Out of Whack (8 page)

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.