Lair of the Silken Palms

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."

Think Tank (Pt. 2)

After a brief stint of pacing across Ian's living room with his head down, Martin looks back up to the concerned faces of his audience. He is just now impacted by the image of friends and acquaintances looking at him with anticipation, all gathered here for his benefit. He is still confused by some of the faces, though. It is odd to see Max Enberg eating a hastily assembled cold cut sandwich in a room that is so familiar to Martin. He still has no idea why such a welcoming spread of food was put out.

"So...is there some kind of speech planned?" Tammy says. Everyone's heads turn from her to Martin.

"Yeah," Gay Martin adds, "I still don't get why we're here." Ray voices his agreement as well.

"Okay," says Martin. "It's pretty clear that Ian didn't follow my instructions at all, so let me start again from the beginning. Tess Carter is trying to ruin my life."

"Who's that?" asks Francisco.

"She's uh, hmm." Martin had forgotten that not all of the people he wanted here were familiar with the Countess, and there are also people here who never should have been invited.  "Landon here," he says, pointing, "used to date her. At some point she decided that I am really interesting and that it would be a big adventure to dig into my psyche and see what she could find."

"I'm guessing she found an asshole," Gay Martin joked.

Martin sighed. "The problem is that she claims she didn't. And she wrote a book about it."

"What?" says Leanne. "Are you telling me she wrote a book about how nice you are?"

"Yes," said Martin.

"No way was she telling the truth," Leanne snorted.

"I might not agree with her opinion, but from what I've heard, everything she talks about in the book objectively is one hundred percent true."

"You're kidding me, right?" says Max. "Someone's writing a book about you. They're putting you in a good light. You're really upset. Do you not see the disconnect here?" Apparently Max has no desire to get on Martin's good side.

"But I have a reputation! Look at Francisco," Martin suggests, "someone who could easily rip me in half. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met, and I bet he'd rather people not know that."

"I'm okay either way, bro." Francisco shrugs. "Someone comes at me thinking they're gonna have an easy time because I'm nicer than I look is still gonna have a pretty bad time." Martin puts up his hands as a sign of deference for forgetting that Francisco was superhuman.

"That works for you, but what if someone hears about me from this book and tries very excitedly to get me to sign it for them? In that case I should just scream and start punching them?"

"If you wanna be an asshole, just ignore them," says Francisco.

"But then they think it's just my crunchy outer shell and all they have to do is work a little harder to get to my soft nougat center. Do you not see the problem with this? I can't live like that."

"What exactly do you propose we do about it?" asks Leanne.

"I was kind of hoping you'd help me with that," Martin admits. "The first thing that comes to mind is silently getting rid of Tess, but that's not really feasible or morally acceptable."

"You could always beat her to the press," says Landon, this time crunching on a meaty celery stalk.

"Meaning what?"

"Before her book comes out, do something publicly that proves you are, to the core, little more than another city-dwelling asshole. Go back to your roots from when you first decided you wanted to become a comedian."

Huh. Good old Landon Freeman is onto something here. Before Martin had moved to the city, he had enjoyed a couple of videos on the Internet made by a guy who called himself Vommy Bamboo -- a name that was never explained -- ranting about anything and everything he could think of, most of it highly politically incorrect. Some of it was just oddly humorous, though, like Vommy's predilection for the ukelele, which he would strum throughout his videos. He also felt society was judging him too harshly for taking good care of his hands. Vommy went over, in detail, his moisturizing routine for each finger, ending with "And if that's too much for you, then fuck you. I love my hands."

"That gives me a great idea, I think. Either that or a really, really terrible one."

"What's that?" says Landon.

"I may need all of you to help me eventually, but in the interest of getting back to my roots, I need to go pay a visit to Vommy Bamboo."

"Who the hell is Vommy Bamboo?" says Leanne.

"Exactly," says Martin. "I think, if my judgment is correct, that Vommy Bamboo is a tremendous asshole."

Think Tank (Pt. 1)

Such a familiar sight, and yet Martin is nervous. He needs everyone to be on board if he's going to maintain his dignity.

Martin knocks on the door, such a familiar sound. The door opens just a crack, and inside, the house is dark.

"Password?" says the guardian.

Martin furrows his brow. "I...have no idea."

After a brief pause, the door opens wider. "That is correct." Ian flicks the lights on, and everyone behind him groans at the sudden change in brightness. It's late, and their eyes were probably tired already. Martin charges forward, lifting Ian in a firm bear hug. "Okay, that's enough, sailor," Ian hisses through his crushed ribs. Martin sets him down heavily and looks around the room.

On the couch, the occupants from left to right are Gay Martin, Ray, and Leanne. Standing around the room are an unidentified yet familiar woman, Tammy the Genius, and an unidentified man.

"Ian, who are the extra people?" Martin whispers.

"Oh, that's Leanne's sister and Tammy's husband. I told everyone they could bring guests if they wanted."

"What? This was supposed to be a private meeting."

Ian looks as though he's just heard a good joke. "Ohhh. I totally thought you said 'friendly party.'" Martin shakes his head.

He then steps forward, away from the door. "You all know why I've gathered you here tonight," he begins. Ray raises his hand.

"I have no idea what's going on right now," says Ray. Martin lowers his face into his hands.

"Yeah," echoes Leanne, "I'm kind of confused. Ian told me we were gonna burn some things."

"Ian just told me to bring a tray of snacks and some drinks," says GM. "He said we were going to play strip solitaire."

"I don't even know who you are," says Leanne's sister.

"I tried to brief her on the way over," Leanne offers, "but she still didn't see why she had to come."

"Well," says Martin. "I mean...she didn't. I don't think Ian told you guys anything he was supposed to."

Landon Freeman enters from the kitchen carrying a plate full of vegetables and dip. He looks around at the people greeting his entrance with silence. "What?"

Martin looks wildly back and forth between Landon and Ian. "And why the hell did you invite him?!"

"There's a device in my brain that translates every rational thing you tell me into whatever the hell I want it to be," Ian replies. "Like, just now, you asked me why I invited him, and as I was coming up with the answer, my brain kept whispering 'I think I'm gonna go get high.' and 'Unicorns are amazing.'" As he said this, Ian was slinking off toward the kitchen with no shame.

"Martin, you don't understand. I'm not the bad guy," Landon insists. "I know why you're upset, and maybe you'll be happy to know that Tess and I are no longer together." He crunches through a celery stalk, chewing pensively while he gauges Martin's reaction.

"Did you know what she was doing for her book?"

"Nope," Landon replies, and this time he pops a baby carrot into his mouth.

"Okay," Martin relents. "You're a good man, Landon Freeman." Landon nods in agreement.

"I have asked for some of you to be here tonight because I need help," Martin announces. "I am being slandered in a new book by Tess Carter. She wants to claim that I am a decent and intelligent person living some kind of life-affirming human experience in the middle of the city, and that's neither true nor good for my career."

The door opens behind Martin. He turns around to see Francisco Panza, and behind him is a tall man in a wheelchair.

"Hey, bro. Sorry we're late," says Francisco, and he reaches out a hand to shake Martin's. Martin has no intention of denying Francisco anything, but then his attention is turned to Max Enberg.

"Uh, hey. How's it going?" Martin greets him. Max punches Martin in the stomach, though not hard enough to drop him.

"I'm all right," says Max, and he follows Francisco into the room with a gentle push of his wheels.

"There are snacks in the kitchen," Landon tells them, pointing the way.

"Hey, when they come back, can you start over?" Ray asks. "I'm a bit lost."

Martin holds his stomach, looking around the room. This is not going according to plan.

"Ian!"

Black to the City

Ring. Buzz buzz. Ring. Buzz buzz. Martin picks up his phone.

"Dude, I sent the check out already. Just have patience."

"Right," says Ray, "but the rent was due last week."

"I don't control when the rent is due! You fix that," Martin hisses, then he angrily taps his phone's screen to hang up on Ray.

His parents have been as accommodating as always, and this chance to hide has proved itself a welcome break from all things to do with the city except for Ray. Ray is being a dick. For five months Martin has sent a check for his half of the rent on time, and the one time he's late, Ray begins to call him every day to remind him that he's late. Seriously, what a dick.

Money has become less of a problem for Martin, but at the same time his comedy career as he knew it has all but evaporated. Without Herb and The Glorious Hole, he realized that he was a nobody. He wasn't a famous comedian. He was just a club regular, and that sucked. It wasn't good enough.

So instead of working to get gigs at other places, he moved in with his parents, but only temporarily, that's what he told himself. His parents didn't allow alcohol in the house. This made getting himself righted and back to living in the city remarkably urgent. Martin had been able to score a miniscule bag of pot from a wannabe white gangster up the street, but in the end he had paid too much for a product that didn't live up to its description.

Now he was neither high nor drunk, just staring at the different documents and websites open on his screen. Martin had managed to grab several freelance comedy writing jobs that paid very little but were highly rewarding in terms of exposure. Coupling this meager income with most of his expenses removed by parental housing and a strict alcohol policy, it was pretty easy for Martin to make rent these days. He had even chipped in a few bucks toward paying back Michelle, though they had begun to talk less and less after he escaped the city.

The third ghost that had haunted him all the way from the city was Tess trying to apologize and tell him that she wouldn't follow him around anymore, but he said very little back to her and what he did say was harsh. Landon never came to her defense.

"Martin, what do you want for dinner?" Martin's father yells up the stairs, and though most people say his dad looks like Morgan Freeman, he certainly doesn't sound like him. This dinner question is the nightly struggle, even though his mother usually has something planned. His father is too meek to remind her of this, however, so he asks Martin for a suggestion.

"I'll just eat whatever Mom's making!" Martin yells back, and he can hear his Dad trudge away from the stairs. Whether or not this answer is satisfactory is beyond Martin's scope of knowledge. It's certainly satisfactory to Martin. His mother has been in the kitchen all her life, inheriting generation after generation of recipes and techniques from a proud line of Southern black women. In short: when you eat a meal of hers, it stays eaten.

In a few minutes, Martin's polished off another small article, and this means another paycheck. Glorious. He's also under the impression that having fans on the Internet isn't such a bad thing. Maybe he can get a proper turnout when he's on stage now.

Dinner ends up being another of his mother's extravagant feasts set out for twenty people despite a guest list of three. Martin watches his parents eating silently as he takes a couple of bites of everything. It's all delicious, but it's too rich for his skinny frame.

"So Martin," his Dad starts, "how's the writing going?" Okay, maybe he does look a little like Morgan Freeman, but his eyes are too sad. Martin's father looks like a weathered man, like a coastal rock face that's had the ocean bearing down on it for as long as it can remember, and while it may not look different to you, you're certain it's changed.

"Just finished another piece, actually," says Martin. "I'm hoping I can get a few more done this week. If I can get some more regular publication then I'll probably head back into town and try writing from there."

"No need to feel rushed," says his Mom. "You can stay here as long as you'd like."

"No, I know. I just want to get back there at some point. Might as well have a goal." He wants to say his Mom looks like an older Queen Latifah, but for some reason that seems racist to Martin. He really has no idea where to draw the line. Martin is reminded of Kiefo for a moment, an odd memory to be cropping up now, but hey, the guy's black.

"Maybe you should write a book," his Dad says, just like he's said every day since Martin told him he was trying out written comedy.

"Yeah, maybe."

"Or you could try writing for the newspaper," his Mom suggests. It's more practical, but it still has nothing to do with his writing.

"That's true. I'm probably just going to do more stand-up, though."

"When do you think we could come to one of your shows?" asks his Mom, and Martin is choked by the guilt. They always ask when they can go to one of his shows, but he doesn't like the idea of swearing and talking about sex in front of his parents. Martin can see the shame and anger they'd feel after he accidentally makes some fantastically racist joke just before remembering that they're in the audience. They've raised him and given him a home. He doesn't need to remind them that they're a different ethnicity. "Your sister must go to your shows sometimes, right?"

"Michelle? Yeah, she goes every once in a while, but I don't really tell her when the shows are. It's really not a big deal, y'know. Just a hobby."

"I'd still like to go sometime."

"Alright, well I'll try to let you know when I've got something good coming up after I get back to the city. Maybe I can get a good time slot in a grocery store parking lot." When his parents laugh, Martin feels a lot better. If he focuses on his goals, everything is right in the world.

"Oh, I read about your book," says his dad. "Saw it in the paper."

"What?" Martin's father can be a bit...forgetful sometimes, but this is confusing in that it sounds like a new topic. "What book?"

"The one about you," says his father. Martin sits up straight. "By someone named Jess something."

Martin had assumed. He had made an ass out of him and himself. When Tess stopped bothering him, that should have been the end of it. She didn't pay him anymore, she didn't follow him, and there was nothing to write. What could she have written?

"Tess," his mother corrects.

"Oh right, Tess. She called us a while after you moved back here, asked us some things about how you were growing up."

"No," Martin says, standing up. She had sidestepped him completely, and his parents were much, much too kind.

"Well the book's about 'Marcus Ivory', but we'll know it's you," says his Dad, still happily eating.

"Excuse me," says Martin, and he runs upstairs to his computer, quickly typing in the fake name along with Tess's. The book is simply titled The Comedian. Not bad so far. Martin looks for the synopsis, but he's distracted by a video that automatically plays on the book's website.

"We're here with Tess Carter, author of the new novel The Comedian. Hi, Tess."

"Hi."

"This book is fairly remarkable just for some of the stories you've come up with, but I'd say that disbelief gets ratcheted up a notch when you say that this is all true, that's it's about someone you know."

"It is, though. The names have all been changed--"

"Except yours."

"Well right, except mine and Landon's."

"Landon's, yeah."

"But I was there for a lot of this or I talked directly to people who were there, so I'm willing to go out on a limb and say this is at least ninety-nine percent true."

"That's bold." The interviewer and Tess both laugh.

"It's pretty close."

"And your main character, Marcus, he's an interesting guy. A young white boy and his sister are adopted by a black family, then he moves to the city and lives under the radar as a mildly successful stand-up comic."

"Right."

"And you say a number of times in the book, well, excuse my language, folks, but he's an asshole."

"He is, and he'd admit it."

"And you also say he admits it because that's the reputation he wants."

"Exactly, see, this whole experience started when I just thought he was an interesting person. I wanted inspiration for my art, normally paintings, and he seemed to stir up something in me that I can't quite elaborate on. I figured it would be worth my time to learn more about him, and in doing so I found out that he's quite different than how he appears most of the time."

"He's a good guy, you mean?"

"More or less." Oh no.

"Like this one time he repossessed his friend's car and then borrowed money to get it back for her?" Oh no.

"Yes! I couldn't believe that when I first heard it. Everything about him seemed to rub the wrong way, and yet people loved him. I knew there was something about him I wasn't seeing."

"And he's generally a sensitive guy?" Oh no.

"I don't know if that's the right word. He's a human being, I guess. That's more obvious with some people than it is with others. He hides it well, or at least he distracted me from it for a long time. This is a man, though, who grew up without his biological parents, then he and his sister graduated near the top of their classes in high school. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from an Ivy League school after she graduated from a prestigious business school. Then he decided that his best bet was to follow his dreams and be a stand-up comic. His sister works in the financial district. In some ways, I think that's the thing I find most inspirational about him. He followed certain societal expectations for a long time in his life, but when it came time to actually make a living, he did exactly what he wanted. He lives in a cheap house with a roommate, he drinks too much, and he can seem very heartless sometimes, but I think that in the midst of all that he is still a great person, not in the sense that he's good for everybody else, just in the sense that he is exactly who he wants to be." Oh fuck.

Martin pauses the video and stares wide-eyed at Tess's stupid face. She knows everything. He needs to get back there, back in the city to clean this all up. Martin had a reputation, after all, a small one, but it was growing and growing exactly how he wanted. Tess is set to nuke that reputation with a poorly masked tell-all that has no reason to exist except for her own idiotic whims.

Martin grabs his phone and flips through his contacts.

"Hello?"

"Hey, this is Martin. I need you to get ready for my homecoming, because you and I have some serious brainstorming to do, okay?"

"I'll set out some bowls of lightning and clouds. Maybe some cats and dogs or something." Ah, "brainstorming". And "raining cats and dogs".

"Wait wait. I thought you didn't like animals."

Ian snorts into the phone. "Just the ones that come out of my brain, dude."