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?”