Martin and Ian and...Martin

Ian’s house looks no different than the last couple of times Martin’s seen it, yet he can’t help but feel that something’s off. First, Martin has arrived early. This makes him uncomfortable. Second, he’s holding a bag of brand new white socks in a neighborhood that looks like it could use an injection of fresh underwear just to turn a few frowns into less world-weary indifference. He finds himself hugging the bag tightly to his chest. The text said noon. If he went in early, would he find the creature normally dressed as Ian just putting its skin on?

Martin shakes his head like an Etch A Sketch and knocks. It’s 11:51. No one answers. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked! Martin is stunned. He hardly knows what to think or do at this point, so he slumps down next to Ian’s doorway and reads every word he can find on the bag of socks two or three times over. At 11:58, Ian comes racing around the end of the block in a fast walk, apparently carrying a large bag of something himself. As he gets closer, Martin can see that it is, in fact, a massive bag of weed, the kind that makes you start wondering more where someone got a plastic bag that size and less about how they got that much weed. Martin’s also amazed that Ian is just carrying it around outside like it’s no big deal, certainly not illegal or anything.

“Hey man, I guess I’m a little early,” says Martin, standing up and brushing off his pants while Ian jams his key feverishly into the lock and goes inside. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. It’s 11:59. Martin clutches his socks in some unexpected Ian-centric reflex.

He reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone to check the time. Hmm.

As noon hits, Ian flings open his door to find…

“Martin?” Ian is pretty sure it’s Martin, but he’s dressed rather awkwardly.

“I was once known by that name. I am now simply known as The Ambassador, envoy from Sockland,” delivers Martin with the necessary dramatic embellishments. He is also wearing socks on his hands, loosely so that they may be flailed around for visual interest. A wreath of socks hangs pathetically around his neck.

The look of condescending disgust that forms on Ian’s face is one of the most impressively effective ones Martin’s ever seen, and he considers himself something of an expert when it comes to disgust. “What the hell are you doing?” asks Ian plainly.

Uh. Is it mean to tell someone you were just mocking them outright, just trying to make a clear reference to their insanity? “I thought maybe we were just…playing a game or something. I mean you totally ignored me on the way in here.” He peels off the socks from his hands and takes off the wreath, trying with futility to smash them back into the bag whence they came. Martin finds it weird to be embarrassed in front of Ian of all people.

“Come in before someone sees you,” Ian says, herding Martin inside.

“Sees me?” asks Martin. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or thoroughly ashamed.

“Yeah,” Ian says with a mocking tone, “I hear there are spies from the Staple Remover people in the area!”

“Fuck you; I brought socks.” He tries to hand Ian the socks, but Ian looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Okay…but where’s the money?”

“Are you shitting me? You said ‘bring socks or money,’ so I went with the socks since the latter option was both ambiguous and reasonably absent in my life right now.”

“I…don’t think I would have said that. And how is ‘money’ more ambiguous than ‘socks?’ Maybe I wanted black dress socks or rainbow toe socks. Maybe I only wanted you to bring three dollars, hm? I’m not sure you thought this through at all.”

Martin feels like he’s standing on shattering, sliding ground with no way to stabilize himself. He thinks back on the first time he saw Ian. The man wore no pants. The second time? Ian was wearing a tux at a fake tea party. Now Ian is being altogether too rational for Martin’s sanity. “Ian?”

“What?” Martin doesn’t respond. “Yes, Martin? What?”

“I just wanted to make sure it’s you. I repossessed your furniture once, then you went to my stand-up show, right?”

“Yeah? Are you okay, Martin?”

“I guess I’m okay. I have no idea, though. You don’t even remember asking me to bring socks or money?”

“Oh, I do. I was just seeing if you’d do it, though.”

Marting glares at Ian before hurling the bag of socks down the hall. He sighs. “Okay. I did it.”

“That seems a bit passive-aggressive, don’t you think?”

“It was entirely passive-aggressive. I wasn’t really sugarcoating it. You seem too normal today, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Too normal? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Fine. Look: what did you have in mind for an activity today?”

“Ah, well I thought we’d wait until my friend Martin came over so we could play Dungeons & Dragons.” This strange statement is a small relief for Martin.

“Oh ha ha, Ian. I’m here already.” Martin isn’t really looking forward to playing a tabletop RPG with Ian.

“What? I can know more than one person named Martin, dummy. Martin Varney usually comes over after he gets out of work.”

“I don’t know how I feel about hanging out with someone else named Martin. Can’t we call him like…Unfunny Martin? Boring Martin? Martin Number Two?”

“Gay Martin? He’s gay.”

“Uh…are you?” Martin has to ask these questions.

“Ah, no, but I’m sure Gay Martin wishes I were. That seems to be about the only reason he hangs out with me. He doesn’t do drugs, he’s into weird music and goth get-ups, and he is otherwise a big stick in the mud. Hell, he works as an accountant.”

“I’m not so sure that’s as boring as you want to make it sound. But hey, as long as he’s not a comedian, at least I have the Funny Martin thing locked down,” Martin chuckles.

“You think so? I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think you’re probably funnier off-stage than you are during your act.” Martin’s feelings are hurt.

“Really?”

“See, you have good timing and pacing during regular conversations, but your act was just a retelling of things you’ve experienced with very little refinement or dressing up. You did your act as though you’re more of a humorist, maybe someone who expects people to look at his work for a while and appreciate the humor of the whole instead of just a punch line here or there.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to follow a formula,” says Martin, trying to defend himself.

“I know, and you’re still pretty funny. You just need to turn your stories into a few jokes, maybe. Cut out the unnecessary bits. I don’t think you mean to just be the cream of the crop for amateur hour, so try just keeping them laughing with what’s comfortable for you.”

Martin doesn’t like this new Ian. On the outside he’s still the same skinny motherfucker with sandy hair, but he’s turned into some analytical powerhouse that makes Martin feel stupid. “I don’t like you now.”

Ian bursts into laughter that threatens to shatter Martin’s eardrums at its peak. While his convulsions continue to cycle as his mind processes the whole conversation, Ian takes a seat on his couch and starts grinding and packing marijuana for one of his bongs. He doesn’t pause his laughter until he’s just about to take his first rip. “Can you imagine? Jeez, that’s what I would sound like if I lived just a few more miles southeast.” The laughter continues renewed.

The front door flies open and slams shut almost as quickly. There stands a giant with shoulder-length dark hair, white face makeup, and an outfit that screams business casual, if it is at all possible to scream something so boring. He looks at Martin as if trying to silently create some sort of masculine mental bridge, but Martin worries more that Gay Martin won’t make it to the bathroom.

“Ian, who is this interloper?” says Gay Martin sternly. It’s only now that Martin wonders if the look of constipation was intended as intimidating.

“Oh, I’m Martin.”

“Martin?” GM asks incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

“No? Can’t Ian know more than one person named Martin?” Ian, who is now at least moderately high, begins to laugh quietly.

“That was my line!”

“Uh, yeah,” says Martin, then looks back to GM. “You must be Gay Martin.”

Gay Martin purses his lips, and his eyes shrink in contempt, dark ovals in a sea of white. “I guess I must be.”

A Thief Telling Some Jokes, Part 3: Exeunt

Things go well after the show. A few people tell Martin he was hilarious. This is expected. A lot of people don’t talk to him at all. This is nice. Herb makes his way through the crowd to shake hands with his headliner.

“A good show as always, Martin. How about I give you one-and-a-half the usual rate?” Not bad! Everything Martin can deduct from the balance owed to Michelle is welcomed.

“You’re too generous, Herb! Too generous.” Once again Martin is forced to scare up some friendliness for financial reasons. Although there’s really no reason for Martin to not be nice to Herb, he needs to keep up the idea that he’s an asshole deep down. He wouldn’t want to tarnish an otherwise stellar reputation.

Martin hangs around in the club with Ian and Hilda until almost everyone has made their way out. At one point Martin spots Ian and Herb talking. Herb is clearly confused and possibly on the verge of laughing. Ian does not disappoint.

“Looks like Herb’s getting a taste of the insanity,” says Martin, pointing out the conversational pair to Hilda.

“I think you mean ‘the fanciness.’” She laughs softly knowing that Martin won’t understand. He really doesn’t. “Hey,” she exclaims, smacking Martin on the chest, “what’s the gift you have for me?” Uh. Hmm.

“Well, I got your voicemail today.”

“And you didn’t come to get me?” she seems genuinely offended. Uh oh. Bring it around, Martin.

“No no, I didn’t even get the voicemail until it would have been much too late. But I figured that, rather than karmic retribution, it was probably some repo guys who took your car.”

“Yeah…probably should have figured out those payments, huh?”

“See, that’s my gift for you.” Martin enthusiastically thrusts the gift envelope toward her.

“You figured out how to pay for my car?” Hilda begins to open the envelope, but Martin stops her mid-flap.

“Yes! Yeah, just open that after I drop you off. I’m not good with gifts.” Hopefully she’ll be more inclined to accept if she can’t reject it in person.

“Okay, I guess I can wait, but now I just want to get home.” She smiles at Martin, and for a moment he feels absolved of his guilt. If this is what it feels like to be nice, he’s not entirely sure he hates it. Weird.

“Yeesh, so greedy.” There we go. Hilda scowls at Martin, then quickly lets it go. Ian and Herb have finished, and the crazy man is also ready to go.

“Let’s get this gypsy caravan out on the trail.” Yes, Ian, let’s do that.

Even later in the evening, Martin’s cell phone begins buzzing. Hilda’s face pops up on the screen, so he just lets it ring. It’s late enough that he can say he was sleeping. As soon as the voicemail icon comes up, Martin calls it and taps in his password.

“Martin! Thank you…so much.” Oh lord, is she crying? “I guess I owe you now or something, but I’ll pay you back. Thank you. I guess I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” Sometimes Martin worries that he’s defective, at least emotionally. The thankfulness from Hilda is making him wildly uncomfortable, and he needs some debauchery.

He looks up Ian’s number, freshly entered that night, and sends him a text. “Hey man, you wanna do something tomorrow?”

The response comes moments later: “My house at noon. Bring socks or money.”