Out of Whack (15 page)

       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.

“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.”