Out of Whack (34 page)

       After Laura finished with her story, Travis shared his own tale of woe. Kirk had taken him to a bar and bought him some drink called The Drano Alternative. One shot of that and Travis’ sense of wise judgment went straight to hell, causing him to enter the wonderful world of astounding intoxication. The rest of the evening was pretty much a blur and a blank.

       He was genuinely distraught over what he’d done, and Laura and I had already agreed to let the whole thing slide, though we reserved the right to bring it up whenever Travis annoyed us even the slightest little bit. So, Out of Whack was still active, and ready to kick some comedic butt!

* * *

       Over the next couple of months, we were able to turn our success at Laugh Attack into several more gigs at small comedy clubs within a few hours’ drive from Sharpview. We certainly didn’t make much money, barely enough to pay for gas and bottled water to pour into the radiator after Laura’s car overheated, but we were gaining a bit of exposure and having a great time.

       Now, to answer the question that I’m sure is on your mind: No, I’ve never been so hungry that I’ve eaten the Pez dispenser along with the Pez. And no, I’ve also never purposely sprayed shellac on my teeth to prevent tooth decay. I really don’t know why you wonder about these things.

       Another question that may have been in your mind, if you’re interested in how this narrative turns out and not just thinking “END, BOOK, END! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IN HEAVEN PLEASE END!” is whether or not I was given more of an acting role.

       Yep, sure was.

       I now had two roles, excluding the club wielder and the reading of the poem. I was a man obsessed with old Orville Redenbacher commercials in a new skit I called “Comedy Hell,” and a man obsessed with yolk in a new skit I called “The Weirdo Obsessed With Yolk, Jeez, What a Psycho.” They were two very different types of obsessions, so it wasn’t like I had a narrow acting range.

       And though I certainly suffered from a fair degree of stage fright, whatever had happened on stage the night with Kirk had broken through my mental blank-outs. Maybe I wasn’t as talented as Travis and Laura, but dammit, I could perform!

       Laura and I continued to be as lovey-dovey as can be. I never got the opportunity to kick Travis out of the room for the night, since Laura refused to make love in our dorm for health reasons (she mentioned once that she felt uncomfortable walking into the place without an oxygen mask), but we found various other locations for our passionate activities.

       We didn’t select ugly dresses for her bridesmaids and we didn’t name our future children, but things were as serious as they could be without Laura actually speaking the words “I love you.” I hadn’t said “I love you” again since the night of our first kiss. I don’t know why. I guess I was just waiting for her to say them for the first time before I said them for the second time so we could say them time and time again.

       Christmas vacation was absolutely miserable. Three weeks without Laura! I was in hell! I hate to admit this, but not having her around really turned me into a grouch. My parents were getting sick of me after the second day. One night, as I lay in bed thinking of Laura, I even yelled at some carolers who were outside singing “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

       “Will you shut up?” I shouted as I threw open my window. “I’m trying to sleep in heavenly peace too!”

       “Okay, boys, we’ve got a Scrooge!” announced one of the carolers. “Let’s egg him!”

       I barely got my window closed before the hailstorm of rotten eggs pelted against it. That never would have happened if Laura had been around.

       Travis and I returned to school, noting that Tanglewood Hall seemed to have sunk a bit into the ground. When I finally saw Laura again, our lips might as well have been superglued together. I take that back—superglued together implies a lack of motion that certainly didn’t exist.

       About a month into the new semester, we were doing a show at a club known as Har-Har’s Joke Palace, a place that was just as lame as its name implied. The M.C. wore a clown nose and Bozo wig, and honked this stupid squeaky horn about eighty times during his introductions. The headliner was some guy who’d appeared on a bunch of talk shows I’d never heard of and appeared to be in serious gastrointestinal distress during his entire routine. Both of our Friday night shows had gone over well, and our first Saturday night show was also moving along smoothly.

       As I sat in the back, I noticed a man seated right up front at a table by himself, sipping a soft drink as he watched the show. He was a small guy, probably in his late forties, mostly bald, with a tiny black mustache. He watched intently, concentrating on every word. Every once in a while when the audience would laugh he’d glance around the room, as if unsure of the source of their merriment. He did this through our entire show, not once so much as cracking a smile.

       After we were finished and the M.C. began to honk his way through introducing the headliner, the man stood up and walked back over to us. “May I join you?” he inquired, adjusting his wire-framed glasses.

       We all nodded, and the man pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Martin Madden. You did well tonight—the audience seemed to enjoy it very much.”

       “Thanks,” said Laura. “What did you think?”

       Martin bit his lower lip. “I enjoyed the audience’s laughter. But that’s not important. What is important is that you appear to be three very talented individuals who should be playing in much more desirable venues.”

       “What could be more desirable than Har-Har’s Joke Palace?” asked Travis.

       Martin frowned. “I would think a large number of places would be more desirable. For example, I can think of several clubs in the Ohio area alone that hold higher standards of—”

       “I was kidding,” said Travis.

       “Oh,” said Martin. “That’s good. Audiences enjoy it when a comedian kids around with them. Anyway, am I correct in assuming that you three are not currently under agency representation?”

       “That’s right.” (This is such a minor bit of dialogue that it really doesn’t matter who said it.)

       “Perhaps you would consider allowing me to represent you.” He took out three business cards and handed them to each of us. They were certainly nicely produced little cards, and I noticed that he had a Los Angeles address.

       “I have a question,” I said. “Why us? I’m just wondering because I watched you watch our show, and it didn’t look like you found anything even the least bit funny.”

       “I have to admit, my humorous tastes lean more toward traditional joke telling.” His mouth turned upward into something that six out of any given twelve jurors might consider a smile. “My brother-in-law shared one with me just last month...how many feminists does it take to change a light bulb?”

       “How many?” Laura asked.

       “Six.” Now we were even closer to a legally binding smile.

       There was a long pause.

       “And...?” Travis asked.

       “And?”

       “And why does it take six?”

       “Oh, I think my brother-in-law said something about that, but I don’t recall his explanation. But you have to admit, the very concept of it requiring six feminists to change one light bulb is certainly amusing.”

       There was another long pause.

       “We’ve got nineteen or twenty possible agents lined up,” said Travis, “but we’ll definitely keep you in mind.”

       “No, wait,” said Martin. “I realize that I’m not the funniest person in the world, or even in the top ten. I’ll be completely honest...comedy baffles me. I don’t get it. I’ve read books and scholarly articles and even conducted interviews, but humor still eludes me. However, I can see its effect on others, and Out of Whack produces that effect to a significant degree. And I’d like to be part of it. I want to represent you. I want to make Out of Whack as big as it possibly can be.”

       Travis, Laura and I all exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I don’t think so,” said Laura, finally. “You seem nice, but not what we’re looking for.”

       “Oh, but I’m not nice!” Martin insisted. “I mean, I’d be nice to you, of course, but when I’m trying to promote a client I can be a real...” he trailed off, searching for the right word, “...bastard. I’d work hard for you.”

       “Who else do you represent?” Laura asked.

       “I represent three Los Angeles comedians. They’re all at an early stage in their careers, just like you, but I’ve gotten them work.”

       “What kind of work?” Travis asked. “But before you answer, I need to warn you that I’m about to make a kidding statement, so brace yourself. Was it work washing dishes?”

       Martin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, it was actual work. Several stand-up engagements, and one of them even got a bit role in the situation comedy
Otto’s World.
He played a surly waiter. I understand that people considered his performance very funny.” He took a deep breath. “I realize those aren’t especially impressive credits, but these things happen slowly. You wouldn’t have to worry about being trapped with me, since our initial contract will allow you to break off the relationship any time you want. You have nothing to lose.”

       “We’ll have to discuss this,” said Laura. “But we’ll give you a call as soon as possible.”

       Martin took out a pen and picked up the business card Travis had set on the table. “Here, let me write down the number where I’m staying. I’m just here for a friend’s wedding, but I’ll be returning to California the day after tomorrow. I would like to stick around and videotape your next performance, if that’s acceptable with you.”

       “Doesn’t bother me,” said one of us (once again, it doesn’t matter whom), and the other two nodded our agreement. Martin gave the card back to Travis, then returned to his seat at the front of the room, eliciting a very rude joke from the headliner that Martin didn’t comprehend.

       “What do you think?” asked Laura, after he’d left.

       “I think an agent is a great idea,” said Travis. “But not him.”

       “There wouldn’t be any risk, though,” I said. “Remember, we can get out of the contract any time we want.”

       “Regardless, I think we’ll just be wasting our time with him. It’s great that we have an offer to sign with an agent, but we don’t want to rush into anything.”

       “I think Travis is right,” said Laura. “He just didn’t seem like what we need.”

       “Okay,” I said. “But I think that we should start seriously looking for somebody to represent us. We can only go so far calling up comedy clubs ourselves begging for time on stage.”

       “Absolutely,” said Laura.

       We did a nice job on our second show, and Martin stood in the back, videotaping everything. I was going to tell him good-bye after we were done, but he was already gone.

* * *

       Three days later, while I sat alone in my dorm room one evening not studying for classes, I noticed Martin’s card resting on one of the few non-sticky parts of my desk. I felt bad that I’d forgotten to call him back, so I picked up the phone and dialed.

       “Martin Madden,” he said.

       “Martin? Hi, this is Seth Trexler, from Out of Whack. We talked to you on Saturday.”

       “Right. I’ve been hoping you’d call. How are you?”

       “Pretty good. Look, I just wanted to let you know that we considered your offer, and have to decline. But we do appreciate your interest.”

       “That’s very disappointing,” said Martin after a short pause. “I’m going to have to reject the offer here, then.”

       “What offer?”

       “I’ve been sending the tape around, and the manager of The Comedy Convention absolutely loved it. He found so much humor in it that he would be interested in having you three do a stint performing your skits in between each of the stand-up acts.”

       “How long of a stint?” I asked.

       “That would depend on how well his audience responded to you. I could get a three-week contract, which would then be extended accordingly. Plus the Bob Staples TV show offered to do a preliminary interview to see if they wanted you as a guest. It’s a local station, but the ratings are good.”

       “We changed our minds,” I told him.

       “Is that so?”

       “Yes. Travis and Laura aren’t here, but they’ve changed their minds, too. Where do we sign?”

“Worshipping the Cud-Chewing Cow of Destiny”

(I asked Travis what he thought I should call this one)

       “AAAAAHHHHH!” said Travis.

       “That’s right,” I said, with a huge smile. “We’d be staying in a pretty pathetic hotel for the first three weeks, but if this became a long-term job, who knows?”

       “AAAAAHHHHH!” Travis repeated. “I can’t believe the guy came through! This is great!”