend to draw at first, but really scribble the green on it, and hold it up when you cut off the arms and legs.”

“That’ll work.”

Laura was doing an exceptional job of pretending that nothing had happened. We’d been in her dorm room for about fifteen minutes and hadn’t said one word about last night. If Laura wanted to wipe it from her memory, well, I was all for it.

“Next,” said Laura, extending her arm toward me. I handed her and Travis the next script. I’d written the tumor skit during that day’s English class, but this was one I’d written during the summer.

“This one should be easy to do,” I said. “We’ll just push two chairs together and pretend that you’re in a car. Costumes might be a problem—you two have just gotten married, so we’ll at least need a veil or something.”

“We’ll see what we can find at Goodwill,” Laura said.

Travis took another bite of dipped chocolate. “Ready for the read-through?”

“Always,” Laura told him.

Through their almost-magical acting abilities, Travis and Laura became Sean and Tracy, a newly married, rice-covered couple driving away from the church.

* * *

“This is the happiest day of my life, sweetie,” said Sean.

“Mine too, honey,” said Tracy.

They drove in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s company. Then Tracy pointed out the window. “Slug bug!” She punched Sean lightly on the arm.

“Hey, watch it!” said Sean, amused. He chuckled, but then his eyes began to dart back and forth, actively seeking out another slug bug.

“I can’t believe everything went so smoothly,” said Tracy. “The caterers really knew what they were doing. Here I was all worried that there wouldn’t be enough butter, and yet there was plenty for everyone, which was surprising because you know how much Aunt Lyn loves butter.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Sean’s eyes were squinted as he moved his head back and forth. If there was a slug bug to be found, by God he was going to find it.

“And you know,” Tracy continued, “I was against little Charlotte being one of the bridesmaids. I mean, she’s only seven, but she didn’t misbehave or anything. Oh, I think I caught a glimpse of mischief in her eyes once or twice, but she managed to keep it in check. The McCormick boy, though...I don’t know why his mother thinks he’s ready to go out in public. I mean—”

“Slug bug!” Sean shouted, victoriously. He lightly socked her on the arm. “What was that you were saying about the caterers, sweetie?”

“The conversation about the caterers is over and done, honey.”

“Oh. Sorry I missed it.”

They drove in silence for a moment.

“Ha! Slug bug again!” shouted Sean. “But since it’s our wedding day, I’ll skip the slugging part just this once.”

He grinned.

“You’re very happy with yourself, aren’t you?” asked Tracy.

“A little.”

“Oh, you’re just pleased as punch that you saw two slug bugs to my one.”

“I did see two, and I deserve to feel good about myself.”

“I don’t think you need to be so smug about it.”

“I have every right to be smug. I saw them before you.”

“Fine. Be smug.”

Another moment passed.

“Slug bug!” Tracy shouted.

“Where?”

“In the alley. We just passed it.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“It was there.”

“What color was it?”

“Blue.”

“You lie!”

“I’m not lying!” Tracy insisted.

“Okay, fine, let’s just turn the car around and check.”

“Don’t turn around. We’ll miss the plane.”

“What’s the matter?” Sean asked. “Scared that if we go back the slug bug will have mysteriously vanished? Or are you just doubting what you think you saw?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Admit it. There was no slug bug in that alley.”

“I’ll admit no such thing.”

“Well, then, you’ll have no problem with us going back to confirm your little slug bug sighting.”

“Come on, honey...”

“Scared? Scared that the slug bug you say was just shining away in that alley for all the world to see might have floated up into the heavens? Oh, I know—maybe elves took it!”

He started to turn the car around. Tracy placed her hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly, head hung. “I didn’t really see a slug bug.”

“What was that, sweetie?”

“I didn’t really see a slug bug.”

“Gosh, what a surprise!”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

“So,” began Tracy, “isn’t Hawaii going to be fun? Relaxing on the beach, sipping champagne...”

“I’m not entirely certain I want to relax on the beach and sip champagne with somebody who would purposely try to deceive me about a slug bug sighting.”

“Please, just let it drop.”

“Oh, would we have let it drop had I been the one to falsify the report?”

“Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” said Sean. “You betrayed my trust. You tried to claim points on your slug bug witness scorecard that you hadn’t really earned, and something like that takes time to get over. And I honestly don’t believe that you’re truly sorry. I think that if we had to rerun the whole ugly scenario a second time, you’d pretend to see that slug bug all over again.”

“I wouldn’t!” Tracy insisted.

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

Tracy pointed up ahead. “Look! There’s one! I’ll let you have it!”

“You...you’d do that for me?” Sean asked, genuinely touched.

“Of course I would.”

“No, this is our wedding day. Let’s do it together!”

“Slug bug!” they shouted in unison.

“I love you, sweetie,” said Sean.

“I love you, honey,” said Tracy.

“Now, sweetie, let’s pull over to the side of the road and ravenously claw at each other’s bodies.”

* * *

“No ad-libbing, Travis,” I said, dropping my copy of the script on the floor. “Okay, I think that one sounds all right, if I can say so myself without being an ego-maniac. Now all we have to do is scoot the chairs apart and we’ll be all set for the next one.”

“What about costume changes?” Laura asked, glancing at the third script. “Most talk show hosts don’t wear bridal gowns.”

“We should probably make the veil the only wedding thing you wear during the slug bug skit,” I said. “Then all you’d have to do is take it off and you’d be in costume for the interview.”

“Works for me,” said Laura, transforming into talk show host Heather.

* * *

“Welcome to The Heather Show! Today we have a special guest, Percy Atkins, who has been scientifically determined to be the stupidest person on earth. Thank you for being here, Percy.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Travis/Percy, using an upper class British accent.

“So, to start off, could you tell us what it’s like being the stupidest person in the world?”

“First off, I should clarify something. Technically I’m only the second stupidest person, but the stupidest person was struck by a car and is currently in a coma. If he pulls through I’ll be asked to relinquish my title.”

“Oh, I see. I guess that being the second stupidest person still makes you pretty dim, right?”

“I would think so, yes.”

“Good. Tell me, how do people treat you when they find out who you are?”

“Very poorly indeed, as you might expect. There’s a great deal of mockery, and you’d be amazed how many people will refuse to even attempt to have an intelligent conversation with me. I can’t even read a simple book without hearing some sort of disparaging comment.”

“You can read?”

“Certainly,” Percy replied. “Why do you ask?”

Heather shrugged. “It just seems that as the stupidest person in the world, reading would be a bit out of your grasp.”

“I think a basic skill such as reading is more dependent on quality of education than any inherent mental abilities.”

“Maybe you’re right. What do you read?”

“Currently I’m finishing The Communist Manifesto, a fascinating book by that great thinker Karl Marx. Of course, due to my limited mental state, some of the more complicated themes are proving a tad problematic for me to fully comprehend.”

Heather seemed uncomfortable. “Ummmm...you know, you really don’t seem all that stupid to me. I mean, you’re no genius, but you’re hardly the stupidest person in the world.”

“One can’t argue with the results of an IQ test. With all the research that goes into developing one, it seems foolish to attempt to contradict the results.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just tired that day?”

Percy shook his head. “No, no, I was wide awake.”

“Maybe you were putting your answers in the wrong section of the answer sheet.”

Percy was silent for a moment. “Listen...I have a confession to make. I cheated.”

“You purposely put down wrong answers?”

“Of course not. I stole an answer key, but it turned out to be the wrong one.”

Heather sighed. “So you’re not really the stupidest person in the world.”

“Yes I am. Stealing the wrong answer key is a very stupid thing to do.”

“I think this interview is over.”

“No! I am stupid! I’ll prove it to you. Ask me any math question and I’ll get it wrong.”

“What’s three plus three?”

“Seven. See how stupid I am?”

“If you were truly stupid, you wouldn’t know you got it wrong.”

“Ask me another one.”

“No. Get off my show.”

“Look at this stupid expression on my face,” said Percy, putting a very stupid expression on his face. Travis did this frighteningly well.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Heather told him.

“See? I’m too stupid to fool anyone!”

“Listen to me, you’re not stupid and that’s all there is to it.”

“I’m not even a little stupid?” whined Percy.

“Maybe you’re a little stupid,” Heather conceded, “but I brought you here because I thought you were the stupidest person in the world. Even when I thought you were the second stupidest person, I was satisfied. But give me one good reason why I should interview a common dullard.”

“I’m cute.”

“You’re not cute.”

“So would you say I’m the ugliest person in the world?” Percy asked, hopefully.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No. Get off my show.”

“What if I took off my clothes? You could interview the most naked man in the world!”

“Absolutely not.”

“You wouldn’t have to look.”

“Get out of here!” said Heather. “You’re annoying everyone, and no, you’re not the most annoying person in the world.”

“What if I—?”

At this point, I actually played a small role, one that I couldn’t screw up. I was to go on stage, whack Travis over the head with a fake club, then drag him away as Laura spoke her final lines.

“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. There’s a dentist with a tongue fetish who also wanted to be interviewed tonight, but I’m not in the mood anymore. I’m Heather, and this has been The Heather Show! Adios!”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think we’ve got ourselves an act,” said Laura.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“The Path To Wherever”

We practiced for about two hours, reading through the scripts, blocking our movements, asking Travis to please dip his chocolate in another room, and getting the timing down. Travis and Laura had a great comedic chemistry together. I suspect that even if my scripts hadn’t been awesomely brilliant pieces of wit, they would have come off as funny just from the performances.

No, now that I think about it, actual jokes were probably necessary for their performances to be funny. But that doesn’t detract from the fact that they did a good job.

“I guess that about does it,” said Laura, placing her scripts on her desk. I noted with envy that even though those scripts contained a total of eleven pages, the desk didn’t strain under the weight, like ours would have. “Okay, here are our tasks. Travis and I will learn our lines. The correct lines, Travis. I’ll call Laugh Attack and try to get us a slot on amateur night. Travis, you find a suit that you could get married in without people wanting to hurt you with their rice. I’ll find a veil. Seth, write some more stuff. Are we missing anything?”

“I think we should come up with a secret Out of Whack handshake,” Travis suggested.

“Shut up, Travis.” Laura had a natural talent for saying that, but I had to admit she was getting even better with practice.

Travis gathered his script pages. “If you’re vetoing the handshake idea, I figure we can head back to home, fetid home.”

“I’ll see you later, Travis,” said Laura. “Seth and I need to talk, but I’ll make certain he gets back to you safely.”

Okay, I should have known that last night wouldn’t get buried quite so easily. I’d kind of hoped that we could both feign amnesia and live our merry little lives without ever mentioning it again, but apparently that wasn’t going to be the case. Great. I almost wished she hadn’t promised to get me back safely, since having her beat the crap out of me seemed easier than discussing my behavior.

Travis shot me a look that said how much pleasure he derived from the fact that he hadn’t been born Seth Trexler, then said his good-byes (his good-bye to me was more solemn than I was comfortable with), and left, shutting the door behind him.

Laura turned to me. “Tell the truth. Aren’t you glad now that Out of Whack is still going?”

“I’m very glad,” I said. “I was a jerk last night, and I promise it will never happen again.”

“As a male, there’s no way you can promise that,” Laura told me. “But I need to take some of the blame, too. I should have been a little more...how should I say this?... understanding last night. No offense, but I assume you don’t have much experience with women, and I’m guessing that it took a lot more courage to tell me that you loved me than I gave you credit for. Am I right?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” It wasn’t like I could convince her that my alias was Ramrod, King of the Stud Muffins.

“So I should have been gentler, maybe. I mean, you don’t need Mommy to take you by the hand anymore, but it’s not like you’ve been through this before.”

Now I was getting confused. I checked my forehead for a sign reading “No Love Experience.” I didn’t find one, but a thought occurred to me. “Did Travis say anything to you during my bathroom break?”

“Nothing much.”

“What did he say?”

“He said you were sorry about last night.”

“Uh-huh. Get to the good part of the nothing much.”

“It wasn’t anything major. He just said that you had very little experience with members of the opposite sex, that’s all.”

Yep, Travis was getting an anvil dropped on his head. I was demonstrating my own inexperience well enough on my own without him blabbing it to people.

“That was very nice of him,” I said, gnashing my teeth. “Oh, I can’t wait to get back to the dorm and show him exactly how nice I think it was.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Laura said. “He was just trying to help smooth things over.”

“His head will be very smooth the next time you see him.”

“Look, Seth, you don’t exactly exude waves of confidence. How many girls have you kissed in your life?”

I assumed Barbie didn’t count, and wasn’t going to share that brief indiscretion from my childhood anyway. “I don’t remember.”

“Come on, you can tell me.” Laura sat down on her bed and patted the area next to her. “I’m curious.”

“Thank you, but I don’t care to express what a loser I am in such concrete terms.” I did, however, want to sit next to her on the bed.

“It’s called opening up to your friends,” said Laura. “I promise I won’t make fun of you. Sit down.”

I sat down. Our bodies didn’t touch, but that didn’t keep my legs from trembling. The traitorous appendages were determined to show off how nervous I was.

“How many?” she repeated. “Three?”

“I’m not getting into this.”

“Two?”

“I’m not talking about it.”

“One?”

“None,” I said. “Not a single one. Have I quenched your thirst for knowledge?”

“You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”

“No, I haven’t. I am so deeply lame that I have yet to kiss a girl.”

“So you’re a virgin?”

“Yes, I’m a virgin! Would you care to add anything else to the insecurity list?”

Laura considered that for a moment. “You’re eighteen, right? That’s not so unusual. The kiss thing is, I think, but not the virginity.”

“You’re loving every second of this conversation, aren’t you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with not having kissed anyone,” said Laura in a tender voice. “It makes you special.”

“It does not. It makes me a female-phobic wimp.”

“Have you ever asked a girl if you could kiss her?”

“Laura, I’ve had one date in my life, and that was four years ago, and it ended with a six car pile-up on the freeway! The emergency room didn’t seem like quite the place to ask for some face sucking, and I haven’t gone out with anybody since.”

“Wow.”

“You’re not doing much to make this conversation more comfortable,” I pointed out.

“Do you want to hear the story of my first kiss?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“I was fourteen, and I was going on a date with a guy I had this incredible crush on. I must have brushed my teeth twenty times before we went out. We went to a movie, had a great time, and he walked me back to my house. I knew I was going to let him kiss me, so I was chewing three pieces of mint gum to keep my breath from knocking him out. And I was so nervous that I forgot to spit it out when he leaned forward for the kiss! The smooch itself wasn’t anything great, since he hadn’t learned the difference between passion and slobber, but then my gum got stuck all over both our faces! When we tried to pull apart, big blobs of gum stretched between us, and then he started to gag, and the gum got all over my new sweater, and my mother looked out the window and started to absolutely freak out because she thought we were foaming at the mouth, and the whole night ended as a disaster.”

“Gee, now I can’t wait for my first kiss,” I remarked.

Laura looked me in the eye. “Would you like to have it? Now?”

“Excuse me?”

“I could help you get it over with, so you won’t have to worry about it any more. I’ve never given anybody their first kiss—I think it would be a wonderful experience.”

“What about us just being friends?”

“Friends are allowed to kiss. I’m not trying to pressure you, Seth—whatever you want is fine. But I’d make a good teacher.”

Let the school bells ring!

“Would you like to kiss me?” she asked, gently.

OOOOOHHHHH YES YES YES YES YESSSSSSS!!! OH, GOD, YES!!! I WANT TO KISS YOU SO BADLY I CAN’T STAND IT!!!

“Yeah,” I replied.

She put her arms around me. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I repeated, my voice suddenly rising an octave.

And then we slowly leaned toward each other. She closed her eyes. I closed my own eyes, re-opened them for a second to make sure I was still moving in the right direction, and closed them again.

Our lips met.

Ka-boom!

These weren’t just fireworks, this was a nuclear warhead capable of spraying enough radiation to wipe out the population of Europe! I thought my feet were going to curl up like the Wicked Witch of the East after Dorothy’s house dropped on her.

And I was kissing well! I mean, my lips were where they were supposed to be, they weren’t engulfing her nose or sliding off her chin or anything. I didn’t appear to be forming any unsightly spit bubbles, and I hadn’t accidentally knocked my teeth into hers.

So, we had her physical appearance, that “thingie,” her personality, and now her kiss causing me to be madly in love with her. This was getting serious.

We broke the kiss.

For about a quarter of a second, and that was just to snatch a quick breath. We locked our mouths again and wiped out the entire southern hemisphere.

Her tongue slid over my lower lip. I didn’t let myself get too excited. Maybe she kissed all of her friends that way. She moaned softly, which could also have been typical behavior.

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

We’d been at it for at least a minute, and now I had it on reasonably good authority that this was no longer a kiss between friends. As I put my arms around her waist, she slipped her tongue all the way into my mouth. I’m sure her tongue had to be connected to her own body somewhere, but for a moment I was almost fooled.

Our kissing grew more passionate.

Then a horrible vision ripped through my mind. Six little girls, standing in formation, chanting “Seth and Laura, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” I don’t know where this thought came from, but I couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how well Laura’s tongue probed. It was incredibly distracting.

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

“First comes love, second comes marriage, third comes the baby in a baby carriage.”

Damn it, where was this coming from? Why couldn’t I have a normal brain like anyone else?

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

And then my mental situation grew worse as fast food jingles started sounding in my head. I tried kissing Laura harder to get rid of them, but they remained, taunting me.

Laura pulled away, panting.

“That was incredible!” she gasped. “If that whole first kiss thing was just a ruse to get my defenses down, I’m going to kick your ass!”

“So, I did all right?” I asked. I knew I had, but you’ve gotta hunt down those ego strokes wherever you can.

“Seth Trexler, you don’t need lessons from anyone! God, I feel like I’m glowing!”

Maybe the radiation thing wasn’t just a metaphor.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said, trying to sound all masculine, even though my dangerously rapid heartbeat probably made me sound like one of the Chipmunks.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Laura asked, smiling.

“Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” I said.

“I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve kissed a lot of guys. And you...you were in the top third, believe me.”

I started to chuckle, but then I realized that she wasn’t joking. Okay, well, top third was darn good for my first attempt. Maybe once I got my gums involved my ranking would go up.

“I need to ask you something,” I said. “Where does this leave us?”

“It leaves me wanting to kiss you some more. Is that okay?”

Yeah, it was.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I’m Feelin’ GOOD!”

Cue happy music.

No, no, the really happy music!

Oh, yeah, that’s it! Got a bounce in my step, got a beat in my heart, got a tingle in my tummy, gonna dance my way home!

Do do do da, ba do do do!

Yeah!

Hey, little birdies, are you singin’ for me? Are you chirpin’ and a-cheepin’ and a-callin’ for me? Are you singin’ of love, are you singin’ of glee? Hey, little birdies, are you singin’ for me?

Ba da da da da, and a la la la!

Hey, little squirrel, why you lookin’ sad? Hey, little squirrel, you should be lookin’ glad! ‘Cause in this world, ain’t nothin’ bad. It’s all good good good, so be glad glad glad!

Yeah!

* * *

I walked through the bright, glorious, sunshine-filled evening, each step a testament to all that is right with life. Everything was wonderful! Flowers were wonderful! Dew was wonderful! Lung cancer was wonderful! Oh, God, thank you for making lung cancer, because everything is wonderful!

I could still feel Laura’s sweet kisses on my lips. If a mirror were nearby, I could probably still see the imprint her mouth had left upon mine.

I was going to give all my worldly possessions to charity!

Oh, what a beautiful evening! I’d kissed the woman of my dreams for fifteen minutes, until her roommate walked in with her shocked parents. And Laura said she’d call me tomorrow, after her classes were over.

I was in…

LOVE!!!

Like never before!

“Hi,” I said to a total stranger walking by. “Isn’t the sun beautiful today?”

“It’s dark out,” said the stranger. “Give me some of whatever you’re on and I won’t beat the shit out of you for bugging me.”

“I’m on one-hundred percent pure and uncut love! And have all you want—it’s free and out there for the taking!”

“No, really,” said the stranger. “Share some of the stuff you’re on. I must be getting the cheap stuff.”

I looked at my watch. “Gotta go! Need to get some sleep, so I can dream of the woman that fills my heart with joy!”

I hurried back to my dorm. My feet may have touched the ground once or twice.

“Hi, Travis, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal,” I sang upon entering our room. “I love this room! You know, we’ve got a palace here and we don’t even know it.”

“Oh my God! You got laid!”

“No, no, my friend, but we kissed with a passion reserved for the angels in heaven.”

Travis frowned. “One doesn’t generally associate angels with the act of passionate kissing.”

“Well, you get the idea. We kissed, Travis! Lots!” I sat down and began chair dancing.

“That’s great! Did you have to use restraints?”

“No restraints. No handcuffs, no rope, no whack on the head with a club, just my lips and hers tangled in a grip of love! Finally we’re getting along like peas and carrots, instead of filet mignon and week-old grits that the dog slept on!”

“I’m thrilled, buddy! So what happened to her concerns about Out of Whack?”

I puckered up my lips at him. “The love tools changed her mind. One kiss from the suction king and the women lose contact with their priorities.”

“Wow, and I thought she was going to beat you up tonight. So, Out of Whack is going well, you and Laura are in love, my rash is clearing up...everything’s perfect!”

My chair collapsed, dropping me on the floor. This jolt knocked the light bulb out of the socket, and the room was cast into darkness.

“It’s close, anyway,” said Travis.

* * *

I dreamt of fluffy clouds and rainbows.

* * *

I woke up with an awful toothache. I didn’t know what it was from—Laura’s tongue bashing it around, perhaps?—but the pain was unbearable and I called the nearest dentist at nine in the morning for an appointment.

“If you come right in, we can see you,” the receptionist told me.

I came right in and sat happily in the waiting room for an hour and a half. I hummed a merry tune as I read the six year-old fashion magazines. I smiled knowingly as I listened to the dentist speaking to a young boy: “Listen, Charlie, I’m not going to ask you again to open your mouth. See this drill? This drill goes through teeth. That means your cheeks won’t put up much resistance, if you understand what I’m saying.”

When the dentist finally called me in, I skipped cheerfully into the room and had a seat on the chair.

The dentist tapped my cheek. “Does this hurt?”

I nodded with a smile.

“Say ahhh.”

I said “ahhh,” putting all the love I could into that word.

The dentist poked around for a while. “You’ve got a huge cavity,” he informed me. “I’m going to have to drill.”

“That’ll be swell!” I grinned.

He ended up filling three cavities, and the Novocain wore off before he was finished, but hey, life was wonderful!

* * *

I smiled and said “Hi” to the other customers as I waited in the twelve-person line at the convenience store. I managed to whistle five of my favorite songs before I got to the point where only one person was in front of me, an old lady purchasing some soap, eggs, toilet paper, paper sacks, and a lighter.

“That’ll be six dollars and ninety-seven cents,” the clerk told her.

The old lady slowly dug through her purse. About two minutes later she finally located a ten-dollar bill and set it on the table. “Hold on a moment...I think I’ve got the ninety seven cents...”

I drummed my fingers along the counter to the pitter-patter of my loving heart.

“Five...six...seven... eight... nine... ten... fifteen... twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two.. twenty-three... no, wait, I miscounted... five... six... seven... eight... ummm... five...”

Life just doesn’t get better than this.

* * *

“Will you please quit humming?” snarled Travis. “I let you hum at the top of your lungs for the first half hour because you’re in love, and for the second half hour because we’re best friends, but now I want you to shut the hell up!”

“Oh, now, you don’t really mean that, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.”

“Do you think Laura will want to kiss you again if you’ve got a pencil sticking out of your forehead?” asked Travis, waving his pencil at me in a threatening manner.

“You’re such a little kidder.”

Travis broke the pencil in half. “Do me a huge favor and go migrate somewhere.”

“I think we’re going to be friends forever and ever. What do you think?”

The phone rang.

“IT’S FOR ME!!! I’LL GET IT!!!” I shouted, diving for the phone. Travis rolled his eyes and went back to his homework.

“Hello?”

“Seth?”

“Hi, Laura. How were your classes?”

“I should have studied more for my math quiz. There were a couple I’m not sure I got right.”

That reminded me of a certain 25%-of-my-final-grade exam in the American History class I’d neglected to attend today. Oh well. It wasn’t like I needed to know anything about history to keep my love alive.

“What’d you get, a B+?”

“Of course not. I know I got an A, but there’s no excuse to miss any questions in something like math. In classes where the teacher’s personal taste is an issue, well, you aren’t going to give the answer they want all the time, but in math you can’t miss.”

“So, would you like to get together?” I asked.

“Yes!” Travis shouted, trying to be heard by Laura. “Get him out of here!”

“Let’s meet at the student union,” said Laura. “I think we need to talk.”

My heart fell. “I think we need to talk” was not the kind of thing I wanted to hear from her. “I think we need to talk” is the same as “I think last night was a terrible mistake and should never happen again” with more suspense.

“Sure,” I said, managing to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “What time?”

“It’s almost five, right? Are you busy now?”

“No, I’m not busy. I’ll meet you there.”

* * *

I was going to be cool. No matter what she said, I was going to be cool. This was within my capabilities, and even if she said “Seth, upon reconsideration I’ve decided that kissing you is about as much fun as kissing a cold turd,” I was going to react in a mature fashion.

She walked into the student union, and I waved her over to the table in the back where I was seated. “Hello,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me.

“Hi.”

“You sound kind of down. Is something wrong?”

“Nope, everything’s fine.”

“You don’t look like everything’s fine. Listen, I didn’t ask you to meet me so I could say we should just be friends. Some risks are worth taking, and I’m going to let whatever happens between us happen, and we’ll just have to make sure we’re absolutely professional when it comes to Out of Whack.”

I was incredulous. And I was doing everything I could to maintain my vow of maturity instead of letting loose with a loud “Whoopie!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I’m...pleased!”

She grinned. “I need to explain something, though. Last night was fantastic, but it was also a moment of weakness on my part, not something I’d planned. I don’t want to offend you by having you think that because the kissing was so incredible I’ve decided to throw myself at you.”

I tried to figure out how something like that would be offensive, and came up blank.

“Like I said, I’ve seen you as possible boyfriend material ever since you came to my room with the roses. You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re really creative. And you’ve got this thing about you that I can’t quite define.”

“Thingie,” I corrected.

“What?”

“Never mind. Continue with my virtues, please.”

“But I really love the idea of working on Out of Whack. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but never took the initiative to start myself. And I didn’t want to let a relationship between us mess it up. But I was attracted to you, and last night I let it get the better of me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it since then, and if you want a girlfriend, I’d like to be her.”

Cue happy music.

No, no, the really, really, REALLY happy music.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Out of Whack Performs (Take II)”

I’m going to sort of skim through the next week’s events, because as the all-powerful writer of this book, I can.

Laura talked to the manager of Laugh Attack on Monday, and got us a spot performing on the following Tuesday. Her promotion of us didn’t amount to a whole lot more than saying “We’ve got a comedy troupe and we’d like to perform on amateur night” and getting a response of “‘Kay.”

We went to Laugh Attack the next day to see what amateur night was really like. Two of the comedians were decent, though the first took a bathroom break in the middle of his routine, while the third, Angry Quincy, based his act on the fact that he hated each and every member of the audience with a passion. I personally got the finger from him three times, and our seats were the furthest from the stage. The people in the front row had to deal with him backwashing into their drinks.

We rehearsed every night. Well, Laura and Travis rehearsed, and I offered my opinions, most of which related to Travis being a wanker. Laura knew her lines perfectly by the second rehearsal. Travis had his down by the fifth. There was no doubt, however, that both of them were immensely talented.

This was going to work.

Laura was determined to not let our being officially boyfriend and girlfriend interfere with her duties as a student and a comedy troupe member. I swear, she spent more time studying and doing homework than I spent exhaling. When she wasn’t attending classes or doing other school stuff, she was either sleeping, rehearsing, or eating. I hadn’t been invited to join her in the process of sleeping, and while rehearsing we were all business—not so much as a one-lipped peck on the cheek. But we ate most of our meals together, and we did reserve short blocks of time for testing the resistance of our mouths to high-powered suction.

It was a good thing I didn’t have any lines to remember, because they would have come out “I Laura am Laura saying Laura my Laura lines Laura Laura Laura Laura I love Laura.” She was constantly in my thoughts. I didn’t think about classes. I didn’t think about making new friends. I didn’t think about traffic when I crossed the street. I just thought about Laura.

However, I did get three new skits done that week. I’d like to say that Laura didn’t affect my professionalism when it came to writing them, but I have to admit that I cut two really good jokes because she would have had to kiss Travis.

Monday night we ran through the act until it was perfect. Then we got a group of about ten girls in Laura’s dorm to gather in the study room and watch us perform it, to test their reactions.

They laughed.

No, none of them gave birth or choked to death from excessive guffawing, but they laughed in most of the right places, though for some reason the very sight of Laura in a wedding veil sent them into hysterics that took a full two minutes to subside.

* * *

“Oh, sure,” began the comedian, “on the commercials you see this D-cup brunette stretched out on a sofa, sucking on the telephone cord. Her name is Loleena and she’s waiting at 1-900-DO-ME-NOW just for someone like you! Because, as we all know, women like that are turned on by guys who have nothing better to do on Saturday night than watch lousy movies on TV. So you think, what a deal! For slightly more than the price of a hooker and a VD shot this babe will tell you what she’s wearing. Of course, in real life you’re talking to Helga the Ape Woman, who has back hair and a butt so big she can sit down without bending her knees.”

Seated in the rear of Laugh Attack, I was almost as nervous as I was before the Saul Rawlins Comedy Competition. Which didn’t make any sense, considering that all I had to do was walk up on stage and hit Travis. Laura sat next to me, being so unprofessional as to have her hand on my shoulder. She didn’t seem nervous at all, even though the second comedian of the night was finishing up his routine and Out of Whack would be on in less than five minutes.

Travis wasn’t nervous, either. What was the matter with those two? Here I was, as uncomfortable as a Mafia boss whose closest informant had just been blown away in a drug deal gone sour, and they were just as calm as can be, la-de-da, we do this kind of thing every single day, maybe we’ll step out and rescue some children from a burning orphanage while we wait, la-da-de. But, that’s why they were the actors, and I was the writer.

The comedian finished his routine with the single funniest squished amoeba joke I’ve ever heard, then hurried off-stage as the Master of Ceremonies took his place. The M.C. proceeded to do a three-minute routine about earwax that was word-for-word what he’d done last week, right down to the comments about the nose hair of the unsightly woman to the far left of the stage. Personally, I don’t think there was any nose hair.

“Next up for your listening ecstasy, having made the entire half-mile trip from Trade Point University, put your hands together for the sketch comedy of Out of Whack!”

The audience applauded. Travis and Laura zipped over to the stage and set up the chairs and coffee table for the “Drawing With Daddy” sketch. Then they began to perform.

This next part is going to be difficult to describe, because I don’t want to sound overly full of myself. I mean, it would be tacky to be here in my own book saying how great I am, how brilliant, how ingenious, how awesome, how fantastic, and how amazingly unbelievably stupendously incredible I am. I’d really hate to turn this chapter into a brag session. It just wouldn’t be cool.

However, let me tell you that Out of Whack blew the audience away!

Sure, by this time they were all thoroughly drunk. But that doesn’t detract (too much) from the fact that they were laughing! A lot! More than they did at the squished amoeba joke! We were a hit!

As Travis and Laura moved into “Volkswagen Honeymoon,” the audience continued its laughter. The skits were working exactly the way I’d hoped, and Travis and Laura seemed to be feeding off the audience’s responses like comedy leeches, bringing them to an energy level they’d never possessed before.

I was thrilled. I was astounded. I was in shock.

I was jealous as hell.

I wasn’t up there getting the laughs, they were. Nobody in the audience was thinking “Ha-ha, I’m sure enjoying this, and it’s all thanks to the goofy-looking guy seated near the back.” It’s not that I was determined to get full credit for my contributions, it’s just that, well, all our work came down to this moment, and at this moment Travis and Laura were the ones up there receiving delicious helpings of laughter while I sat and watched.

I wanted to be a performer.

I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me, I should have been satisfied with what I had. Laura was mine, Out of Whack was a hit, and everything was coming up roses. If I were up on stage, I’d probably have been on the floor in the fetal position trembling. And I suppose—

Shit! I’d missed my cue again!

I stood up. No, wait, that wasn’t it. I sat back down, hoping nobody had noticed. Travis and Laura continued with “The Stupidest Person in the World,” performing it wonderfully.

Could I have done it that well? Would they ever let me try?

When my cue did come, I forced my spaghetti legs into motion and rushed up on stage. I smacked Travis with the plastic club, getting a loud audience response, and dragged him to the side while Laura said her closing lines.

The audience applauded with great enthusiasm as the M.C. joined us on stage. “Let’s hear it for Out of Whack!” he said. “And especially for the Oscar-caliber performance of the guy with the club!”

The audience chuckled and applauded some more. Okay, I knew it was a joke—it just wasn’t the kind of joke I was in the mood for right then. As the M.C. told the audience to be sure to generously tip their waitresses, we left the stage and returned to our table.

“That was great!” said Laura, out of breath. “That was the best feeling I’ve ever had!”

Travis wiped some sweat from his brow. “I want to be a comedian when I grow up.”

They continued to talk about what a rush it had been as the audience filed toward the exit. Several of them paused to say “Good job.” Nobody said anything to me. Why should they? As far as the audience knew, I was just some annoying wiener who begged to be in the show and was given a sympathy role. Though I knew I was far from a non-participating member of the troupe, I sure felt like one.

A couple of minutes later, the M.C., who I guess was also the manager of the place, sat down at our table. “You guys didn’t suck,” he said. “You didn’t suck at all.”

We all thanked him.

“I want you guys back this weekend,” he said. “I want you to open for the guy who’s opening for the headliner. Add three more skits to your act. You’ll do six shows for fifty bucks a pop. We have a deal, right?”

We all glanced at each other. “Sure,” said Laura.

“Great. Call me tomorrow.” The M.C. left.

“We did it!” exclaimed Travis, incredulous. “We really did it.”

“Let’s not blow this out of proportion,” Laura cautioned, “but holy shit we did it!”

“This calls for a celebration,” said Travis. “Let’s go tip some cows!”

“No, no,” I said. “Let’s see how many people we can squeeze in a telephone booth!”

“Let’s see if we can twirl a hula hoop on each extremity at the same time!” Travis suggested.

“I have an even better idea,” said Laura. “Travis, may I have the pleasure of speaking to you for a minute? Excuse us, Seth.” Laura got up and walked into the lobby. Travis gave me a confused look then followed her.

I sat there for a minute, wondering if they were planning a super-special surprise for me. I had written the damn scripts, after all. They wouldn’t have been up there if it weren’t for me.

Oops, getting bitter. Knock it off. You’re a liability to the troupe if you perform, so kwitcherbitchin.

When Laura returned, Travis wasn’t with her. She sat down across from me. “Do you mind if I’m extremely forward?” she asked.

“Not at all. Forward is good.”

“Being up there on stage was absolutely incredible. I’m tingling all over. You can’t imagine how much the adrenaline is pumping. I mean, there’s only one other thing that even comes close to giving me this feeling.”

“Electroshock therapy?”

She smiled. “You’re sure you won’t mind if I’m forward?”

“I won’t mind.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.”

“Positive?”

“Positive.”

“Seth, I’m so horny right now that I’m ready to have a seizure. How would you like to get a hotel room and take the next logical step in our relationship of screwing like bunnies for the rest of the night?”

I got over the shock astonishingly fast. “I think I’d approve.”

“Are you sure? You have an early class tomorrow. I probably won’t let you get much sleep.”

“In select cases, sleep deprivation is worth it.”

“Good. Travis thought you’d feel that way. Let’s go. Quickly.”

Note From Your Caring Narrator:

Ladies and gentlemen, we have now reached the official Out of Whack sex scene. Though it is not a gratuitous sex scene thrown in just to give kids a chance to get out their highlighters, giggle, and share selected passages with friends, I do feel it is my duty as a patriotic American to warn you in advance that the material presented will be of an explicit, adult nature. Yes, there will be insertion.

It’s entirely possible that some of you may be uncomfortable with this type of material. You may be thinking to yourself, “The Burger Bordello scene was kind of raunchy, but it didn’t involve actual penetration. I’m not certain I want to expose myself or my children to this, yet I’m also concerned about not getting my money’s worth out of this book. What am I to do?”

Well, you need not worry because, absolutely free of charge, I have written an alternate version of chapter twenty-eight. This precedes the smutty version, and will ensure that everyone gets to enjoy the book to the fullest extent.

Whichever version you choose to read, I thank you.

—Seth Trexler, Your Friend

Chapter Twenty-Eight, Version A

“A Fun-Filled Festival of [CENSORED]”

“Look both ways before you cross the street,” Laura warned. “Looking just one way may cause you to be hit by a car half as often as not looking at all, but that’s still half too many.”

We looked both ways and crossed the street, pausing to give a cheerful wave to our friend Chip the bus driver. Upon reaching the other side, we played a cooperative game of hopscotch, because we both knew that cooperation is more enjoyable than competition. Not that we were commies, of course—just people who liked to play as a team.

We skipped along the sidewalk until we saw our friend Skip the mailman. “Hi, Skip!” we said. “You’re sure working late tonight.”

Skip gave us a wide smile. “Yes, I am. But that’s because I’m a worker for the United States Postal Service, the best postal service in the whole wide world, and there’s nothing that will stop me from getting good citizens like yourself their mail on time.”

“Not even rain?” Laura asked.

“Not even rain.”

“Not even snow?” I asked.

“Not even snow.”

“Not even dead fish falling from the sky?” Laura asked.

“Not even dead fish falling from the sky.”

“I feel a song coming on,” I said.

“No time for a song,” Skip told me. “I’ve got to get people their mail. I can’t wait to see the look on Ms. Cipolla’s face when she finds out that her alimony check came with postage due. See you two later, and remember, U.S. savings bonds make a great gift for a loved one!”

We waved good-bye to Skip, then continued skipping down the sidewalk until we saw our friend Flip the fast food restaurant employee. He looked sad.

“Flip, why is your smile upside-down?” asked Laura.

“Oh, I’m having problems,” said Flip. “I made some new friends last week.”

“That’s no reason to be blue!” I told him. “There’s nothing better than making new friends, as long as you keep the old ones!”

“But they want me to smoke a cigarette!”

Laura and I shook our heads knowingly. “Now, Flip,” Laura said, “you know that cigarettes are bad for you. If a pregnant woman smokes, the fetus inside her can shrivel up like a raisin. And the tobacco companies are ruled by inhuman profit-obsessed white Anglo-Saxon males who kick crippled puppies in their spare time.”

“I know,” said Flip. “But I don’t want the guys to think I’m a square or something.”

“What you’re experiencing is called peer pressure,” I said. “And it’s a bad thing. Peer pressure causes good kids like yourself to smoke, to steal candy bars from the local grocer, and even to snort paste.”

“But what can I do?”

“You can say no,” Laura told him. “And if they really are your friends, they’ll respect that answer.”

Flip’s face lit up. “Thanks, Seth and Laura! I’m going to tell them ‘no’ right this very minute!” He gave us a thumbs-up sign and ran down the sidewalk. Unfortunately, he collided with a lower-class youth wearing gang colors, who knifed him to settle a grudge against those who practiced oppression.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Laura. “Our good friend Flip the fast food restaurant employee is dead!”

“I feel a song coming on,” I said.

“Then let’s sing together!” Laura decided.

Everybody dies, it’s Mother Nature’s Way.

‘Cause if we didn’t die, Earth wouldn’t be okay.

The world’s filled with people, and people need to eat.

But we’ve got too many people, and not quite enough meat.

[Refrain]

Overpopulated. We’re overpopulated.

Our land is overpopulated, and that’s not good at all.

[This is the end of the refrain.]

Each person who’s alive eats food most every day.

But people who are dead don’t eat much food, I’d say.

When we want to dine, it’s no fun to compete.

That’s why people croaking is such a special treat.

[Repeat refrain]

We’ll have eight billion people on our planet come next May.

Unless we see to it that a whole bunch pass away.

So when somebody’s murdered, it’s really kind of neat.

‘Cause that’s one food-eating soul we can delete.

[Repeat refrain a few more times until the song fades out.]

“I feel better now,” said Laura, stepping over the blood on the sidewalk.

“So do I. In fact, I feel great. I feel better than if I’d counted from one to hundred without a mistake.”

“I love you, Seth,” Laura said, her eyes twinkling.

“I’m glad you do,” I told her. “Because love is a good thing.”

And truly, it is.

Chapter Twenty-Eight, Version B

“Love, Virgin Style”

“Oh, wow,” I said, peeking in the bathroom. “They gave us free shampoo! And pre-wrapped soap!”

Laura came up behind me and wound her arms around my waist. “I’m glad you approve of the room.”

“Look how mold-free that shower curtain is.”

“It’s very nice. What do you think of the bed?”

I was trying not to think of the bed. “It looks comfy.”

“It looks verrrrrry comfy,” said Laura, purring like a cat. “Shall we find out for sure?”

I wanted nothing more than to find out for sure, but I was also having a serious degree of anxiety. I’d been perspiring heavily at Laugh Attack, and I was certainly sweating now. Had I put on enough deodorant this morning? Did I have B.O.? You can’t make love to somebody properly if you reek! And why did I have to pick today to wear the boxer shorts with the holes and ketchup stains? Had that big zit on my chest gone away?

“Is it okay if I take a shower first?” I asked.

“Of course,” Laura replied. “Would you like me to join you?”

Actually, I didn’t. I intended to do some serious cleaning of body parts that I didn’t much want her to see me rubbing. But I couldn’t say “Sorry, Laura, but I’m not positive there aren’t any lingering remnants of that last bowel movement.” How was I going to get out of this?

“No, that’s okay,” I said.

Hey, you don’t always need a creative solution to this kind of thing.

“I’ll be waiting,” Laura said. “Don’t dawdle.”

“I assure you there’ll be no dawdling,” I told her, stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I undressed. Good God, was I really this skinny? Were my knees really that lopsided? And, jeez, I always remembered having at least another half inch!

After a very frustrating thirty seconds trying to figure out how to get the shower to work, I waited for the water to heat up and did breathing exercises. Everything was going to be okay. People had sex with each other all the time. It was no big deal, and there was no reason to be freaking out. Laura wasn’t going to be expecting a gold medal performance.

But what if I only earned a booby prize?

I stepped in the shower and yelped as the scalding water burned the hell out of my chest. I burned the hell out of my back bending over to adjust the temperature. Once it was tolerable, I unwrapped the soap and promptly dropped it. This was scary. Sexual activity was not a good time to be losing one’s motor skills.

I gave myself a thorough scrubbing, then shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. I dried myself, wrapped a towel around my waist, and then glanced at the mirror again. I certainly looked better now that it was all fogged up.

This was it. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the room.

“Hi there, handsome,” said Laura. She was seated on the edge of the bed, hair draped over her shoulders. Her clothing consisted of exactly one black bra and one black pair of panties. I thought my tongue was going to drop to the floor and splatter saliva all over my toes.

“You look...” Beautiful? Sexy? Good enough to devour with an almost supernatural passion? “...gorley.”

“I look what?”

“Sorry. I think I was trying to say ‘gorgeous’ and ‘lovely’ at the same time.”

“Ah.”

“Really, you look incredible. That bra goes perfectly with those panties.”

“I think they’d look even better flung across the room.” She lay on her back and stretched out her arms. “Come and get me, you huge slice of masculinity.”

I strode toward her like a man with a purpose. After two steps, the towel slipped off. I hadn’t meant to be quite so naked quite so soon, but I figured covering myself up again at this point would be weird. I wasn’t even remotely erect, which I thought was odd considering that there was a mostly-naked woman writhing in the bed in front of me.

“Oooh, I like what I see,” moaned Laura as I reached the bed. This improved my self-confidence a few dozen leagues. “I want to be naked, too. Help me.”

This is the part where I decided I was going to be a sexual beast and tear her panties right off with a passionate ripping sound. I grabbed them by the left leg-hole and gave a powerful yank.

For those of you who may be considering this type of panty-removal technique some time in the future, it should be pointed out that real-life panties don’t quite tear the way they do in the movies. All I really did was cause Laura to wince in pain. So, like a moron, I yanked again, hoping that the second try would rip them apart and make up for the first failed attempt.

“Ow!” said Laura. “Seth, you’re giving me a wedgie.”

I released my grip. “I guess this doesn’t work.”

“Slide them off...please...”

Well, as long as she said “please.”

She lifted her buttocks, and I slid the panties down her thighs, past the knees, past the ankles, and—success!—off the feet. I tried to fling them across the room by tossing them over my head, but they struck the ceiling fan and were batted back at Laura, hitting her in the face. I suspected that she didn’t find this particularly erotic.

She tossed them to the side, and stayed in her stretched-out position as I decided the next step should be to kiss a path from her feet to her mouth. I couldn’t really mess that up unless I lost my balance while crawling and fell on her. Which seemed like a definite possibility, but I’d just have to take the risk.

I kissed the bottom of her foot. She kicked me in the face.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, sitting up. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that—my feet are really ticklish!”

“It’s okay,” I said, pinching the end of my nose. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding!”

“Not too bad,” I insisted. “Just let me go back to the bathroom and clean up. You lie there. Don’t move.”

I hurried into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. The bleeding was only a small trickle, so I rinsed it away and held a towel against my nose for a couple of minutes until the flow stopped. Then I cleaned myself up and left the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” Laura asked.

“Peachy,” I said. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”

Laura returned to her stretched-out position, and I joined her on the bed. I kissed her shin, preparing my defensive move should she attempt any further foot-nose contact. She didn’t, so I moved up a couple of inches and kissed her knee. I’d never had my knee kissed, so I didn’t know if it was all that exciting, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. I kissed the knee of her other leg to make sure I was being equitable, then kissed her thigh.

Damn, my mouth was dry. I wondered if my lips were all cracked. Why didn’t I carry around ChapStick? What if my dry lips were uncomfortable against her flesh? What if I was scraping her? Weren’t these types of kisses supposed to be extremely moist? Or what if she were lying there, bored, trying to be subtle about checking the nightstand for a fashion magazine?

I forced those questions out of my mind and proceeded upward. As I kissed a winding trail up her thigh, I could see the tan line where she had been wearing a remarkably sparse bikini bottom. And, yes, I could see...hold on a moment while I grab my copy of How To Write SexScenes That Sizzle... I need some advice on how to describe this. Okay, I could see the glorious, neatly trimmed curls of her femininity.

And my thoughts as I gazed upon this wonder of wonders were “If I had that much trouble with just the panties, how the hell am I gonna get that bra off?”

I kissed around the warm, inviting mound of her womanhood, and kissed a slalom skier-type path up her stomach. She trembled. I was a bit cold myself, being naked right out of the shower and all.

She sat up slowly as I kissed up to her breasts. I really, really hoped she wasn’t going to make me try to undo the bra straps. I’d mess it up. I just knew it. I’d spend forty-five minutes working on that stupid bra strap while Laura flipped through the television stations with the remote control. If there was any mercy in the world, any at all, Laura Stricklen would not make me remove her bra myself.

She reached behind her back and unfastened the bra. It slid off the...one moment, let me check the book again...beautiful globes of her potential child-feeding apparatuses. Though small, they were the most visually appealing breasts I could imagine, and I’m not just saying that because of their proximity.

I figured I was permitted to touch them, so I reached out and stroked their undersides. I saw the nipples hardening. It was pretty cool. I wondered if I could get them to soften then harden again then soften then harden and so on, but this was strictly out of curiosity and not something I really intended to experiment with.

She grabbed my hands by the wrists and crushed them to her breasts, turning me from a suave lover to a lust-ridden groper. Hey, whatever worked. She leaned forward and kissed me with such passion I thought my lips were going to be squished flat over the entirety of my face. We kept this up for several minutes, as my thumbs stroked her nipples in the least boring demonstration of thumb twiddling I’d ever experienced.

Her hand slid down and caressed the...hold on...throbbing cannon of my manhood. The problem is that this cannon was still on the wimpy side. It was like the lower half of my body had said “Whoa! Too much stimulation! Shut ‘er down, fellas!” I tried to will myself to harden, but there’s nothing quite like worrying about getting hard to keep yourself nice and soft.

She caressed me then leaned back. “I want your mouth on me,” she purred.

“My mouth was on you until you pulled away,” said Mr. I Am So Clueless As To Be A Freak Of Nature.

She reclined all the way on her back and parted her legs. “Please...I want to feel your tongue...”

I could have stuck out my tongue and put her hand on it, but even I wasn’t that clueless. So, it was time to perform oral sex for the first time. I really wished that I’d taken the time to practice on my hand. You know, when you put your thumb and index finger together and it sort of lets you simulate...well, I hadn’t done it, so it doesn’t matter.

I got into a crouching position, and ran my dry tongue up her inner thigh. I would have loved something to drink, but if there were too many delays getting my tongue to its final destination the passengers might switch airlines. As my tongue worked its way toward home base, I ran my fingers through her jungle of love. Actually, it was more like a garden of love. And if that’s more description than you feel you need, you should probably return to Version A of this chapter before it’s too late.

My tongue ran out of inner thigh, so I hovered over her moist center for a moment, and gave it a slow, powerful lick.

Then I gagged.

Okay, not being able to rip panties is one thing. Gagging into Laura’s femininity, well, that’s just plain unromantic.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine, fine,” I assured her. I tried to compensate for my reaction with a second lick, but my gag reflexes were going into overdrive.

She reached down and put her hand between my mouth and her anti-masculinity. “Seth, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Oh no. I wasn’t giving up this easy. “I want to. Something just got caught in my throat, that’s all.”

“Really, it’s not a problem if you feel uncomfortable.”

I moved her hand away and licked again. This time I didn’t gag, but it took all of the gag-control power within my soul to keep from doing so. I licked some more. Laura moaned with pleasure. I ran my tongue in a slow circle. Laura shivered. I gagged. Laura sat up.

“I’m serious. If you don’t—”

I shoved her back down and continued licking. It took superhuman effort to withhold the gags for about a minute, but then I started to get the knack for it. Laura’s breathing, moaning, and squirming became (in order) heavier, louder, and more frantic.

Yep, once I got into it, I was actually enjoying this.

Of course, now my tongue was getting tired. I kept it up for a bit longer, then pulled my head away. Laura grabbed me by the ears and shoved my face back between her legs.

“Don’t stop now!” she ordered.

I continued licking, like a good slave boy.

10...9...8...

My tongue swirled around gracefully, much like Picasso’s hand must have done while painting his brilliant abstract art.

7...6...5...

My tongue moved like a roller coaster.

4...3...2...

My tongue felt like it was going to fall off.

1...

Laura let out a single gasp.

1/2...

“Oh...” she whispered. “Oh my...”

1/4...

Houston, we have lift-off!

To get the full effect, what you need to do now is take this book in both hands (those of you reading off a computer screen are excused from this exercise), shake it as hard as you can, and shriek at the top of your lungs. There’s just no denying that Laura was a loud one. I pulled my face away and enjoyed the show.

After she’d crested, Laura sat up, pulled me toward her, and kissed me. My lips were kind of tainted, but if she didn’t mind, I certainly didn’t.

“That was quite enjoyable,” she said. “You have my gratitude.”

As we kissed some more, she began to stroke my...checking the book again...thing. I was only at about 1/16th mast. She stroked more vigorously for a full thirty seconds, getting me to approximately 1/15th mast.

I wanted to look down and shout “Yo! Mr. Penis? It’s time to wake the hell up!” But I didn’t.

Laura adjusted her position, then pleasured me with her mouth. At least she had the good graces not to gag.

It probably felt pretty darn swell, but I couldn’t tell because I was numb. We were looking at total genital shutdown. My body was overcompensating for all the premature ejaculation terror.

Laura, to her credit, did not give up. Her mouth and hands did their duty with great enthusiasm. If she was frustrated, she didn’t show it.

And then, somewhere through the haze of numbness and anxiety, we got a response. Not a huge response, but it was encouraging. I closed my eyes and tried to relax.

It was working.

Ladies and gentlemen, Bedtime Theatre proudly presents...most of an erection!

[ Cue “Applause” sign. ]

While I admired my work of art, Laura turned toward the bed stand and took a condom out of the box we’d purchased from a jealous convenience store clerk on the way. She tore the foil wrapper as I realized with horror that my boner was deflating.

Mayday! Mayday!

When Laura returned her attention to what had once been a semi-mighty hard-on, I was too flexible to get the job done. She set the condom aside, and returned to her manual labor.

I was perking up, and in short order I was like solid steel again. (It’s my book. I can lie if I want to.) Laura picked up the condom and unrolled it over my shaft, which immediately began dwindling. Within moments I’d dwindled to the point where I was of no use in the planned activity, so she removed the condom, tossed it away, and then took another from the box and unwrapped it.

“Okay, this time you’ll put it on,” Laura suggested.

After some more mouth action, my lance was ready for battle. I tore the foil wrapper open with my teeth, which worked well until I suddenly realized that I had a condom between my lips.

Ugh. Spermicide.

Obviously, I was no longer ready for action. “Damn,” Laura said, this time revealing a bit of frustration. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll go down on you until you’re hard again. While I’m doing this, you get the condom ready. As soon as my mouth moves out of the way, you put the condom on while I get into position on my back. If we time it right, my legs will be open right as you’re completely protected, then I’ll help you with the insertion. Once you’re inside me, you should be okay. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She proceeded to fellate me some more, while I got the condom prepared. Once we’d achieved erection, she hurried into the spread and ready position, while I tried to unroll the condom. Damn! Wrong way! I’d lost valuable seconds! I turned it around and unrolled it, wincing as I poked myself with a fingernail that needed clipping.

I got on top of her, and she grabbed my wrapped manhood and tried to ease it inside her. But...you know...

“Okay, new plan,” said Laura. “I think our error is in selection of position. Here’s what we’ll do. You get in a seated position and I’ll do the sucking. You’ll hold the condom, right side-up, next to you. Instead of taking my mouth completely away, I’ll lick down as you unroll the condom, so my tongue won’t completely abandon you until right before the condom reaches hair. Then you’ll lie on your back and I’ll mount you, giving us only a couple seconds of non-contact time. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like it’ll work,” I said.

We got ready for the next play, and then leapt into action. This time I hit all my marks on cue, and was rewarded with Laura sitting on top of me, thrusting and moaning. And I’m proud to say I got in a good forty-five seconds of game time before the whistle blew. Big-time.

I would have been happy to bask in the glory for a few minutes, but Laura had other ideas. She was a wild woman.

By the time we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted, I could safely say that my virginity had been completely obliterated. Not even Lassie would be able to find it now.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Some Statistics and a Challenge”

I woke up with no feeling in my arm where Laura’s head rested upon it. I couldn’t even move my fingers, and I was a bit concerned about this leading to permanent damage. But since I’d never read Miss Manners’ Guide to Post-Coital Etiquette, I wasn’t sure whether I should wake her up or not.

I decided to try to withdraw my arm without disturbing her. I slowly slid it out from under her head, moving with great stealth and patience. She didn’t awaken. It took a while, but finally I got my arm completely free, and rubbed it vigorously to encourage the flow of de-numbing blood.

And then—all together now, class—Laura opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said, snuggling against my chest. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept great. I seem to do that when I’m driven to the point of total physical exhaustion.”

“I slept great, too. And did I mention that you were wonderful last night?”

Hey, after my shaky start, I’d earned myself a Most Improved Student award. What can I say?

“Well, thank you very much.”

“I mean it. For a night with only one guy, it was very, very satisfying.”

She kissed my chest a few times while I considered that last statement.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked at me and smiled. “I said it was very, very satisfying.”

I didn’t want to delve into this.

I did not want to delve into this.

This was not something I wanted to delve into.

Delving into this would be bad.

I needed to keep my mouth shut and leave the delving to those with better mental hygiene.

“I got the second half of that sentence. It’s the ‘only one guy’ part that threw me,” I said, wondering why the hell I was delving.

“Oh. That part.”

There was a long pause.

“Seth, maybe it’s time for a brief discussion about ‘bad’ ignorance versus ‘good’ ignorance.”

“No, no, I can handle it,” I said. Nothing she described could be as shocking as the images that were floating through my mind at the moment...tag teams...“Please take a number”... “Sorry, we ran out of numbers, just form a line, no cutting please or you’ll be sent to the back”...

“You’re looking kind of pale,” Laura said.

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t think I was as pure as the newly fallen snow, did you?”

“No, really, I’m fine,” I insisted. I was pretty sure I was fine. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t know she had experience. It was no big deal. “Just one guy” meant nothing. Nothing at all.

“So,” I began, “when you say ‘just one guy,’ I’m assuming that indicates the occurrence of other episodes involving, let’s say, two guys, right?”

“Would you like to hear my sexual statistics?”

“Ummm...how bad are they?”

“If you want to know about my previous relationships, I’ll tell you. But I don’t want you throwing some sort of tizzy fit or crawling under the covers in a twitching ball of jealousy.”

“No tizzy fit. No twitching ball of jealousy.”

I honestly didn’t think I wanted to know, but it was yet another case of the Seth Trexler’s Mouth Vs. Brain System of Failed Communication. I wondered if a doctor could fix it, maybe with some nice electroshock therapy.

“Six.”

“Six?”

“Six guys.”

“At once? Whoa!”

“No, not at once. Six guys total. Benjamin Portley, James Raftor, Will something, Kevin Lincoln, and the Consigniani twins. Actually they’re the Consigniani triplets, but Antonio just stood in the corner and watched.”

Six. That wasn’t such a big deal in these heathen times.

“How many times each?” I asked.

“Seth!”

“Sorry. Whatever you did before you met me doesn’t matter anyway, as long as I have your promise that none of these guys are going to burst into the hotel room with a shotgun.”

“I promise. James is more of a crossbow type of person.” Laura looked over at the clock. “Well, Seth, now you have a very important decision to make.”

“Which is?”

“Do you get dressed and go back to your smelly dorm, or do you take advantage of my willingness to skip my morning classes and make passionate love to you until we have to be out of the room at eleven?”

Even without a third option, I was able to select an activity that appealed to me.

* * *

In the realm of interpersonal communication, there are numerous challenges. Trying to convince long distance phone companies that you don’t want to switch your service is one. Persuading the toothless guy next to you on the bus to quit rubbing his squeegee on your face is another, less common one. But for a real challenge, there’s nothing quite like trying to get your best friend to let you act in a comedy troupe when your last attempt did not quite go without a hitch.

“We’re in a hurry, right?” I asked, waving one of my old scripts at him. “This script is already written, and it has three roles.”

It was Wednesday evening (in case there’s ever a quiz, the first part of this chapter took place Wednesday morning), Out of Whack was meeting in our room because Laura’s roommate had some friends over for a séance, and I was so filled with afterglow that I’d worked up the courage to ask for a role. He was predictably reluctant.

“No way,” he said. “Come up with some more two-actor skits. You’re the writer, so write!”

“Cut me some slack! I didn’t mess up last night!”

“You didn’t have any lines last night!”

I turned to Laura. “What do you think?”

“I’ve never seen you perform. In terms of acting, I mean. But there are a couple things to take into consideration. An extra actor means fewer lines for each person to learn by Friday. However, it also means more work to get the timing down, and Seth, if you’re not entirely comfortable on-stage, it may not be a good idea to have you acting at a time when we only have two days to rehearse.”

Dammit! How could she be so impartial after we’d been so intimate?

“We’ll vote,” Travis said. “All in favor of limiting the speaking roles to myself and Laura, raise your hand.”

Travis raised his hand.

Laura sighed. “You know it’s nothing personal,” she told me. “This just isn’t the best time to be taking risks.” She raised her hand.

I was disappointed, very much so, but, let’s face it, I couldn’t fault the logic behind their decision. It was selfish of me to want to act, anyway. I could wreck everything.

“However,” Laura continued, “when we have sufficient time to prepare, I vote that Seth be gradually given acting duties.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Travis. “Okay, Seth, staple your butt in front of the computer. We need skits!”

* * *

[ The stage is now serving as Jennifer’s apartment. She’s applying some makeup as the doorbell rings. She hurries over to the door and answers. ]

CHARLES: Hi. You must be Jennifer.

[ He’s tall, dark, and handsome, just like that massively studly actor who plays him, Travis Darrow. His clothes are nicely tailored and fit all the current fashions. In fact, there’d be nothing wrong with him if it weren’t for the hatchet imbedded in his chest. ]

JENNIFER: Oh my God! What happened to you?

[ Charles glances at his watch. ]

CHARLES: Hmmm...my watch must be slow. I thought I was early. Sorry about that.

JENNIFER: No, I mean...aren’t you in pain?

CHARLES: In pain? With a vision of loveliness such as yourself in front of me? Not a chance. You know, I’ve never really cared for blind dates as a rule, but just seeing you makes me want to rethink that attitude.

JENNIFER: Well...thank you, I guess. Do...do you want to come in for a drink first?

CHARLES: That would be wonderful.

[ He enters. Jennifer shuts the door (well, pretends to shut the door), unable to take her eyes off the hatchet. ]

JENNIFER: Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should call an ambulance.

CHARLES: Jennifer, I’ll only need an ambulance if you plan on breaking my heart.

[ He removes his jacket, revealing a bloody dress shirt underneath. ]

CHARLES: Where can I put this?

JENNIFER: Oh, um, I’ll get that.

[ She takes his jacket and, holding it away from her so as not to get blood stains on her clothes, drapes it over a chair. ]

CHARLES: May I sit down?

JENNIFER: Oh, sure.

[ He sits down on the couch. ]

CHARLES: I made dinner reservations for seven, so we’ve got half an hour to chat if you’d like.

JENNIFER: Okay. That’d be...nice.

CHARLES: You seem kind of distracted. Is this a bad time? Maybe we should do this another night.

JENNIFER: No, no, it’s just...well...

CHARLES: It’s the hatchet in my chest, isn’t it?

JENNIFER: Now that you mention it...

CHARLES: I’m sorry, I guess I assumed you’d be a little less superficial.

JENNIFER: Superficial? How does being distracted by a hatchet in your chest make me superficial?

CHARLES: I know, I know, I’m being silly. It’s just that ever since I was struck by the hatchet this morning, people have treated me differently, like there was something wrong with me. I think I make them uncomfortable.

JENNIFER: Well, I won’t lie to you. It makes me very nervous. I really think you should see a doctor.

CHARLES: That’s what everyone says! Good Lord, I think the medical community hires you people to throw a little business their way!

JENNIFER: A hatchet in your chest is serious. You could bleed to death!

CHARLES: But I’m not! Can’t you see that? The hatchet works as a seal, keeping most of the blood in. If people wouldn’t be so obsessive about the darn thing, it wouldn’t be more than a slight inconvenience. God, now I know what the sexual and racial minorities feel like.

JENNIFER: Okay, look, I apologize if I was rude about it.

CHARLES: Milton Berle used to dress up like a woman on live television, and people loved him. I get a lousy hatchet in my chest, and people treat me like some sort of aberration!

JENNIFER: Was I really treating you that badly?

CHARLES: Yes. I felt like less of a man.

JENNIFER: Gosh, I really am sorry. I try to be open-minded, but sometimes it’s difficult. I was raised by conservatives.

CHARLES: That’s okay.

JENNIFER: Are you sure? There really is no excuse for the way I behaved. I wouldn’t blame you if you just walked right out that door and out of my life for good.

CHARLES: Ah, but no exit from your life would be for good. It would be for bad.

JENNIFER: You’re sweet. I guess I just judged you by your external injuries and not by the man within. Can we start over?

CHARLES: I don’t know. Can you handle being seen in a elegant restaurant with a man who has a hatchet stuck in his chest?

JENNIFER: If it’s you, I know I can.

CHARLES: Let’s go then. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were the woman who would make me fall in love with being in love all over again.

JENNIFER: Oh, Charles...

[ They leave the apartment, arm-in-arm. ]

* * *

While Travis and Laura rehearsed the hatchet skit, I strained to come up with another idea.

“Yo, Travis,” I said, pulling out the “Our Never-Ending Love” poem I’d written during his graveyard date. “Remember this? What if you were to just stand on-stage and read it?”

“Hey, that’s a great idea.” He took the poem from me and handed it to Laura for her approval. “Okay, one more skit and we’ll have all the material we need.”

* * *

[ A kitchen. Heather is preparing dinner (miming it so we don’t have to set up an entire kitchen set, which would be pricey) as Jack strolls in. ]

JACK: Hello, my little love munchkin. What’s for dinner?

HEATHER: Just for you, my Jell-O Pudding Pop, we’re having lasagna. With my special chunky-style garlic bread.

JACK: Mmmmmmmmmmm... sounds scrumpdillyishus. Yummy yummy yummy in my tummy tummy tummy. I sure like this You-Cook- I-Do-Dishes deal.

HEATHER: Me too, just because I love cooking for my sweetie.

JACK: And I love doing dishes for my sweetie.

[ They rub noses. ]

JACK: Speaking of which, what did you use those knives for?

HEATHER: I used one to halve the garlic, and one to dice the tomatoes.

JACK: Ah, I see. And you felt it was necessary to dirty two knives to complete these tasks?

HEATHER: Honestly? I didn’t even think about it.

JACK: Interesting.

HEATHER: Interesting?

JACK: Interesting that you gave no consideration to your role in increasing the amount of work I have to do tonight.

HEATHER: It’s an extra knife to wash. It’ll take you five seconds.

JACK: How very quaint. Five seconds is precisely the amount of time I would have guessed it would take you to run the garlic knife under water so you could use it for the tomatoes.

HEATHER: Oh, so my five seconds aren’t as important as yours?

JACK: Let’s not be petty, dear.

HEATHER: I’m sorry. No one ever mentioned the Silverware Conservation Act of the Jack and Heather Cohabitation Agreement.

JACK: Let’s not be sarcastic, dear.

HEATHER: You can always cook, and I’ll do dishes.

JACK: Don’t be silly, I’d scorch the sorbet flambé.

HEATHER: Then stop complaining.

JACK: I’m sorry. Here, I’ll set the table.

[ He reaches into the cupboard and takes out some paper plates. ]

HEATHER: Sweetie, I’ve been working on this meal for almost an hour. Use the good plates.

JACK: You mean, the labor-intensive ones.

HEATHER: This was supposed to be a nice dinner.

JACK: What difference does it make? Is this a new recipe? Lasagna that sucks up the flavor of paper plates? Sponge lasagna?

HEATHER: Listen, we’re not using paper plates, and that’s all I have to say about that.

JACK: I was just trying to save water.

HEATHER: By killing trees? It takes years for a new tree to grow. Water just falls right out of the sky.

JACK: Yes, but if that oh-so-unimportant water didn’t fall from the sky, your precious little tree wouldn’t grow! It would shrivel up and die, and there’d be no paper plates for anyone!

HEATHER: Well, you’re ugly!

JACK: And your mother has awful table manners! Remember that time at the restaurant when she had to sneeze and she plugged her nose and sneezed into her straw and sprayed Pepsi everywhere? Do you remember that? God, what a nightmare!

HEATHER: Jack, let’s not fight any more.

JACK: Awww...

HEATHER: I love you.

JACK: I love you too, but I thought of a really good one. Let me get a final jab in, and we’ll end the fight.

HEATHER: Sweetie, if you want to use paper plates, that’s all right with me. I guess since you’re the one who has to do dishes, you should get to choose which ones we use.

JACK: Well, your butt is so big it leaves imprints on cast-iron chairs!

HEATHER: Jack! I have a petite heinie!

JACK: I know. But if I didn’t use that one now, I’d forget it.

HEATHER: You bastard! All you care about is the way I look!

JACK: Now, now, we both know that isn’t true. Remember when I said you had a pleasant voice? Huh? Remember? Remember that time? Huh? Huh? Remember? You remember, don’t you? I know you remember. So I’m not only concerned with your looks. Now I think you owe me an apology.

HEATHER: I’m sorry.

JACK: I want a better one.

HEATHER: I am sorry.

JACK: Thank you. I love you.

HEATHER: I love you too.

JACK: Whoa-mama! Look at the flames flying out of that pasta!

HEATHER: Oh no!

[ She throws open the oven and removes the burnt lasagna. ]

JACK: That shit is gonna burn right through the paper plates.

HEATHER: I worked so hard on this, and it’s ruined!

JACK: No, it looks fine. A little crispy and black and ignited, that’s all.

HEATHER: After all the hard work you put into dish duty, I can’t even get the cooking part right! I don’t deserve you!

JACK: Yes you do. I never told you this before, but I have a thing for primates in white leather. Anyone deserves me.

HEATHER: Sweetie, let’s go out to dinner. That way I won’t have to cook, you won’t have to do dishes, and we’ll both be happy.

JACK: Sounds great. So...whose turn is it to pay?

* * *

“This is good,” said Travis, after the script read-through was done. “But it might be too tough to stage. You’ve got a cupboard, an oven, lasagna...”

“You mime it,” I said. “You’re the actor, so act.”

OUT OF WHACK ACTIVITY PAGE!!!

Because I care so much about you, the reader, I hereby give you this mostly-blank page to use for whatever you want. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty

“Happy Times Come to a Screeching Halt”

I’m going to sort of skim through the next two days’ events, because as the all-powerful writer of this book, I can. I can also reuse the openings of chapters if I want.

I called my mom and told her the good news. I am, of course, referring to the success of Out of Whack and not the success of my love muscle. She sounded very pleased.

“Would you like your father and I to drive over and watch the show?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “You’ll especially enjoy the comedy skit about the lady with the tumor.”

“We should stay home, shouldn’t we?”

“Probably, yes.”

Travis and Laura rehearsed tirelessly. During those times when Laura wasn’t around, Travis and I ran through the lines repeatedly, until he finally had them down pat.

And...I gave myself a role. It occurred to me that performing “Our Never-Ending Love” would not be a difficult task, considering that all I’d have to do was read the poem off the paper. Travis resisted this idea with the argument that I could still stutter or forget how to read, but I won him over by offering to share exactly one detail about my night with Laura. Naturally I cheated and shared the detail that there had been a tacky painting in the hotel room, but I still got the part.

I went to a couple of classes as well. I didn’t pay attention, but I went.

Then came Friday night. The manager of Laugh Attack told us to be there by seven-thirty. We were there by six.

* * *

Hey everyone, break out them homemade banjos, ‘cause it’s time for the Bartholomew and Zeke show!

“Welcome, folks. I’m Bartholomew.”

“An’ I’m Zeke.”

“We’re here to do a show. As y’all may remember, but prob’ly don’t, last month we done visited ourselves an arts and crafts fair, where this purple-haired old lady went and tried to poke ol’ Zeke with a knittin’ needle. Haw-haw, waren’t that a hoot!”

“Waren’t no hoot.”

“Oh, now, don’t go gettin’ the grumpies, Zeke. Anyway, for this show we went on Friday night and done watched ourselves some comedians!”

“That we did, Bartholomew. You ain’t lyin’.”

“No, I ain’t. We were at Laugh Attack, which is a peculiar-type place that wants you to pay to get in, and then they go and say you gotta buy two drinks on top of that!”

“I bought myself a couple’a Cokes. They were good.”

“They sure were, Zeke. Anyway, there was these three people who called themselves Out of Whack. What they did was these short little plays, kinda like what you see on the TV sometimes, y’know, that one show where that one guy pretends to be a dog.”

“Aw, ain’t he a hoot an’ a half?”

“Yup. Well, I myself didn’t get all the jokes, but the people in the audience, they was laughin’ pretty decent-like. This one guy, he stood up and read us a poem that rhymed and ever’thing. You could tell he was a mite nervous, but he did jes’ fine.”

“Hey, Bartholomew, what’d y’think of that one with the guy and that hatchet he done had stickin’ outta his chest?”

“Now that was nasty. Some folks in the audience was laughin’, but I thought it was just plain distasteful.”

“Overall, though, I think Out of Whack did themselves a nice ol’ job. I wouldn’t offer ‘em my sixteen year-old daughter, but I might go see ‘em again, if’n the chores were done.”

“Yup. I gotta concur on that one. By the way, Zeke, I gotta tell you that your daughter looks a lot better now that she’s got that glass eye instead of just coverin’ the socket with duct tape.”

“Thank you, Bartholomew. Well, there was two other comedians, but since we’re doin’ this show on the same tape as the football game I recorded last week, I think we’re almost out of room.”

“Well, that’s too bad, ‘cause I was jes’ gettin’ ready to sing my marmalade song. It goes somethin’ like—”

[ Static. ]

* * *

Though we did rehearse a little, our two successful shows on Friday night convinced us that we could relax somewhat on Saturday. Laura relaxed by studying for the classes she’d been neglecting. Travis and I relaxed by sitting in our dorm room, staring at whatever wall struck our fancy at the moment.

Around 5:30 p.m., there was a knock at the door. Laura was supposed to come over so we could head off to the cafeteria together, so I figured it was her. But (plot twist ahead!) it wasn’t.

“Seth! How are you doing?” asked the large, muscular guy who I almost but didn’t quite recognize.

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to place him. One time I’d made small talk with somebody for twenty minutes before I admitted that I didn’t have a clue who they were, so I hoped he’d make it easy on me.

“You don’t remember me? Kirk Tonnew? You knocked me unconscious in high school!”

“Oh, Kirk! How’ve you been? You look a lot different!” I braced myself. “You’re not here for vengeance, are you?”

Kirk chuckled. “Nah. My days as a fat slob bully are over.” He made a very impressive muscle. “See that? This is the new Kirk Tonnew. No flab, and pure of heart.”

Travis came over and shook his hand. “I knocked you unconscious, too,” he said, helpfully.

“Do either of you remember John Syphen?” Kirk asked.

Neither of us did. I had a fuzzy mental image of somebody with braces that seemed to engulf his entire face, and I seemed to remember that he frequently got his fork caught in them, but I wasn’t sure I had the right person.

“He’s a student here. Well, he called me yesterday, just to chat, and said you two were in a comedy group. I was going to be in Trade Point anyway, so I figured I’d stop by and see if you two would let me buy you some dinner before the show. I know I wasn’t the nicest person in high school, and a lot of people are always going to remember me as a bully, but I figure the more memories I can change, the better I’ll feel.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But I already have plans. Maybe we should do something after the show.”

“That’d be fun. You interested in dinner, Travis?”

Travis thought about it for a moment. “Sure, why not? It’ll be more interesting than listening to Seth obsess over the one stupid poem he has to read tonight.”

“Great! My car’s out front.”

Travis turned to me. “I’ll meet you at Laugh Attack, seven o’clock sharp. Tell Laura it’s not necessary to get there three hours early.”

“Enjoy yourself,” I said. “Nice seeing you again, Kirk.”

Kirk nodded. “Good luck tonight, and I’ll definitely see you later.”

* * *

7:00. “Oh, sure, he tells me to be here at seven o’clock sharp.”

7:10. “If he’s out getting drunk with Kirk, I’m going to quit brushing the roaches off his face while he sleeps, I mean it.”

7:20. “Where the hell is he?”

7:30. “I can’t believe he would be so irresponsible! We have to go on in half an hour!”

7:40. “That shithead!”

“You have no idea where they went?” Laura asked.

“Just out to dinner, like I said. I don’t know where.” I was pacing around the Laugh Attack stage, getting more and more frantic. “What if they were in an accident? Or what if Kirk has become some kind of serial killer? What if he’s got this twisted evil that’s eating him up inside, and the only thing that can release it is to kill those who humiliated him back in high school?”

I had this sudden vision of Kirk standing in his bathroom, breathing deeply and wiping sweat from his forehead as he gazes at his reflection.

The Voices are about to torment him again. He can feel them writhing inside his head, stirring from their slumber. And when they speak, horrible things happen.

“Please... leave me alone this time...” he whispers. “I don’t want to hear you.”

Then one of the Voices speaks. It is the one he knows only as Cedric, recognizable by the deep, eerie tone.

“When variable a is equal to the sum of b and c squared plus 606.0842, then the coefficient of x + y - z must—”

Now Morgan speaks: “Continuing the list of those graduating Cum Laude...  Alan R. Connell, Early Childhood Education... Jennifer B. Conner, Speech Pathology and Audiology... Heidi S. Coogan, Human Resource Management...”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Kirk requests.

Next comes Bob, the worst of all: “Horses. I like them. Pigs. I like them. Turkeys. I like them. Goats, I like them, but not as much as turkeys. Flamingoes. I like them.”

Kirk staggers out of the bathroom, hands pressed tightly against his head. “Why must you torture me so?” he wails, falling to his knees.

Finally the Voices fade. Kirk stands there, breathing deeply for several minutes to regain his sense of well being, then sighs with relief.

He walks into the kitchenette and grabs his butcher knife. Now that the Voices are gone, he can go out and kill somebody in peace. He pauses to make himself a Rice Krispies Treats sandwich to curb those pre-homicide munchies, and smiles at the vision that has filled his mind for all these years...him clutching the knife tightly in his fist as he stands over the bodies of Travis and myself, our throats slit and our blood soaking into a tacky pastel-orange shag carpet.

Hey, it was possible.

“I’m sure Travis is fine,” said Laura. “We still have twenty minutes. He’s probably just trying to make us sweat.”

I shook my head. “He may be obnoxious a lot of the time, but he wouldn’t do something like that. Not when it’s important.”

“He could have lost track of time.”

“I doubt it, but it’s possible. We don’t know Kirk very well...maybe it’s his fault, maybe he got them lost or something. Maybe he found a pile of moldy fruit somebody threw away and wasn’t willing to leave it behind.”

Laura checked her watch for the third time that minute. “Okay, they’re going to let the audience in any moment now. If we cancel, it won’t be the end of the world, but we’ll never be invited back.”

“Just what we need. A huge blotch on careers that haven’t even started yet.”

“We can’t cancel, Seth. And we have to pretend that Travis isn’t going to show up. If he does, great, we’re saved, but until he walks through that door, we have to plan on you taking his place.”

Yes, that’s right. With two full days to rehearse, I didn’t have what it took to be a performer. With twenty minutes before showtime, I was going to have to learn.

“I can’t,” I insisted. “I don’t know the lines.”

“You wrote them! And you’ve gone over them with Travis dozens of times, and you’ve watched us rehearse them into the ground!”

“I know, but—”

“The lines won’t be a problem. Even if you can’t do them word-for-word, you can’t tell me you don’t have the basic gist.”

“Laura, I really don’t want to do this. If we go up there and do a terrible job, that’ll be worse than canceling!”

“We won’t do a terrible job.”

“We might! You can’t imagine how nervous I am right now!”

“You’ll be relaxed. I promise.”

“How can you promise?”

“Because I’m going to take you into the bathroom, massage your shoulders, and then give you the most incredible blowjob you can imagine. You’ll feel better.”

I believed her.

One most incredible blowjob I could imagine later, I was certainly feeling better. Not quite mellow, but a vast improvement over near-hysterics.

It was five minutes until showtime, and there was no sign of Travis. I hated at least 90% of the guts in his body.

But I was also incredibly worried about him.

Chapter Thirty-One

“A Surprising Success”

- or -

“Crash and Burn”

(I don’t want to give anything away.)

“They didn’t suck earlier this week or last night, and so everybody please welcome back...Out of Whack!”

The audience applauded. Fools.

Laura and I walked up on-stage. I’d like to say that I was feeling a renewed confidence, and that my lines seemed to be floating in the air in 72 point Times New Roman font right before my very eyes, and that the characters I was about to play seemed to be taking over my body like a demonic possession. I’d really, really like to say all that, mainly because I’d already blanked out once before and to have it happen again in the same book would result in a repetitious plot structure, which is one of those things the critics’ll slam you for.

But if I said that, kind reader, I’d be lying.

We got into our positions for the “Drawing With Daddy” skit, which could well have been the “Twisting Our Tongues Into New And Exciting Positions Then Yanking Them Out With Red-Hot Pliers And Feeding Them To Yaks” skit for as much as I remembered.

“Okay, Laura,” I said, calling her by her real name instead of Ashley like I was supposed to. “Do you want to draw Aunt Margaret’s hair?”

And with one screw-up I’d just thrown our first five lines down the drain. Let’s hear it for Seth Trexler! He’ll be here all week! Don’t forget to tip your servers!

Laura nodded and began to draw. “No, honey,” I said, “that’s Aunt Margaret’s tumor, not her hair.”

That got a chuckle from a couple of people and an “Eeeewww” from a heavyset woman in the front row with a face like a flat tire on an eighteen-wheeler (you’re just going to have to trust me on that one). I saw in Laura’s eyes that she knew she’d made rather a poor judgment call in allowing us to proceed with the show. There would be no sex tonight.

I threw a glance at the Master of Ceremonies. From the expression on his face, I could tell he was mentally rewriting the part in his introduction about us not sucking.

We were silent for a moment as Laura tried to figure out a way to ad-lib in character and I tried to figure out a way to remain conscious and upright.

“All right, stop that immediately!” a loud but slurred voice shouted.

Laura and I looked at the door, where Travis stood, pointing accusingly at the stage. “This man is an impostor!” he said, weaving his way through the tables, staggering just a bit. He was holding a small paper sack. “He may look as nerdy as a real comedian, but he’s a fraud! And I can prove it!”

He stepped up onto the stage and turned to address the audience. “If he were truly a member of the universe-famous comedy troupe Out of Whack, he’d have a doggy bag just like mine, which would contain...” Travis paused for dramatic effect as he pulled something out of the bag. “...fuzzy dice!” He turned back toward me. “So, you reprehensible pseudo-comic, do you have a doggy bag filled with fuzzy dice, or am I going to have to kick your ass?” Travis’ eyes weren’t quite focusing on me, and his enunciation left a lot to be desired, but he seemed sober enough to perform.

“Darn you!” I shouted, filled with so much relief that I found myself able to ad-lib, albeit in a rather lame fashion. “You found me out, but I’ll be back!” I stepped off-stage and stormed back to my table.

“I’m sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,” said Travis. “Serial comedian impersonation is a serious problem in our society, and I’m here to combat it wherever possible. Now, back to the show.” He knelt down next to the table. “Okay, Ashley, what do you want to draw? Do you want to draw our house?”

Laura said her lines without hesitation, and they proceeded with the skit as if nothing had happened. I motioned the waitress over to my table and asked for something with a shitload of alcohol, feeling as if the weight of the world had been removed from my jockstrap. Travis was going to get the chewing-out of his life after our performance was finished, but at least now I could relax.

A couple more lines into the skit, there was a long pause. A blank look came over Travis’ face, as if he’d forgotten his lines. Then his eyes rolled upward, his head lolled backward, and he dropped onto the stage with a loud thump.

The weight of the world went “Nyahh nyahh, fooled you!” and came crashing back down upon me.

Travis’ fall had earned a decent laugh from the audience, as such sophisticated humor often does. The only thing we had in our favor was that the audience was assuming this was all part of the act. But I wondered just how much more messing up we could do before they caught on.

I pushed back my chair and stood up, trying desperately to think up something hilarious to say. “So, he’s drunk again!” I announced. Nobody laughed, most likely because it wasn’t funny. I walked toward the stage, unable to stop wringing my sweating hands together in preparation for a really spectacular nervous breakdown. Laura was still staring at Travis in a state of shock.

“Is he still breathing?” I asked.

Laura poked at him. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Wonderful ad-lib there. We were not doing well.

I knelt down next to the table and tried to recall the lines to the skit. Then, failing that, I tried to recall the name of the skit. Then I tried to recall my own name. Oh, I was ever so screwed...

“Should we remove him from the stage?” Laura asked, gesturing toward Travis.

“Nah,” I said, figuring if things got really rough I could take out my frustration by kicking him several times in the head. Or maybe I could even get some laughs by stretching out his ears and tying them together.

“So, Daddy,” said Laura, “would you like to watch me draw?”

It was a pretty decent cue, and I could have kept the skit flowing with a large number of responses, including “Yes,” “Yeah,” “Uh-huh,” or even by nodding my head. But I remained frozen, sweat running down into my eyes, trying to recall lines that might as well have been NASA rocket schematics.

We were silent for a moment.

“I can draw lots of things,” said Laura.

More silence. I blinked several times, my eyes burning from the sweat. What was wrong with me? Why was this so difficult? What was the big deal about standing here on this stage...with people watching me...staring at me...analyzing my every move...

I could see by Laura’s pained expression that she was about to give it up as a hopeless cause. We’d cancel the show, never be invited to perform anywhere ever again, and go on to work for soulless corporations in unfulfilling, miserable jobs for the rest of our lives.

The silence continued.

Then was broken by a snore.

This wasn’t some delicate snore, either, this was one of Travis’ Good-God- Is-That-A-Human-Being- Or- Malfunctioning-Heavy-Machinery snores. And he said I snored! There were several hearty chuckles from the audience.

At this point Laura managed to help our situation a bit by turning toward the audience, rolling her eyes, and sighing loudly in frustration, giving the impression that all of this was planned. Travis continued to snore like a lion with tuberculosis, and the audience’s chuckles intensified. I relaxed...not a lot, but enough to keep my heart from exploding all over the place.

We let him snore a couple more times then Laura reached over and rolled him onto his side, ceasing the cacophony. “Now,” she said with another sigh, “shall we begin?”

“Yeah,” I said, even though the words were still nowhere to be found.

Drawing... drawing... something about a tumor.. Aunt something... drawing... I’m Daddy... shit shit shit shit shit!

It just wasn’t going to work. I was too nervous to ad-lib anything worthwhile, and in my frantic state I absolutely was not going to remember the lines. All I wanted to do was stand up and sprint off the stage. I’d deal with the fallout in the morning.

What the hell had Laura been thinking, dragging me up on stage like this? We should have canceled before things got out of hand. Trying to perform without Travis had been flat-out stupid. And now we were totally, utterly, irrevocably—

No, wait a second...

I had another reprieve, even better than Travis snoring! I had the “Our Never-Ending Love” poem in my pocket! That would give me another couple of minutes to get calmed down and perhaps into a state of mind sufficient to fake my way through the other skits.

“Actually,” I said, standing up, “I’m going to read a poem.” I took the paper out of my pocket and unfolded it as I stood in front of the microphone. “Our love is a love that will never end,” I read, “for I love you from the depths of my soul...”

“Who cares?” asked a loud voice from the back of the room.

It was Kirk. I hadn’t even seen him come in. He was leaning back in his chair, a smug look on his face. Things then became very clear—this whole damn thing was set up by the bully I’d humiliated in high school! He’d probably spiked Travis’ drink, and then...okay, maybe not, maybe I was just being paranoid. He seemed pretty sloshed as well.

“Our love is a love that will never end,” I read, starting over. “For I—”

“Louder! We can’t hear you!” Kirk called out.

I really wished that Laugh Attack had a bouncer. I glanced around for the Master of Ceremonies so I could gesture that I wanted Kirk removed, but now he was nowhere in sight. That’s probably why Laura and I hadn’t been removed ourselves.

“For I love you from the depths of my soul. On a moonlit beach–”

“I didn’t come here for poetry! I want jokes! Bring on the next act!”

I stopped reading and stared at him. Half the people in the audience had turned around in their seats to see who was causing all the commotion, some of them muttering angrily about drunks who think that they’re being funny when they heckle. Any calmness I’d been starting to feel had completely vanished.

“Where’s the giant cane to scoop them off stage?” Kirk demanded, pounding his fist on the table. “Get rid of them and let’s see some people with real talent!”

“Attention, attention,” said Laura, making her voice sound like a public address system. “To the asshole in the back row, your car is illegally parked. Please remove it before it gets towed.”

“Hey, baby, take it off!” Kirk shouted. “Let’s get some tittage going!” He began making hooting noises.

All of a sudden, the panic I’d been feeling was replaced by anger. In fact, I was about as pissed as I’ve ever been in my life. It wasn’t just some macho impulse to defend my girlfriend (though I was always happy to be feeling a macho impulse) it was all the frustration of this evening’s disaster finally taken too far. So, Kirk thought he’d get revenge for high school by wrecking our show? Forget it! That bully wasn’t going to win!

“Excuse me, sir,” I said to him. “Could you stand up for a moment?”

Kirk shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“No, no, it’s important. Stand up and let everyone see you. Let them all take a good look.”

“That’s okay.”

“What are you trying to prove? That hourly masturbation makes your legs weak? Come on, stand up!”

Kirk just gave me a lopsided grin.

I shrugged. “Okay, I understand. You don’t want to jostle those hemorrhoids any more than necessary. I guess that explains things—if you’ve got a pain in the ass, you act like one.”

“The only pain in the ass I see is you,” said Kirk, pointing at me.

“Is that semen under your fingernail?” I asked, my voice filled with horror. “Good God, man, tug on it all you want, but clean up afterward! Personal hygiene is nothing to be taken lightly! I hope you didn’t touch anybody on the way in!”

Okay, so I wasn’t exactly filling the air with a sparkling array of clever wit, but the audience was laughing and they were firmly on my side.

Kirk pushed back his chair. “How would you like me to come up there?”

“No way! I’m not going to tug on it for you! That’s what your cousins are for. I washed my hands before the show.”

“Real funny,” said Kirk, standing up.

“Please, sir, I can assure you that there’s not a man, woman, or animal in this room who wants to bear witness to your genitalia in its wilted glory. Then again, maybe I should let the audience speak for itself. Anyone who doesn’t want to see this man’s horrific shriveled willy, make some noise!”

The audience cheered and applauded loudly. Kirk just stood there, face red, looking as if he wanted to charge at the stage bellowing in fury. I really felt kind of bad for him, but he had brought this on himself.

When the audience response died down, I said “Okay, now to let the opposition speak. Anybody who does want to see it and brought their magnifying glasses, make some noise!”

A group of women at one of the front tables began to clap and hoot. “Let’s hear it for Kirk’s cousins!” I announced, gesturing toward them. The audience began to applaud some more.

Kirk clenched his fists, looked around the room, and walked out into the lobby without a word.

“I apologize for the all the hemorrhoid, masturbation, and semen references,” I told the audience. “Now back to the more delicate, heartfelt portion of our show.”

I knelt back down at the table, so pumped with adrenaline that I probably should have gone around saving infants trapped underneath cars. “So, Ashley, what do you want to draw? Do you want to draw our house?”

The lines were there. My energy level was there. And, if you can forgive my raging ego for a moment, I’d like to point out that the rest of the show was fantastic. The best response we’d ever gotten.

Sure, it took being seriously pissed off by a loser ex-high school bully to do so, but from then on my paralyzing stage fright was a thing of the past.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“A Bit of Revenge, A Bit of Business”

Travis’ eyes opened in mid-snore. He sat up, looked around our dorm room as if he’d been deposited there by particularly thoughtless aliens, and rubbed his forehead as if suffering from an atrocious hangover. I was seated at my desk, staring at him with my lips pressed tightly together in anger.

“What happened?” he groaned.

I said nothing, but continued to stare at him.

“Really, what happened?”

“You owe me a hundred bucks,” I told him, turning around and returning to my textbook.

Travis started to get out of bed, found that his head wasn’t quite ready for the journey, and flopped back down. “Why do I owe you a hundred bucks?”

“Bail.”

“Bail?”

“Yes, Travis, bail. When one is found naked on a public street and urinates on the leg of the officer who is attempting to arrest him, that person generally is not released from the police station until his stupid best friend provides the bail.”

“I don’t remember pissing on a cop!”

“Do you remember streaking the student union?”

“No!”

“I’m sure the Photography Club will be happy to give you souvenirs, then. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t remember anything! I know I came into the comedy club, and I tried to cover for being late...and I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Nudity is what happened after that. Gobs and gobs of completely uncalled-for nudity. Oh, yeah, your parents are on their way and should be here in an hour or so.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

The door opened and Laura entered, a pair of candy bars in her hand. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said, looking at Travis. “Has Seth told you your court date yet?”

“You guys, this isn’t funny,” said Travis. “My head hurts and I can’t feel my tongue and I’m not in the mood for any joking around. So what happened?”

“Okay, okay, we were making that all up,” I told him. “After you passed out on stage last night, you didn’t do anything out of the ordinary except sleep with Rex.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

I picked up the phone and dialed Rex’s number. “That reminds me, he wanted to apologize to you after you woke up.”

“You guys are full of it,” Travis said.

“Yeah, well, you were full of Rex.” I spoke into the phone. “Hey, Rex, he’s up. Come on over.”

“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” said Laura. “You woke up while we were carrying you home and got away from us. We didn’t know that you’d seduced Rex until it was too late. Does it hurt to sit down? Would you like a pillow?”

“No, it does not hurt to sit down. Now tell me what happened with our show!”

“I forget,” Laura said.

“I forget, too,” I added.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Laura and I said simultaneously, in a singsong voice.

Rex came inside, shutting the door behind him. His head was hung and he looked sheepish. “Hello, everyone,” he said.

“Would you like us to leave?” I asked.

“No, no, that’s all right. You both know what I did.” He turned to Travis. “Last night when you burst into my room and said you wanted me to teach you all about being gay, I let my libido get the best of me. I knew you were drunk, and when you removed your pants I should have thrown you out into the hallway. But...I’d been drinking a bit myself, and I have to admit that I find you very attractive, and once you bent over my bed and said ‘Give it to me, Resident Advisor, give it to me!’ I just couldn’t control myself.”

“I didn’t do that!” Travis insisted. “I’d never be that drunk!”

“If it’s any consolation, I was too excited and it ended quickly. Your shirt is in the dryer right now, by the way.”

“You’re making this all up,” said Travis, his voice quivering.

“I can assure you that it will never happen again,” said Rex. “I was weak, and you were curious about homosexuality, as well you should be. I just can’t tell you how bad I felt after Seth and Laura knocked on my door asking if I’d seen you, knowing just how much of you I’d really seen. I hope we can still be friends. What do you think?”

Travis looked physically ill. “I think I need some aspirin,” he moaned. “And a laxative.”

“I have to get going,” said Rex, heading for the door, “but if you want to talk some more later, by all means come on over. I may have unlocked a side of you that you’ve wanted unlocked for a long, long time.”

He gave a light wave to Travis, then left. Travis stared at the door for a long moment, then turned to me. “Seth, I need you to be honest with me. Did I sleep with Rex last night?”

“Sleep? No.”

“Did I have sex with him?”

Laura and I looked at each other, then at him. “Nah.”

“Oh, thank God.” Travis appeared about ready to weep. “I can’t believe Rex agreed to go along with a joke like that.”

“It was his idea,” I said. “He suggested it while we were carrying you down the hall last night. I was as shocked as you are. Maybe we should make him a member of Out of Whack.”

Travis’ eyes widened. “What happened with that?”

“Seth was incredible!” said Laura, then she excitedly related the details of last night’s adventure. Feel free to read the last chapter again if you want the full experience of what she told Travis.

After Laura finished with her story, Travis shared his own tale of woe. Kirk had taken him to a bar and bought him some drink called The Drano Alternative. One shot of that and Travis’ sense of wise judgment went straight to hell, causing him to enter the wonderful world of astounding intoxication. The rest of the evening was pretty much a blur and a blank.

He was genuinely distraught over what he’d done, and Laura and I had already agreed to let the whole thing slide, though we reserved the right to bring it up whenever Travis annoyed us even the slightest little bit. So, Out of Whack was still active, and ready to kick some comedic butt!

* * *

Over the next couple of months, we were able to turn our success at Laugh Attack into several more gigs at small comedy clubs within a few hours’ drive from Sharpview. We certainly didn’t make much money, barely enough to pay for gas and bottled water to pour into the radiator after Laura’s car overheated, but we were gaining a bit of exposure and having a great time.

Now, to answer the question that I’m sure is on your mind: No, I’ve never been so hungry that I’ve eaten the Pez dispenser along with the Pez. And no, I’ve also never purposely sprayed shellac on my teeth to prevent tooth decay. I really don’t know why you wonder about these things.

Another question that may have been in your mind, if you’re interested in how this narrative turns out and not just thinking “END, BOOK, END! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IN HEAVEN PLEASE END!” is whether or not I was given more of an acting role.

Yep, sure was.

I now had two roles, excluding the club wielder and the reading of the poem. I was a man obsessed with old Orville Redenbacher commercials in a new skit I called “Comedy Hell,” and a man obsessed with yolk in a new skit I called “The Weirdo Obsessed With Yolk, Jeez, What a Psycho.” They were two very different types of obsessions, so it wasn’t like I had a narrow acting range.

And though I certainly suffered from a fair degree of stage fright, whatever had happened on stage the night with Kirk had broken through my mental blank-outs. Maybe I wasn’t as talented as Travis and Laura, but dammit, I could perform!

Laura and I continued to be as lovey-dovey as can be. I never got the opportunity to kick Travis out of the room for the night, since Laura refused to make love in our dorm for health reasons (she mentioned once that she felt uncomfortable walking into the place without an oxygen mask), but we found various other locations for our passionate activities.

We didn’t select ugly dresses for her bridesmaids and we didn’t name our future children, but things were as serious as they could be without Laura actually speaking the words “I love you.” I hadn’t said “I love you” again since the night of our first kiss. I don’t know why. I guess I was just waiting for her to say them for the first time before I said them for the second time so we could say them time and time again.

Christmas vacation was absolutely miserable. Three weeks without Laura! I was in hell! I hate to admit this, but not having her around really turned me into a grouch. My parents were getting sick of me after the second day. One night, as I lay in bed thinking of Laura, I even yelled at some carolers who were outside singing “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

“Will you shut up?” I shouted as I threw open my window. “I’m trying to sleep in heavenly peace too!”

“Okay, boys, we’ve got a Scrooge!” announced one of the carolers. “Let’s egg him!”

I barely got my window closed before the hailstorm of rotten eggs pelted against it. That never would have happened if Laura had been around.

Travis and I returned to school, noting that Tanglewood Hall seemed to have sunk a bit into the ground. When I finally saw Laura again, our lips might as well have been superglued together. I take that back—superglued together implies a lack of motion that certainly didn’t exist.

About a month into the new semester, we were doing a show at a club known as Har-Har’s Joke Palace, a place that was just as lame as its name implied. The M.C. wore a clown nose and Bozo wig, and honked this stupid squeaky horn about eighty times during his introductions. The headliner was some guy who’d appeared on a bunch of talk shows I’d never heard of and appeared to be in serious gastrointestinal distress during his entire routine. Both of our Friday night shows had gone over well, and our first Saturday night show was also moving along smoothly.

As I sat in the back, I noticed a man seated right up front at a table by himself, sipping a soft drink as he watched the show. He was a small guy, probably in his late forties, mostly bald, with a tiny black mustache. He watched intently, concentrating on every word. Every once in a while when the audience would laugh he’d glance around the room, as if unsure of the source of their merriment. He did this through our entire show, not once so much as cracking a smile.

After we were finished and the M.C. began to honk his way through introducing the headliner, the man stood up and walked back over to us. “May I join you?” he inquired, adjusting his wire-framed glasses.

We all nodded, and the man pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Martin Madden. You did well tonight—the audience seemed to enjoy it very much.”

“Thanks,” said Laura. “What did you think?”

Martin bit his lower lip. “I enjoyed the audience’s laughter. But that’s not important. What is important is that you appear to be three very talented individuals who should be playing in much more desirable venues.”

“What could be more desirable than Har-Har’s Joke Palace?” asked Travis.

Martin frowned. “I would think a large number of places would be more desirable. For example, I can think of several clubs in the Ohio area alone that hold higher standards of—”

“I was kidding,” said Travis.

“Oh,” said Martin. “That’s good. Audiences enjoy it when a comedian kids around with them. Anyway, am I correct in assuming that you three are not currently under agency representation?”

“That’s right.” (This is such a minor bit of dialogue that it really doesn’t matter who said it.)

“Perhaps you would consider allowing me to represent you.” He took out three business cards and handed them to each of us. They were certainly nicely produced little cards, and I noticed that he had a Los Angeles address.

“I have a question,” I said. “Why us? I’m just wondering because I watched you watch our show, and it didn’t look like you found anything even the least bit funny.”

“I have to admit, my humorous tastes lean more toward traditional joke telling.” His mouth turned upward into something that six out of any given twelve jurors might consider a smile. “My brother-in-law shared one with me just last month...how many feminists does it take to change a light bulb?”

“How many?” Laura asked.

“Six.” Now we were even closer to a legally binding smile.

There was a long pause.

“And...?” Travis asked.

“And?”

“And why does it take six?”

“Oh, I think my brother-in-law said something about that, but I don’t recall his explanation. But you have to admit, the very concept of it requiring six feminists to change one light bulb is certainly amusing.”

There was another long pause.

“We’ve got nineteen or twenty possible agents lined up,” said Travis, “but we’ll definitely keep you in mind.”

“No, wait,” said Martin. “I realize that I’m not the funniest person in the world, or even in the top ten. I’ll be completely honest...comedy baffles me. I don’t get it. I’ve read books and scholarly articles and even conducted interviews, but humor still eludes me. However, I can see its effect on others, and Out of Whack produces that effect to a significant degree. And I’d like to be part of it. I want to represent you. I want to make Out of Whack as big as it possibly can be.”

Travis, Laura and I all exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I don’t think so,” said Laura, finally. “You seem nice, but not what we’re looking for.”

“Oh, but I’m not nice!” Martin insisted. “I mean, I’d be nice to you, of course, but when I’m trying to promote a client I can be a real...” he trailed off, searching for the right word, “...bastard. I’d work hard for you.”

“Who else do you represent?” Laura asked.

“I represent three Los Angeles comedians. They’re all at an early stage in their careers, just like you, but I’ve gotten them work.”

“What kind of work?” Travis asked. “But before you answer, I need to warn you that I’m about to make a kidding statement, so brace yourself. Was it work washing dishes?”

Martin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, it was actual work. Several stand-up engagements, and one of them even got a bit role in the situation comedy Otto’s World. He played a surly waiter. I understand that people considered his performance very funny.” He took a deep breath. “I realize those aren’t especially impressive credits, but these things happen slowly. You wouldn’t have to worry about being trapped with me, since our initial contract will allow you to break off the relationship any time you want. You have nothing to lose.”

“We’ll have to discuss this,” said Laura. “But we’ll give you a call as soon as possible.”

Martin took out a pen and picked up the business card Travis had set on the table. “Here, let me write down the number where I’m staying. I’m just here for a friend’s wedding, but I’ll be returning to California the day after tomorrow. I would like to stick around and videotape your next performance, if that’s acceptable with you.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” said one of us (once again, it doesn’t matter whom), and the other two nodded our agreement. Martin gave the card back to Travis, then returned to his seat at the front of the room, eliciting a very rude joke from the headliner that Martin didn’t comprehend.

“What do you think?” asked Laura, after he’d left.

“I think an agent is a great idea,” said Travis. “But not him.”

“There wouldn’t be any risk, though,” I said. “Remember, we can get out of the contract any time we want.”

“Regardless, I think we’ll just be wasting our time with him. It’s great that we have an offer to sign with an agent, but we don’t want to rush into anything.”

“I think Travis is right,” said Laura. “He just didn’t seem like what we need.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I think that we should start seriously looking for somebody to represent us. We can only go so far calling up comedy clubs ourselves begging for time on stage.”

“Absolutely,” said Laura.

We did a nice job on our second show, and Martin stood in the back, videotaping everything. I was going to tell him good-bye after we were done, but he was already gone.

* * *

Three days later, while I sat alone in my dorm room one evening not studying for classes, I noticed Martin’s card resting on one of the few non-sticky parts of my desk. I felt bad that I’d forgotten to call him back, so I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Martin Madden,” he said.

“Martin? Hi, this is Seth Trexler, from Out of Whack. We talked to you on Saturday.”

“Right. I’ve been hoping you’d call. How are you?”

“Pretty good. Look, I just wanted to let you know that we considered your offer, and have to decline. But we do appreciate your interest.”

“That’s very disappointing,” said Martin after a short pause. “I’m going to have to reject the offer here, then.”

“What offer?”

“I’ve been sending the tape around, and the manager of The Comedy Convention absolutely loved it. He found so much humor in it that he would be interested in having you three do a stint performing your skits in between each of the stand-up acts.”

“How long of a stint?” I asked.

“That would depend on how well his audience responded to you. I could get a three-week contract, which would then be extended accordingly. Plus the Bob Staples TV show offered to do a preliminary interview to see if they wanted you as a guest. It’s a local station, but the ratings are good.”

“We changed our minds,” I told him.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Travis and Laura aren’t here, but they’ve changed their minds, too. Where do we sign?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Worshipping the Cud-Chewing Cow of Destiny”

(I asked Travis what he thought I should call this one)

“AAAAAHHHHH!” said Travis.

“That’s right,” I said, with a huge smile. “We’d be staying in a pretty pathetic hotel for the first three weeks, but if this became a long-term job, who knows?”

“AAAAAHHHHH!” Travis repeated. “I can’t believe the guy came through! This is great!”

Laura, who was seated in the corner of our dorm room on a beanbag we’d swiped from the lounge, did not look nearly as excited. “What about school?” she asked.

“Well...we’d leave,” I admitted. My parents weren’t exactly going to approve, considering that they were still recovering from their near dual-coronaries upon receiving my report card. My grades last semester hadn’t exactly set the world on fire—it’s more accurate to say that they extinguished it.

“Seth, you know how much Out of Whack means to me, but I can’t just drop out of school and fly down to California. Can’t we at least reschedule this for summer break?”

“I don’t...I mean, maybe, but...I don’t know.” I rattled my head to clear my thoughts. “No, we can’t. That’s four months away, and the job probably won’t still be there.”

“You’re on academic probation as it is. If you take off like this they won’t let you back in. Suppose this job only lasts the three weeks? What then?”

“Then we’d come back. All we’d have to do is make arrangements with our professors before we left.”

“What, make arrangements for a three-week absence? That’s a fifth of the semester! Even if I was able to make up the work, most of my classes have attendance requirements, pop quizzes, lectures that cover material not in the book. I can’t miss them.”

“What do you mean you can’t miss them? We have work in L.A.! We probably get to be on television! You’re going to pass this up for some stupid classes?”

Travis cracked his knuckles uncomfortably. “This is a professional spat and not a lover’s spat, so I can’t just excuse myself, can I?”

I turned to him. “Travis, do you think we should go?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Two to one, Laura’s outvoted.”

“This isn’t a voting situation,” said Laura. “Neither of you seem to think that college is a big deal, but it is to me. I worked hard to get here. I have two and a half years invested in this place. And I have scholarships that I have to pay back if I get incompletes in my classes, which would also screw up my chances of getting money for future semesters!”

I walked over and plopped down on my bed. “Laura, this could be our big chance.”

“Could be. Those are the operative words. You’re basically asking me to throw away my college degree for this, and ‘this’ amounts to a short-term contract at a mid-level comedy club and maybe getting on a small morning talk show. It’s not anywhere near enough.”

I resisted the urge to rip my pillow to shreds and devour them in frustration. “You know, it would have been nice to tell us a few months ago that you weren’t in this for the long haul.”

“Oh, I’m not in it for the long haul just because I won’t drop everything, trash my education, and take off to California? What happens if we fly down there, only get three weeks of work out of it, and then nothing else comes up? I get myself some job packing groceries?”

“What makes you think nothing will happen? We’re good. All we need is some decent exposure!”

Laura got up, walked over, and sat down on the bed next to me. She placed her hand on my leg. “Seth, sweetheart, lots of people are good. There are people out there who have just as much talent, who work harder, and have been trying for years to make it big without success. If you think we’re going to do a couple of shows and suddenly become huge stars, you’re being incredibly naive.”

“I don’t think we’re going to suddenly become huge stars,” I said. “But it’s definitely a step up from what we’re doing now, and we have to keep taking those steps. We’ll never make it hanging around Ohio playing the kinds of clubs we have been. We need to take this opportunity and turn it into something much bigger. It’s a risk, yeah, but it’s a risk we need to take.”

“I can’t.”

“Then we’re screwed,” I said. “We may as well have never started this whole thing to begin with, if we’re not going to take it any further than what we already have.”

“I completely agree that we should take it further. Seth, I want Out of Whack to be a huge success. I just don’t think that what Los Angeles has to offer us right now is worth what we’d be giving up. We certainly won’t be able to support ourselves on what The Comedy Convention is willing to pay, so we’d be stuck working crappy day jobs while we waited for our big break.”

“So we work crappy day jobs. What’s wrong with that?”

“We may never get that big break!”

I took a deep breath. “You’re the one who got Out of Whack jump-started again. If you had no intention of following through, you should have left it alone.”

“If I had no intention of following through, I wouldn’t have put so much work into the troupe! I wouldn’t have given up almost all of my spare time, busted my ass for it! This wasn’t some diversion for me, this was something important! But I’m not going to risk wasting everything else I’ve worked for just to take it one step further. Not yet.”

Travis cleared his throat. “I’m sensing some negative energy here. We don’t have to give an answer right away, so why doesn’t everyone just sleep on it and we’ll discuss it in the morning. Okay?”

“I have classes all morning,” said Laura.

“Then we’ll discuss it at lunch,” I said. “Your professors do allow you an opportunity for lunch, right?”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Okay, seriously, we need to call a time out,” Travis said. “I’ll walk Laura back to her dorm and we can all meet tomorrow when we’ve had time to find our happy places.”

“I can walk her back,” I said.

“I’m sure you can, Seth, but you’re not going to. I already annoy her as much as any human being possibly can, so we don’t have to worry about damaging our relationship any further.”

While they were gone I alternated between dark, unhealthy thoughts and fantasies about winning the very first Academy Award given to somebody whose performance in a comedy skit was so good that the fact that they’d never actually been in a movie was deemed irrelevant. I turned on my computer and tried to write, but the words refused to come.

Twenty minutes later, Travis returned to the room. I continued staring at my computer screen.

“What’re you writing?” he asked.

“A skit.”

“Oh.”

I continued to not type.

“Is it a good one?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

I finally managed to press a few keys.

“What’d you type?”

“The word ‘there.’”

“Is it funny in context?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

I shut off the monitor. “So what did you two talk about?”

“Nothing. She didn’t say a word the whole way there. She’s definitely upset.”

“Yeah, well, I’m upset, too.”

“I can definitely see her point,” said Travis. “It’s a huge step. You and me, we’re slackers, we’ve had it pretty easy. Our parents will scream at us for dropping out of college, yeah, but we won’t be stuck in the same financial situation that Laura will. She has more to lose.”

“No, we all have the same amount to lose,” I said. “We’d all be taking the same risk.”

Travis shook his head. “That’s not true, and you’d realize it immediately if you were in a better frame of mind. We’re here in college because it’s something to do. You graduate high school, you go to college, you get a job. But Laura—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “She’s here because it’s important to her. It always has been. Really, I understand everything she said. It’s just so frustrating. This could be our big chance!”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I just always assumed that if something like this happened, we’d all leap at the opportunity. If I’d put any serious thought into it, I’d have realized that I was wrong.”

“So what do you think we should do?”

“What can we do? We can’t force her at gunpoint!” At least I didn’t think we...no, no, we definitely couldn’t do that.

“So the plan is to keep working clubs around the area. Wait a year and a half for Laura to graduate, then tour during weekends and her time off. Or else wait for an opportunity too big for her to resist.”

“Something like that.”

“You know,” said Travis, “Out of Whack wasn’t always a three-person operation.”

My stomach started to clench up. “And...?”

“And, I need you to answer a question for me, and be completely honest. Do you think you could handle a much larger acting role?”

“Yeah...yeah, I do.”

“So what would happen if we went to Los Angeles without her?”

Now I was getting actual stomach pains. “We can’t do that. We’re a team.”

“Yes, we are. But we’re a team with one member who isn’t willing to go all the way. Like I said, I understand her reasoning perfectly, but if Out of Whack is just going to be a backup plan for her, we’ll never make it. I don’t want this to be a hobby. I want it to be what we do.”

“I don’t want to leave her behind,” I said in a small voice.

“I don’t either. And I don’t want to burn any bridges. There would always be a place for her, any time she wants to come. If she wants to fly down for a weekend, we’d put her in the show, no problem. But, Seth, I honestly don’t think we’ll ever make it if she’s not willing to make this troupe the number one thing in her life. And I don’t want to pass up this chance.”

“There’ll be other chances.”

“And will she turn her back on those, too?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I want to do this, but I’m going to leave the final decision up to you. It’s your choice.”

“Why mine?”

“Because you’re the one who’s in love with her.”

I was now facing the same choice I’d been so angry with her for throwing at me before: Laura or Out of Whack? But it was much harder now, because both of them had become more important to me than I’d believed possible.

I loved Laura, and the real question was, would there even be an Out of Whack without her?

But then again, would I resent her for holding us back? I already did, a little. Was she going to cost us our chance at success?

And, as much as I loved her, she was my first girlfriend. Was this really it, or did I just not have anything to compare it to? Would I be wasting this opportunity for something that might have been a college fling?

No. Laura was no fling.

What was I supposed to do? Where the hell was my Multi-Purpose, Model 83-Q Correct Decision Making Helmet?

“You don’t have to decide now,” said Travis.

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ve decided. We should go to Los Angeles without her.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Goodbyes”

Laura and I sat in the student union, sharing what could technically be referred to as pizza-flavored grease. Well, it wasn’t quite like sharing, as Laura was the only one doing any actual eating since my stomach still hadn’t stopped hurting. We’d barely spoken, and in fact I was finding it difficult to even look her in the eye.

“When is Travis supposed to meet us?” she asked.

“He isn’t,” I said. “I wanted to do this by myself.”

Laura set down her slice of grease. “Do what?”

“Tell you that we’re going.”

She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I see.”

“We’re not breaking up the troupe, just separating it temporarily. Travis and I are going on ahead, and you’ll join us later...if you want to.”

Laura bit her lip, and her eyes shone with tears. “Okay.”

“This is too important to pass up,” I insisted. “I’d give anything for you to come with us, but I know that you can’t.”

“No, I can’t,” she said in a voice so soft I could barely hear her. “And I wish you both the best.”

Suddenly I felt like my stomach was going to rip itself in half. “The decision isn’t absolutely final, we can still—”

“No, Seth, don’t do this. You’ve made a choice. I respect it. I wish I could be like you two, ready to pack up on a second’s notice, but I can’t. When are you leaving?”

I shrugged. “End of the week sometime.”

“I want you to do the best you possibly can.” Tears were flowing freely now, but she didn’t try to wipe them away. “I want you to work hard, and I want you to promise me that you’ll never give up. Because this is the most important thing in your life, and it should be.”

“This isn’t good-bye,” I said. “We’ll still see each other.”

“We might.”

“No, we will. Definitely.”

“Okay, definitely,” said Laura without conviction. “Seth, I just want you to know that I lov...that I want you to be happy.” She leaned over the table and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. “Do you need me to drive you to the airport?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Let me know when your plane is leaving and all that.” She closed the lid to the pizza box and brushed off her shirt. “I need to get going.”

“Where do you have to go? I thought we could spend the afternoon together.”

“I would, but I have to do stuff. I need to go. Call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

She got up, put on her jacket, and started to say something. Then she changed her mind and walked away, shoulders quivering as she cried.

* * *

My parents were not especially supportive, in that they threatened to disown me and all. Travis and I put our plane tickets on credit cards we’d obtained at the beginning of the year, with Dumb College Student interest rates that made you want to cringe. We rented a storage unit and put most of our stuff there, noting that the unit looked cozier than our actual dorm room. We made arrangements to take incompletes in all of our classes, which was better than dropping out altogether in case we had to return in disgrace.

And then, Saturday evening, Laura drove us to the airport. I’d seen her quite a bit during the week, but our conversations were always strained and repetitive; me insisting that everything would be fine, and her halfheartedly agreeing.

We mostly sat in silence, waiting for our flight to be called. After the announcement was made, Laura and Travis exchanged hugs. Then she put her arms around me, and with a sniffle said “I love you.”

My throat felt like it was closing off, and I couldn’t find my voice to reply. I gave her a kiss, then another, then forced myself to pull away from her.

“Call me when you get there,” she said.

I nodded. And then Travis and I walked through the gate and toward our new life.

* * *

“This is your captain speaking. I just wanted to let you know that WE’RE ALL OUT OF FUEL! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE! No, just kidding. Now, if you look to your left you can see that ONE OF THE ENGINES EXPLODED! No, just pulling your leg. Actually, today we’ll be cruising at an altitude of OH MY GOD THE BOTTOM JUST DROPPED OUT OF THE COCKPIT! Ha-ha, no, just adding a bit of merriment to your lives. Enjoy the flight.”

I finished scribbling my ideas for the “Sadistic Airline Pilot” skit in my notebook (I was going to work grocery bag-sized barf bags into it somehow) and closed the cover. Travis was asleep, which I’ve never been able to do on planes because of this odd inability to doze in a vertical position.

I wondered if I’d made the right decision.

I’d find out soon enough.

* * *

I’d never been to California before, and if I hadn’t been in such a gloomy mood I would have at least been dancing around with joy at the lack of snow. Travis sat in the passenger seat of Martin’s car, while I sat squished in the back with all of our luggage. It was nearly ten o’clock.

“So, you were never able to talk Laura into coming with you, huh?” he asked. “That’s a pity, but we should be able to work around it. I’ll take you two to your hotel, and tomorrow afternoon we’ll head over to The Comedy Convention.”

“What are some good clubs near our hotel?” asked Travis.

“Hmmmm...you can’t get into most of them because you’re not twenty-one, but since you’re at least eighteen you can try out Satan Nick’s. There’s also the Roach Lounge, Scrape, and Big Purple Men From Venus, though you may want to skip that one if you don’t have proper headgear...”

“Satan Nick’s sounds okay,” I said. Actually I was tired and just wanted to go to bed, but I also didn’t want to poop any parties this soon into my L.A. experience.

We dumped our bags off at the hotel, said goodnight to Martin, and walked the four blocks to Satan Nick’s. Inside, the place was decorated with a charming Christmas in Hell motif. The centerpiece was a plastic Santa and his sleigh, with Rudolph in the lead, his eyes glowing the same demonic red as his nose. A large Christmas tree was decorated with pitchforks, miniature goats, and an inverted crucifix or two. A chorus of mechanical children sang Christmas carols in reverse. Against the far wall some stockings were hung by the chimney with care, though if you looked closely there were some holograms of souls in torment burning in the fireplace.

I sat down at the table next to Travis, who was giving me an annoyed look as he sipped his iced tea. You weren’t supposed to demonstrate your tourist status by walking around gawking at everything, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to drink in every detail of Christmas in Hell. It was my nature.

The waitress, who was dressed as an elf with horns, walked over to the table. I ordered a Dr. Pepper, light ice, with two straws in case the first one clogged.

“Some girls have been staring at us,” Travis remarked a few minutes later, after the waitress brought me my drink.

“Where?” I asked, turning around to look in the same direction he’d been staring.

“Not there. I was looking in that direction because I knew you’d be enough of a loser to turn around and stare when I said that some girls were looking at us. They’re two tables away, to my left. Don’t look.”

I made a point of not looking.

“Would it bother you if I invited them over?” he asked.

“No, go ahead.”

Travis turned to his left, smiled, and waved at the girls, one of whom was wearing a dress that looked like it had gone through a garbage disposal, and the other who wore her bra on the outside. They smiled and waved back, though they were using exactly one of their carefully selected fingers to do so. Travis got the point and looked back at me. “I wish they all could be California girls, my ass,” he said.

The waitress brought a drink to the man at the table next to ours. It was a scary-looking fluorescent red that appeared ready to dissolve through the glass, the table, the floor, and a few dozen miles of earth beneath.

“What is that?” Travis asked the waitress.

“Satan’s Gasoline.”

“Has it been tested for...you know...not killing people who drink it?”

“Oh, absolutely. But it will take you to levels of unconsciousness you never knew existed. If you have a fake ID handy I’ll be happy to bring you one.”

“No, I quit drinking after I passed out on stage at a comedy club, forcing my friend here to overcome his intense stage-fright and at the same time get in some vicious insults directed toward the bully we each beat up in high school. But thanks.”

“What about you?” the waitress asked me.

I shook my head. “When I get sloshed I start discussing my personal hygiene limitations and hallucinating mutant killer watermelon-flavored licorice. It can be pretty ugly.”

“I can imagine,” said the waitress, leaving quickly to take somebody else’s order.

“So how does it feel to be here in the big city?” Travis asked. “Is this great or what?”

“It’s great, yeah.”

“Maybe when we tell Laura what she’s missing she’ll change her mind.”

“Maybe.”

At that moment, a girl with short brown hair and what appeared to be one earring for each star in our galaxy made a beeline toward our table and sat down. “I know you,” she said, pointing to Travis, and then to me.

“We just arrived in town,” Travis said.

“No. I know you. I know both of you.”

“Okay, you know us. Pleased to meet you.”

“You do sketch comedy. Your name is... Off the Whack... Whacking Off... something like that.”

“Out of Whack,” I corrected. “You’ve seen our tape?”

“I’ve seen your tape. I work at Whiley’s, and I watched your tape last week. You guys suck.”

She got up and made a beeline toward another table.

“Well, I’m kind of sleepy,” said Travis, stretching out his arms and yawning. “Wanna head back to the hotel and call it a night?”

“You bet,” I said.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“A Couple Of Steps Back”

After a night of fitful sleep and dreams involving my evil algebra teacher, Mrs. Danken, I spent most of the next morning just puttering around the hotel room. It was small and the beds were uncomfortable, but, hey, we considered it a five-star suite.

I was homesick beyond belief, and I missed Laura so much I wanted to sit in a corner and bawl, but I’d probably get over it. Once we got on stage and started performing, I’d know I made the right decision.

Martin picked us up a little after noon and drove us over to The Comedy Convention. I immediately liked it from the outside. None of the neon lights that spelled the name were broken in half, and the wall was refreshingly free of hardened chewing gum and tobacco stains.

Martin led us through the main entrance, nodding at the tall, thin guy who sat behind the unoccupied bar, reading a magazine. As we walked into the main performance area, a man in his late thirties wearing a flowered shirt that had never been cool in any time period or even an alternate dimension stood up from where he was seated on the stage.

“Marty! How are ya?”

“I’m doing well.”

The man walked over to us and shook Martin’s hand. “I’ve got one for ya. Down’s Syndrome Barbie. I can get two, three minutes of material out of that easy. What do ya think?”

“I believe there may be humor there,” said Martin.

“Cool.” The man extended his hand toward me. “I’m Fab. You must be Seth.”

I shook his hand. “Seth Trexler.”

“More information than I wanted, kid.” He shook Travis’ hand as well. “Travis, right?”

“That’s right. Pleased to meet you.”

“Once again, more information than I wanted. And where’s that gorgeous babe I’ve been waiting so long to meet?”

“Oh, I meant to tell you about that,” said Martin. “She decided that she wouldn’t be joining them.”

“You mean, joining them for this meeting, right?”

“No, I mean she’s staying in Ohio.”

Fab frowned. “Y’know, that’s a pretty big piece of information to keep from me, Marty. She’s the funny one. She’s the one who’ll get people to come back every week. Not that there’s anything wrong with these two guys—they’ve got talent, no doubt about it—but I expected the whole package. You can pick up a couple of funny geeks anywhere. A woman who’s sexy and can make you laugh isn’t as easy to find.”

Martin attempted to loosen a non-existent tie. “I’m sure if you give these two a chance, they’ll do perfectly fine for you.”

Fab shook his head. “Not what I asked for, Marty. We’ve been friends for...how long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, right. So there’s gotta be an element of trust here. I trust that when you show me a tape of three people and I then offer to pay them to play at my club, I’ll actually get all three people and not the two people I didn’t want all that much in the first place. Sorry, no deal.”

“No deal at all?” asked Martin.

“No deal at all. I must say, though, I did like that one joke about elves stealing the slug bug. Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do, so you can let yourself out.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “I’ll do that.”

We walked out of The Comedy Convention and onto the sidewalk. Martin removed his glasses and wiped them off on his shirt. “I suppose that’s not quite the reaction you were hoping for.”

“No,” said Travis, “it wasn’t.”

“Yes, well, these deals do fall through on occasion.”

“We told you before we even bought plane tickets that Laura wasn’t coming, and you assured me it wouldn’t be a problem!” I said.

“How was I supposed to know he was only interested in her? He didn’t tell me that! He said, yes, he wanted Out of Whack, and I delivered Out of Whack! Fuck!” Martin looked shocked. “Did I just say fuck? That was surprisingly liberating.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” demanded Travis. “We came all the way down here under the impression that we’d have a job! Money! The ability to live!”

“Fuck!” said Martin.

“Don’t say that. You’re not allowed to say that. Seth and I are the only ones here in a position bad enough to say that.”

“Fuck,” I said.

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” said Martin. “I can’t believe I did this. That’s why I’m doing so badly as an agent. But there are other jobs. If you can just hold out for a short while, I’m sure I can get you spots at other clubs. Fuck!”

“We can’t hold out very long,” I said. “Once our credit cards are maxed out, that’s it for us. Maybe we should just go back to Ohio. Chalk the whole thing up as a learning experience and salvage our college education.”

“And what have we learned?” asked Travis.

“That people suck.”

“It’s not my fault,” Martin insisted. “Fuck! Fucked! Fucking! Fuckable!”

“Your profanity really needs work,” said Travis. “Do you mind if I talk to Seth alone?”

“No, not at all. I’ll be standing...” Martin glanced around, looking for a good spot, “...over there.” He walked over to a bench and sat down, muttering ‘fuck’ variations under his breath.

“What do you think we should do?” Travis asked.

“Go back,” I said without hesitation.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should hold out a little bit longer. We don’t want to come back and tell everyone we gave up the day after we got here.”

“We never should have left without Laura,” I said. “It was stupid. We need her.”

“It doesn’t matter how much we need her if she won’t come with us. I still think we can do it on our own. We’ve hit a major stumbling block, no question about it, but I say we give Martin another chance and see what he can do for us.”

“You didn’t want to give him the chance in the first place.”

“Yeah, but now we’re here! Let’s not quit so soon.”

Honestly, all I wanted to do was jump on the nearest plane and leave the big city behind. But Travis was right—we’d come all this way, we might as well at least try to make it work.

“Okay,” I said. “But he only gets one more chance.”

“After one more chance, we’ll be broke and homeless,” said Travis. He whistled at Martin, who jumped as if an express train had plowed through his shower. “All right, we’re staying. Let’s see what you’ve got for us.”

* * *

What Martin got for us that evening was a spot on open mike night at a halfway decent club called Chapman’s. Neither of us were especially happy about coming all this way to perform on open mike night for no pay, but it beat sitting in the hotel room wallowing in despair.

We were third out of three comedians, and while the first guy was merely adequate, the second guy was hysterical. Had I been drinking any liquid, it would have jettisoned out of my nose at Mach Three (which was, incidentally, one of the topics of his routine, though of course it wasn’t my nose in particular that he was referring to). I felt better about my situation just watching him, and I learned a wonderful new technique for sucking pimentos out of olives. I won’t share it with you, but suffice it to say that it requires both your mouth and the mouth of an unwitting assistant.

When it was our turn to perform, Travis and I did fifteen minutes’ worth of our skits. I’m very pleased to announce that I did not mess up a single line, nor did I suffer from excessively gushing perspiration or break out in an unsightly rash. We had lots of energy and we had the timing down.

But, you know...it just didn’t seem to click.

Oh, we got laughs. Quite a few, though nothing close to what the previous comedian had received. It was definitely a successful performance, though it was hard to make a fair comparison in audience reactions since this group was so much larger than what we were used to.

When we were done, the second comedian got called back for an encore, forcing him to admit that he only had that one routine. The manager told us we’d done a fine job, and to try again next week if we wanted. Martin congratulated us and said he thought most of the individuals in the audience considered our material to have a high level of humor.

So what was the problem?

* * *

Fun fact: In the time it takes you to read this, nearly 98% of the United States population will not have been thinking of having a hamster for dinner.

* * *

“Hello, this is Leslie Hankensnorker, coming to you on videotape, here talking to members of the audience who were lucky enough to catch the first Los Angeles performance by those wild, weird, and wacky funnypersons Out of Whack! Sir, what did you think?”

“They were good.”

“I see. And what was your favorite part?”

“That one part. You know, that part at the beginning. I forget how it went exactly. The good part.”

“And what about you, ma’am? What did you think?”

“I thought it was in very poor taste. People shouldn’t make fun of things like disease and mental illness. It’s wrong. When my mother was dying and senile, we didn’t laugh at all, not even one little bit, and that’s the way it should be.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Oh, sir! Yes, you! What did you think of Out of Whack?”

“Am I going to be on TV?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“I’d just like to say that I’ve finished a screenplay called The Last Bullet Is For Simon, it’s sort of an action picture with a strong romantic thread, and if anyone out there wants to read it they can contact me at area code 213, 555-1214.”

“And what did you think of the skits?”

“Well, all I can say is that if you liked the skits, you’ll probably like The Last Bullet Is For Simon too, even though they’re not really in the same genre. I devoted eight years of my life to this script, and if I’m not being too egotistical I think it shows.”

“You, sir! What did you think of the show?”

“Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee!”

“So, you felt it was extremely funny?”

“Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee! No, I stuck a tack on this lady’s chair and she sat on it and now the tack is stuck in her butt and she hasn’t noticed yet! Hee hee hee hee hee hee!”

“And you, sir? Sir? Sir? Don’t ignore me, you bastard!”

“Huh? What?”

“What did you think of Out of Whack’s performance?”

“Oh, it was amazing, especially the performance by Seth Trexler. He was simply incredible. I predict great things for him. He’ll be President some day.”

“And you’re not just saying that because Mr. Trexler is writing this dialogue for us, are you?”

“Certainly not. Seth Trexler is a fair and impartial narrator, and if my words are what he says I said, then I really said them.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”

“So am I. Can I go now?”

“Well, this is Leslie Hankensnorker, and those were the opinions of the audience that just saw Out of Whack perform. Back to your regularly scheduled novel.”

* * *

However, back in the real world, things weren’t as optimistic.

“It just doesn’t have the same spark without her, does it?” asked Travis.

“Nope,” I replied.

He sighed, long and loud. “So what the hell are we going to do?”

* * *

“Hi, Laura, it’s me.”

“Seth! How are you?”

“Pretty good. Travis and I did our first show last night and nobody flicked lit cigarettes at us. That’s something.”

“Are you okay? Your voice sounds weird.”

“Just missing you.”

“I miss you too. Do you think they’ll renew your contract?”

“Ummm, that one didn’t work out. This was a different club. But better than Laugh Attack.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story. I need to keep this quick, since it’s long distance and we’re not millionaires yet.”

“Okay. How do you like Los Angeles?”

“It’s pretty cool. I watched a guy hitting himself in the head with a rubber frog for ten solid minutes. I have no idea how long he’d been doing it before I started watching. Finally the frog broke and he walked away.”

“He needs to invest in a better rubber frog.”

“Yeah, but so do most people. Anyway, we’re going to be on TV tomorrow, the Bob Staples Show. It’ll only be one quick skit at the very end, no interview or anything, but it’s still television.”

“Well, good luck. I know you’ll do well.”

“I hope so.”

“I love you, Seth.”

“I love you, too.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Closing Performance”

“Oh, dear Lord,” muttered Bob Staples, adding a fourth packet of sugar to his third cup of coffee. “Who in their right mind gets up this early? It’s not even six, for God’s sake.” He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again. “Dear Lord.”

All signs indicated that Bob was not a morning person. He had bags under his eyes that a makeup artist was trying to hide, and carried himself like somebody who’d only had half an hour of sleep. “Afternoon shows are where it’s at,” he told the makeup artist. “Evening shows, even better. This getting up early is a bunch of crap.”

The show was going to air in thirty minutes, though it would be another fifty-five minutes after that before Travis and I were on. We would be performing a very mild skit called “The Ice Cream Cone,” which basically involved Travis trying to take an enormous, sloppy ice cream cone into a high-class clothing store owned by me. It wasn’t one of my favorites, but it was deemed the skit most appropriate for the early morning viewing audience. Travis liked it because he got to eat a lot of ice cream.

The other guests were an author promoting some book on how to keep your kids from becoming little shitheads, a professional golfer, and a female country singer. A stagehand had given all of us our instructions, and after Bob came around to introduce himself and ensure that we all knew how inhumanly early it was, we were relegated to the green room to wait.

There was a definite nervous tingle running through my body, but it was healthy tension. Travis had added to that healthy tension by listing in alphabetical order all the horrible things he was going to do to me should I mess up, including breaking each bone in my body as he shouted out the scientific name. “Left clavicle!” Snap! “Right humerus!” Snap! “Left superior maxillary!” Snap!

Finally the show started and on a monitor we watched Bob, suddenly awake and perky, talk to the studio audience about what a beautiful day it was. Then after some commentary about the light news issues of the day, he introduced the writer and they began to chat about his book.

“You know, this is going to be on tape,” said Travis. “That means permanence. If we get squished by a bus on the way back from the studio, we’ll still be preserved for generations to come. So, like I said, don’t screw up.” He smiled. “You don’t mind if I have a brief sentimental moment, do you?”

“Do you really have to?”

“It’ll be brief, I promise. No tears or anything.”

“Well, okay,” I said, feigning reluctance. “As long as it’s brief and tear-free.”

“I know I don’t take a lot of stuff seriously, and I’m kind of a wise-ass at times. But I want you to know that you’re my best friend in the world, and always have been. You already knew that, of course, but this seemed like a good time for it to be said out loud.”

“Okay, and in keeping with the sentimental mood, I want you to know that you’re my best friend.”

“Do you want to hug me quick, before anyone notices?”

“Hell no.”

“Good.”

We watched the author go on and on and on and on and on about how there were no bad kids, just below-average kids. After that, the professional golfer tried to demonstrate how Bob could improve his stroke, offering numerous tips and almost concealing his disbelief at how much Bob sucked.

I was still feeling relaxed.

My sense of relaxation faded sometime during the second verse of the country singer’s performance. I don’t remember what the name of the song was, but it involved a young boy and his dog Champion, who was the runt of the litter. Champion tried hard to be a good dog, and though he couldn’t fetch very well or run very fast he loved the boy, and the boy loved him. Other boys had dogs that could catch Frisbees and shake hands and do flips, but that didn’t matter to the little boy—Champion was his dog, and the best dog in the world.

It was a nice song with a catchy tune, and the singer had a pleasant voice.

But then one day the little boy was walking by the river, where his parents had always told him never to go. And he was playing Frisbee with Champion, who still could never catch it, when he fell in! The little boy fought against the cold, cruel waters, but they carried him down the river, while Champion barked and barked.

Then Champion jumped into the water, and he swam with all of his might. And he grabbed the back of the little boy’s shirt collar with his teeth, and he pulled the little boy to the edge and to safety.

Which would have been a happy ending, but Champion couldn’t get out! He couldn’t get out of the water! He got caught in the current and the river carried him away, while the little boy screamed and cried!

They never found him! They never found Champion! He just wanted to be a good dog, that’s all he wanted, and he died trying to prove it! Champion died! He died! That country-singing bitch killed Champion then she hammered the point home with a final verse about how the little boy was sad for the rest of his life now that he didn’t have his precious doggie!

It was, without a doubt, the biggest bummer of a song I had ever heard in my entire life.

“You’re up next!” said the cheerful stage manager, poking her head into the green room.

They broke for commercial, giving the audience a chance to let Champion’s tragic fate sink in. Travis and I went to our marks on the “Outside of Fancy Store” set, which was just a large piece of painted cardboard and not impressive by television standards but was still the first time we’d performed with an actual set.

The ice cream cone, a foot-long mother piled high with mostly melted multi-colored goo that oozed over the edge, was given to Travis. He squished a bit of it against his lower jaw as the stagehand counted down that we’d be back from commercial in 10...9...8...7...6...

Oh, Champion, why? Why?

...5...4...3...

I looked out into the audience, noticing that some of the people were still teary-eyed from Champion’s heroic sacrifice. Even Laura, sitting in the very back, looked like she’d been touched.

...2...1...

What the fu—?

“Welcome back!” said Bob. “We only have a few more minutes left, and it’s my great pleasure to fill them with some laughter. Making their television debut this morning, please welcome Travis Darrow and Seth Trexler, otherwise known as the sketch comedy group Out of Whack!”

The lights came on over our area of the set. I stood there in shock as Travis walked up to me, licking his ice cream cone.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, speaking the words but barely hearing them. “You can’t bring that inside the store.”

Travis launched into his scripted rant, after which I said something spectacularly funny, though at that moment I could not have told you what. What was Laura doing here? Why hadn’t she said anything before the show?

Travis knew there was something up, but went on with his lines, referring to me as an oppressor of the masses and all kinds of negative stuff. A particularly large glob of ice cream oozed marvelously down the side of the cone, splattering against my shoes as it hit the floor, which would have been a very nice touch if the camera had been pointing at my shoes.

It was my line. I hesitated.

“You know, sir,” I said, “if you think you’re going to take that ice cream cone into my store, there’s somebody you’ll have to talk to, first.”

It was a perfectly logical line, but as it was not the line I was supposed to have spoken, Travis gave me a very confused and slightly panicked look. I turned to the audience and pointed toward Laura. “Ice cream cone security, will you please report to the main entrance? I repeat, ice cream cone security, will you please report to the front entrance?”

Now Laura’s and Travis’ expressions were tied for confusion and panic. “Immediately!” I said, and Laura got to her feet and hurried down the aisle. Travis’ expression suddenly added a second “very” in front of “confused look” as she hopped up on stage.

The stage manager was not looking entirely knowledgeable about what the hell was going on, either.

“Ice cream security here,” said Laura. She was wearing jeans and a casual sweater, which I suspect is not the proper attire for real-life members of the ice cream security team, but that didn’t matter.

“I need you to remove this man,” I said.

“Oh, you’re just a...communist...” said Travis.

“I am not a communist!” I said. “Nor am I an oppressor! And if you don’t remove yourself and that vile semi-liquid calorie-laden goop from my presence, I’ll hit you with my earplugs.”

Believe it or not, that was the actual line. Travis brightened a bit, and went on with his spiel as written. We performed the rest of the sketch almost as written, with Laura working in an occasional ad-lib and me working in an occasional reference to her presence.

At the punch line (“Communist!”) the audience applauded, cued by the handy “applause” sign, and the camera switched to Bob, who bid the home viewers a fond farewell and a good morning. I grabbed Laura’s hand and quickly led her into the green room, with Travis following closely behind.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said.

“If you guys had this planned, I’m going to kill you both,” said Travis.

“No, we didn’t have it planned,” Laura said. “I sat way in the back because I didn’t think you’d see me. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

“A distraction?” I said, incredulous. “If you were here, why didn’t you say something? We could have done a skit with all three of us!”

“Traffic was bad. I got here just in time for the song.”

“That damn song!” said Travis. “It’s no wonder nobody laughed!”

“Nobody laughed?” I asked. I hadn’t even noticed.

“Barely anybody did. Maybe they’ll add some canned laughter before this airs. Except, of course, that we were live.”

“Okay, so we didn’t do so well our first time on TV. This isn’t a very good show anyway.” I was breathing so fast I was about ready to hyperventilate. “Question time. Laura, what are you doing here?”

“To get any misunderstandings out of the way first, I did not quit school and fly down here to join you. But I missed you, Seth. And I missed you too, Travis, to a much lesser degree. I couldn’t not be here for your show.”

“It should have been our show,” I said.

“Well, technically it was,” said Travis, “though in sort of a forced, awkward kind of way.”

“I’m sorry, Seth,” said Laura. “I can’t take back my decision entirely, but God, I hate not having you around, and I hate not being part of the troupe.”

“What do you mean by ‘entirely’?” I asked.

“At the end of the semester I could take a year off and move down here with you guys. If that year is worth it, I could take another year off, or transfer to a school down here, or something, anything so that we’re not breaking up. Both you and me, and Out of Whack.”

I looked at Travis. “I don’t want to stay here. I vote we fly back to Trade Point with Laura, and keep the troupe together no matter what. The paperwork at the university is so slow that we can go back to our classes as if nothing happened. When the semester is over, we’ll decide what we want to do. But only as a team.”

Travis thought about it for a moment. “Considering how badly we just bombed, I think getting out of the state is a good idea. Group hug!”

We all hugged.

The door opened, and Martin peeked inside. “Was it just me, or was there a substantial lack of mirth coming from that audience?”

“It was just you, Martin,” I said. “They loved it. Listen, we appreciate everything you’ve done for us, but we’re leaving this place. We’ll give you a call next time we’re in town.”

“Sounds fine,” said Martin. “You know, I owned a dog like Champion once, but he tended to bite me a lot and would have just let me drown.”

Suddenly the stage manager shoved past him. “What the hell happened out there?” he asked, absolutely furious. “I should kick your asses!”

“To the airport!” I said, and we fled from the studio as a team.

Epilogue

[ Travis sits on a couch, watching television. ]

NARRATOR: This man is bored.

[ A gunshot rings out. Travis falls off the couch, dead. ]

NARRATOR: This man is no longer bored.

CAPTION: Death. The cure for boredom.

“Cut!” said the director. “Good fall, Travis. Nice touch with the lolling tongue. Okay, everyone, let’s take five!”

I set down the megaphone I’d been using to give all of my directorial commands with, much to the annoyance of Travis and Laura. Dylan, a film major who’d agreed to help us videotape Out of Whack: Sort of The Motion Picture, lowered his camera and frowned.

“I think the lighting was bad,” he said. “I’ll have to play it back and see.”

“Hop to it,” I said, then lifted the megaphone to my mouth again. “Travis, get off the floor, your scene is over.”

Okay, this wasn’t going to be playing in theatres around the nation, but it was fun. In between statewide comedy club performances and videotaping our “movie,” Out of Whack was taking up most of our non-schoolwork-related time.

I had achieved one other small measure of personal success. When we returned from Los Angeles, there’d been a large envelope waiting for me. Inside, with a cover depicting a man with a kitten shoved up his nose, was the issue of Gleefully Disturbed containing my story. My name was spelled wrong.

Laura wrapped her arms around me. “Y’think I can become a big star by sleeping with the director?”

“That’s what I hear,” I replied, giving her a nice, lingering kiss.

Most of our non-schoolwork-related time.

So, Laura and I were in love. Out of Whack was on the road to...something good, we hoped. Travis was still on the floor being a dweeb.

Things were working out pretty well.

And now this book is over.

You’ve been a great reader, and I thank you for your attention. Now go read Pride and Prejudice to make up for this. Quickly.

The End

NOTE: Several animals were harmed during the writing of this book, but none of them were cute.

Jeff Strand

Jeff Strand is the best-selling, award-winning, and incredibly demented author of such novels as Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, and How to Rescue a Dead Princess.  He wrote Out of Whack as a statement of protest against his tiny bank account. You can visit his Seriously Whacked website at http://www.jeffstrand.com.