Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alcoholics Anonymous, Non-Alco…

After laying Ian down onto the floor, the crew is able to finish their work in peace. Martin is almost impressed when “crazy/drugs” doesn’t even wake up before he leaves. He can only imagine what kind of drugs are swimming around in Ian’s head. They’re probably pretty good drugs.

“You want us to drop you off at home, man?” Rico asks, lacking his mid-day verve. The labor of the day has caught up with most of the group. Martin’s probably the only one who isn’t exhausted. He’s sure this is because he barely did any work, but he can only hope the other guys didn’t notice or don’t care.

“Yeah, that’d be good. I have a few things I need to take care of.” Martin has been trying to keep in mind that today was a waste unless he can actually get the money Raymond needs by tomorrow.

“Like getting me some cash!” Kiefo laughs as he climbs into the front seat.

Martin sighs. “I’m not getting the money for you, dumbass. I’m pretty sure I only owe the bank.”

“You watch it, little man. Once you get me that money, I’ve officially saved your ass.” Kiefo slams his door.

Whatever. Martin hops in the back and plops down onto Ian’s couch. That’s when he remembers to get his phone so he doesn’t forget it. He’s been leaving it in the back of the truck while everyone’s inside working. No one really calls him anyhow, so what’s the harm?

1 New Voicemail. Hmm.

“Hey, you’ve reached Martin. Pretend I said something funny.” Martin enters his password here. “You have one unheard message. ‘Hey Martin, this is Hilda. I was just calling to see if you were around your place and might want to give me a ride home from work. Um…’” Fuck. The surge of guilt is almost unbearable. “’It’s okay if you don’t get this, though. I can just ride the bus. Not sure what happened to my car. Karma maybe? I’m sure this is all just part of the bigger plan for us all. Well…okay, call me back if it’s not too late when you get this. Bye.’” Martin snaps his phone shut.

It’s actually right around six at this point; Ian’s place took a bit longer than expected for various reasons. Martin figures there’s no point in calling back now. Really, though, he just doesn’t want to talk to her about the car. What a coward. He doesn’t know whether to focus on his guilt or self-hatred at this point. Now he’s just hoping his roommate is back when he gets home so he has someone to vent at.

The repo guys drop Martin off with little fanfare, just a reminder that they’ll be back tomorrow afternoon for payment – or the rest of his shit.

When Martin tries to open the front door, it won’t budge. What the hell? Then he realizes that Ray must have locked it for one of his “binges”. Thankfully, the repo crew made a secondary entrance for Martin that morning. He can hear Tommy and Kiefo laughing at him; Tommy and Kiefo see him flip the bird as they drive off.

What a fucking mess, and all for the sake of showmanship. His roommate, Raymond Joseph, the obsessive-compulsive “alcoholic”, lies face-down in the middle of their living room. If they had all of their furniture, he’d be passed out on the couch like he usually is. At least this time he didn’t make himself vomit for realism.

“Come on, Ray. Get up. We need to talk about that loan you took out. I actually had to work today so the bank didn’t take everything.” Martin stands over Raymond’s still body. The empty corpses of non-alcoholic beers litter the floor. At least Ray is unquestionably insane. One can’t say the same for Ian. Hmm.

Ray lifts his head slowly, doing his best imitation of how a drunk person would act grateful. “Ugh, thanks,” he mumbles as he rolls over, an empty still clutched in his hand. “Ugggghhh. I’m so sorry, Marty. I’m so sorry. I did it again.” Somehow Ray manages to not open his eyes through all of this. Martin just shakes his head at the stupidity.

“God…damn…it.” Martin grabs Ray by the shirt and lifts him up to a sitting position. “You are not drunk! You can’t be an alcoholic without alcohol!” Usually Martin does not get this angry, but people who seem unwilling to properly use their brains piss him off. This is doubly so when he has to live with the person and co-sign on their loans.

Martin lets go of Ray and sits down next to him. He looks around, noting the five empty bottles. It’s always five bottles. Ray buys six-packs of non-alcoholic beer, but he only drinks five each time. Then, once he’s purchased six six-packs, he consolidates the loners into a new six-pack…and only drinks five. Martin’s always tempted to dump out the sixth one and see what Ray does, but he’s really not that cruel. Hell, he helped Ray get that loan. Now he’s going to suffer for it unless he can figure out a way to make a decent haul in one day that pays cash.

Shit.

Mr. Thomas and His Things

It’s the end of the day. One stop left.

The house looks pretty nice, actually, like the owner held the place together while the rest of the block was falling into disrepair. Martin feels kind of bad repossessing items from what looks like the only decent house within a few miles from where he’s standing. He knocks.

“Mr. Thomas?” Kiefo yells from behind Martin. “Knock again, little man.” He knocks again.

“What do we do if no one’s home?”

Kiefo sighs as he looks down at his clipboard and back up at Martin. “Well, I guess you could just check to see if the door’s open. This is definitely the place.” The large man continues to look down at his clipboard then back up to the door. He yells to Rico, currently hanging off the back of the vehicle parked at the curb. “What do you think this means, Rico? ‘Crazy-slash-drugs’? Why would the bank make a note of that?”

Rico hops off the moving truck, which seems relieved to not be carrying his weight anymore. He grabs the board from Kiefo and looks at it for a few seconds. “No sé, mi amigo. You’d think that if it were a big deal they’d explain it more. Maybe they were just making fun of him?”

“Then why’d they put it on the forfeiture notice?”

“That’s…a good point, jefe. Shit.”

Martin doesn’t know what to make of the situation. Looks like they might not be going in, but it seems that a bona fide nutjob lives here…or a drug addict. His curiosity is mingling with his sense of humor, and they really want him to go inside. The door is unlocked.

“Oh.” He goes to step inside, but Rico grabs him by the shoulder.

“Hold on, man, you don’t wanna just go walking in there unprepared.” Huh?

“Do you guys have flashbangs? Smoke grenades?”

“Forget it, let’s just go in. You’re first in case someone starts shooting.”

“Faaantastic.” Martin walks into the first room. It appears to be the living room. There’s a small TV, a couple of chairs, a couch, and several bongs spread out on a short table in the middle of it all.

“Damn,” says Kiefo. He steps closer to inspect the smoking devices. “Why does he need so many of these?”

“Huh, no idea.” Martin is a little overwhelmed by the stench of weed. Clearly the bank was at least right about the drugs part of their note. “Should we check to see if anyone’s home?”

“Yeah yeah, good idea. You and Rico go check out the rest of the house.” Great.

There’s a hallway leading out back to the kitchen and what appears to be the stairs up to the next floor. Martin looks at Rico imploringly. “Ladies first…hombre.” Rico shakes his head, but Martin’s fine with accepting pity so that Rico will go ahead of him. One should always bring a large Mexican meat shield when entering an unfamiliar house uninvited. Rico pokes his head into the bathroom partway down the hall.

“Hey Tommy, come get some of this stuff!” Martin is jumped by Kiefo’s raised voice coming from the living room, but he quickly laughs it off as he turns back toward Rico.

And…this must be Ian Thomas, the owner of the house – a tall, lean blond man standing at the end of the hall in a t-shirt and absolutely nothing else. His face makes him appear to be on the verge of laughing, with no apparent shame over his exposed lower half.

Martin grimaces. “Aw, c’mon! That’s your dick!”

Rico grimaces. “Aw, man. Put some clothes on, pendejo!”

“Oh, hey. You guys want some toast?” Ian turns back into the kitchen, exposing his bare ass to Rico and Martin.

“Goddammit, man. Do you have no shame?” Martin has headed back toward the living room at this point. Rico decides to just turn around and push through the conversation without actually looking at Ian.

“I’m all set with the toast, Mr. Thomas. Could you please, PLEASE put some pants on?” In the living room, Kiefo is standing around watching Tommy drag stuff out to the truck, completely oblivious to the drama in the kitchen. Martin takes it upon himself to make the injured boss handle the situation.

“Kiefo, Mr. Crazy-slash-drugs is in the kitchen without any pants on trying to feed us toast. It’s kinda creeping us out. I think I’d be okay with the toast if he’d just cover up his dick.” It would appear that Kiefo is as turned off by the idea of Ian’s penis as Rico and Martin, but he grimaces in silence before making his way down the hall.

“Jesus Christ, man, put some pants on.” Ian doesn’t take his eyes off his toaster.

“Shh. Hold on for like…twelve minutes, man.” The group waits in silence.

In the living room, Martin is obliged to be moving furniture with the driver instead of dealing with the pants-less stoner in the kitchen. He has a high tolerance for wacky shit, but unexpected dicks make him uncomfortable.

The toaster’s tray pops up in far less than twelve minutes. Nothing. Ian smiles a slow, dopey grin and cranes his neck back as he looks over at the repo men. “I forgot bread.”

Rico is incredulous. “Isn’t that the only ingredient in toast?”

“Yeah, thankfully. Gotta get some bread now.” Ian starts swinging open cupboards, but then Kiefo restrains him, getting him to stand in one spot again.

“Mr. Thomas, do you know why we’re here?” He’s just trying to do his job. All Kiefo wants is a smooth interaction. Ian seems to be on another plane of existence.

“Of course! Of course I know why you’re here,” says Ian, gesticulating excitedly. “You’re the toast guys; you came for the toast. My grandfather, see – he always said to provide toast if that’s what they want, and since you said you want toast…you do want toast right? Well anyhow, I apparently need bread for you fine gentlemen. We may have to go to the store, though. My apologies. Let me get my keys.” Ian squats down, much to Kiefo’s chagrin, and opens a cupboard in the kitchen’s island. He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and pulls them on quickly before brushing past Kiefo and heading down the hallway. Rico goes after him, but meets Martin halfway. “Excuse me. There’s toast in the kitchen if you want some.” Martin doesn’t know what to say when faced with insanity.

“Hey Rico, uh, I was just coming to say that I can’t actually lift my end of the couch. It’s kind of a one-man show starring Tommy in the living room.”

Sigh. “I knew it, man. Whatever. Where’s he going?” Martin looks back to see Ian stop at the end of the hall, then disappear around the corner into the living room. Tommy can be seen standing by the front door, both waiting for help and suddenly looking in horror at the strange spectacle of a man who just walked into the room.

“What?” Martin doesn’t understand what’s so bad now that Ian’s wearing pants. Kiefo and Rico follow him back to the living room.

Oh.

Ian is passed out on his couch, face down, with his hands both stuffed down the front of his pants.

“What the hell’s wrong with this guy?” asks Tommy. Oh Tommy, who knows?

Silence. Martin looks around at the perplexed faces. The working class just can’t wrap their heads around this sort of eccentricity. “Am I really the only one who finds this hilarious?”