Landon pulls into the small alley
parking lot at 1:50 PM. Their appointment is at two o'clock sharp, and neither
Martin nor Landon knows what to expect.
"This should be pretty
interesting," Martin says. "I can't imagine why he has a
secretary."
"You read his website. He's
a philanthropist. Maybe that...requires a lot of scheduling," Landon
suggests, but signs point to him being just as baffled as Martin.
Turns out that Vommy Bamboo
wasn't the hardest guy to find. A quick search of his name turned up the
"Vomit Bamboo Foundation", apparently a way for Vommy to use his
trust fund wealth and cantankerous spirit for the greater good. Perhaps the
Vommy Bamboo videos had just been a convincing act. Even that might be helpful,
though.
The building containing his office
is neither lavish nor run down. It looks to be home to several office-dwelling
entities, from talent managers' offices to other non-profit organizations. The
location, at least, is not intimidating.
"Yeah, let's just get in
there and see what's happened to the guy," Martin says.
The two men exit the vehicle and
enter the building, noting that the foundation's office is on the third floor.
Martin tries to get Landon to take the elevator, but he is of course too fit
for that.
A nondescript sign marks the entrance
to Vommy's office, where Landon holds the door open for Martin to venture
forth. Waiting to greet them at a clean, modern desk is a cheery plump woman
sitting behind a keyboard.
"Hello!" she beams.
"You must be Mr. Avery and Mr. Freeman."
"Uh, yeah," says
Martin. "We're here to see...Vommy, Vomit, whatever."
"Mr. Bamboo is ready to see
you whenever you're ready," she says. "His office is right through
those double doors." Martin looks at the plain doors. Everything's too
normal so far. Perhaps the interior of Vommy's office is a terrifying mess.
Inside, a wall of skunky perfume hits Martin
like a warm bucket of water to the face. It smells like Vommy has been trying
to mask his weed with cheap incense. Martin gives Landon a look of uncertainty
when Landon crinkles his nose.
"Gentlemen," says Vommy
Bamboo in a lilting trill. His hair is
short and dark, just like his beard. Silver-framed glasses sit high on his
nose. He is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, carrying his signature ukulele,
and a large iguana rides across his shoulders. "I'm so happy to see
neither of you is black."
"What?" says Martin.
"Have you ever touched
dicks?" Vommy asks.
"Have we..." Landon
starts.
"Touched dicks," says
Vommy. "Have they touched?"
"Not recently," says
Martin.
"Hmm. I guess that will have
to do," says Vommy. He shakes hands with Landon, then with Martin. After
releasing his grip, he runs his fingers down the side of Martin's face. They're
disturbingly soft, like the hands of a eunuch. "Please have a seat."
He points to a leather couch
opposite his armchair. There's no desk to be seen, but there is a low coffee
table in the middle of the seating arrangement. It seems odd to Martin that
there are several other doors leading out of the "office".
"You are welcome to one
doughnut or one danish and a cup of coffee." Martin notes the two mugs
with a small pitcher of creamer and a bowl of sugar. There are also two plates
with one of each baked good on them. Martin wonders what Vommy would do if he
ate both, but he doesn't feel like testing this man.
"So Mr. Bamboo," says
Landon, taking a sip from his coffee and picking up his doughnut, "do you
know why we're here?"
"No," says Vommy. His
fingers pull out a pleasant tune from the ukulele while his iguana swings its
tail.
"Okay," Martin says.
"Well, you've probably never heard of me--"
"Nope!" Vommy blurts
out. He laughs to himself as he continues playing his song.
"Right," Martin
continues, "but I saw your videos a long time ago, right around when I was
moving here, and they became a source of inspiration for me." Martin
wasn't going to touch the food, but his pastry is starting to look delicious.
"I can only imagine what
sort of dull imagination you must have," Vommy says. "Would you boys
mind if I touch myself a bit?"
Martin is caught completely
off-guard, but Landon is mentally present.
"A bit," he says.
"I think that would be a bit traumatizing for Martin."
Vommy snorts his disapproval.
"Anyway," Martin says,
trying to keep a grip on the reason he's here in the first place, "I don't
really know how busy you are these days with this foundation, but if you have
any tips on being a jerk, I could really use them."
"For what?" Vommy asks.
"This woman is publishing a
book about me saying that I'm really nice at heart, and that will ruin the
reputation I've cultivated. How can I convince everyone that I am truly a bad
person?"
"I don't know," Vommy
says, staring at nothing in particular. "You could marry a black man. That
would be the ultimate middle finger to society."
"Sure, sure," Martin
says, hoping to move away from the bigotry, "but what about something that
doesn't involve reshaping some of my major characteristics? I'm not,
y'know...gay."
"Look, you're the one who's
trying to be a jerk. I don't want to give you advice anyway. You're just trying
to take my routine." Vommy stops playing his ukulele and stands up.
"If you think I'm such an asshole, then why would you think I'd help you?
That's absurd."
"Point taken."
"If you need help, go get it
somewhere else," Vommy says, trying to push his glasses up his nose even
though they haven't slipped. "That's not what we do around here."
"We? You and your
secretary?" Martin asks.
"What exactly does your
foundation do?" asks Landon.
"That, I'm afraid, is none
of your business." Vommy walks to the double doors and opens one, standing
to the side. "I'm going to have to ask you boys to leave." Landon
just finishes his doughnut, and Martin decides now is the time to take both
options and split. He makes no attempt to hide his theft from Vommy and walks
out just behind Landon.
"Do you need another
appointment?" asks the secretary.
"No, that's quite all
right," says Landon. "Let's go."
As they're walking back down the
stairs, it dawns on Martin that he still doesn't have a plan to keep his life
from imploding.
"Any ideas for a Plan
B?" he asks.
"It may not be your idea of
a plan, but we could just talk to Tess, see what she has to say."
Martin sighs. "You really
are always right."