Out of Whack (31 page)

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.”

       Because I care so much about you, the reader, I hereby give you this mostly-blank page to use for whatever you want. Enjoy!  

“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.”