Out of Whack (2 page)

       “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.

“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?”