Out of Whack

by Jeff Strand

  “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-Si
x

  “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 k
nowledgeable 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?”