Spies

“Like...how about this? ‘I have this fear that one day I’ll meet a truly paranoid person who is technologically illiterate. What’s gonna happen when I tell them that the screens on computers are called “monitors?” I don’t think anyone wants to be around for that.’” Martin smiles.

“Okay, that’s pretty good. Not a lot of punch to it, but you have plenty of time to let that shit stew. So come on, who was that girl?” Martin has been pestering Tommy constantly since the party, meaning Tommy has had to suffer through a whole day of Martin calling him a coward.

“Or this one, I guess.” Tommy lines up his finger on the correct line of the notepad. With Ray out of town for a day or so, Martin figured Tommy could hang out there around the clock in preparation for a show at some point in the near future. “‘On a wall near my apartment, there’s a section that’s a mishmash of graffiti and flyers. One day I noticed that two local bands had put up flyers for shows on the same night at different places. Seemed harmless, but the next day I saw that one of the bands had printed about thirty more flyers and covered up everything else on the wall. Kind of a dick move, but hey, they’re proud of their music, right? The following day, the other band has done the same thing, but their flyers are the brightest, most obnoxious neon yellow I have ever seen while not on acid. So I bought a ream of paper, grabbed a permanent marker, and made my own sign out of paper that covered the whole segment of the wall. It said, “PLEASE STOP SHOUTING! I CAN’T SEE WHERE I’M GOING.”’”

“Seems a bit long, for one,” Martin suggests, “but also...did that really happen?” He gives a look to Tommy meant to pry out the truth, but his apprentice offers it freely.

“No. I just came up with it.”

Martin crinkles his nose. “You’re gross.”

“What? Comedians make up stories all the time.”

“But the whole thing? Was any of that true?”

“There’s a wall near my house,” Tommy says, but his tail is between his legs.

“Okay, well I wouldn’t suggest ending with that one; that’s all.” Martin looks around the dimness of his place at dusk. It’s not very clean, but it’s not dirty. Clutter. It’s cluttered, and Martin is starting to hate it. “You wanna get some weed?”

First Tommy looks at his notepad with what seems to be a mild case of despair and fear, but as his brain chugs along, he snaps out of it. Tommy shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”

“Exactly.” Martin calls Ian to arrange for a purchase. Tommy heads outside for some reason, but when Martin exits the building, Tommy’s just sitting in his car.

“You all ready to go?” he asks as Martin gets into the car.

“Why would I get into the car if I’m not ready?”

“Just asking,” Tommy says, backing the car into the street.

“I don’t know what the rush is. The whole reason we’re making this trip is to chill the fuck out. You especially. You need to calm down. Your first show isn’t a big deal, man. Go ahead and be nervous all you want, and go ahead and screw up a few times and bomb some jokes. You just need to get it out of your system, then next time you’ll know what to expect. It’s as easy as that.” Tommy just nods along as he drives. Has he really listened? Martin can’t be sure.

When Tommy pulls up to Ian’s place, Martin can already spot Tess standing uncomfortably near the door. “Damn, she’s like a bloodhound,” Martin says.

“Seems like you kind of owe her anyway since you didn’t leave the house yesterday.”

“Oh shut it.” Martin climbs out of the car and walks glumly up to the Countess. “I thought you were going to try to stay out of my business. Just observe, y’know?”

Tess looks stunned. “You didn’t complain about it for the first few days.” Tommy steps up behind Martin.

“You were better at it back then. I call my friend for a weed hook-up, and you’re already waiting here? At the door?”

“If I may be honest, I was a bit afraid to knock after what happened at the club.”

“He was just being protective,” says Tommy.

“Exactly!” Martin agrees loudly, then he knocks on the door. “Ian is harmless. Hell, just ask Francisco. He’s fine.”

When the door swings open, an arm appears from inside, extended and holding a large pistol. Tommy jumps back. Tess recoils in fear, slumping against the house.

“Hey Ian,” greets Martin. “What’s up with the gun?”

Ian hesitates before holstering the gun. “I’ve been having these hallucinations about a skunk...an elephant, I don’t know. Animals freak me out.” Martin nods sympathetically. Tess is only just barely standing up.

“I understand. So.” Martin rubs his hands together. “Do you have the goods?”

The wiry blond stoner disappears from the doorway and is suddenly replaced by an enormous bag of marijuana, although not quite as large as one Martin once saw Ian bring into the house. “Wow,” Tommy whispers.

“Jesus, man. That’s way more than I asked for.” Martin looks around for potential witnesses, but this part of town is pretty empty. “I’m not paying for that much.”

“Oh whatever,” Ian grumbles. He shoves the bag at Tommy and holds out a hand to Martin expectantly. “My scale’s broken. So sue me. Yeesh.” This is the first time in a while that Martin has been surprised by a side of Ian’s personality.

Martin shakes his head and hands the money he prepared over to Ian.

“Wait a minute,” Tess interrupts. “Don’t you owe your sister money? And you’re buying drugs?”

Martin holds his hands up and squints at everybody in turn. “I knew something was up. How the hell did you know that?”

“I...” It’s obvious that she’s caught up in some web of lies, but Martin doesn’t know where it starts, where it ends, or who exactly the spider is.

“I told her,” Tommy says. Martin whirls around.

“And why are you telling her about my problems? Did you tell her to meet us here?” Martin glares at Tommy. He can’t seem to find his words either. “Why are you working for her? Is she paying you?”

“Martin,” Tess starts, but he holds up a hand to silence her.

“I just want everything out in the open,” Martin says calmly.

“I saw Gay Martin’s testicles once,” Ian mutters from the doorway.

“Ian, go inside!” Martin yells, and Ian complies reluctantly.

“There’s nothing to explain, Martin,” Tommy begins. “She needed ways to track you, so I said I’d help. I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“But I thought she was doing fine on her own. When did she start getting info from you?” Martin worries about where this interrogation might lead, but he doesn’t like unexpected information about the people close to him.

“From the beginning.” Martin maintains eye contact with Tommy, hoping to see a tell if the man’s lying.

“I asked him to get close to you,” Tess adds. “I wanted someone near you so I could keep a closer eye on you and get more information.”

“Wait.” A horrible realization is dawning on Martin. “Tommy, tell me the truth: do you want to be a comedian?”

Tommy’s jaw drops, and then so does Martin’s.

“What about Mary?” He stares at Tess with a calamitous mix of anger and hope.

“I just, I didn’t know how you’d be with a woman.” So that is Tess’s excuse for being a horrible person. Martin’s blood is boiling.

“I want you to both just go to hell,” he says as he storms away. “And I hope they extend eternity a couple million years just for people like you!”

Tommy: fake. Mary: fake. Martin wants so badly just to punch someone in the face over and over again, but the most he can get himself to do to expend more energy is walk a bit faster. As it is, it takes him two hours to walk home -- including a stop at the liquor store -- and he’s still furious when he gets back.

Martin sets down his packs of beer on the table. Ray is home, apparently, and he comes to the kitchen to greet Martin. “Uh, hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Martin says hastily as he rummages through their utensil drawer for the can and bottle opener. The first sip after he wrestles a cap off is a relief.

Ray laughs. “Are we drinking tonight?” He opens the fridge and grabs one of his non-alcoholic beers. Martin looks at Ray, then down at Ray’s beer, which he slaps out of Ray’s hand onto the floor, splitting the bottle open and spilling beer all over the floor. “What the hell was that for?”

In no mood to play, Martin grabs one of his beers and plants it in Ray’s open palm. “You’re drinking for real tonight.”

Ray looks wide-eyed at the alcoholic beer in his hand. “Alright, if you thin--”

“Dude, just shut up and drink.” Martin carries the bottle opener and some of his beer into the living room, where he claims one half of the couch as his own and turns on the television.

“Is, uh, is everything alright?” Ray asks as he sits down.

Martin continues to stare at the screen. “Yup.” He takes another sip of his beer.