by Jeff Strand
My Really Stupid Phase came to an end when my dad sat me down for a serious talk after signing my cast. We never had many serious talks. The poor guy just wasn’t any good at them, and still isn’t. A few years later, when we had our serious talk about the birds and the bees and other interspecies relationships, he got wrong the few parts that he didn’t try to distract me from hearing. The talk that ended the reign of Slapstick Man was simple.
“Son,” he said, “does your arm hurt?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Do you know why it hurts?”
“‘Cause I broke it.”
“And why’d you break it?”
“I fell out of the tree.”
“Exactly. Knock that kind of crap off. Now go get me my pipe and tobacco.”
The next year I entered Practical Joke Phase. This phase was not pretty. The fake insects and reptiles left in strategic locations were just the beginning. Everyone learned not to accept candy or gum from me because it would dye their lips, burn their tongue, or contain a bug. Condiment containers almost never held the correct condiment. I used creamed corn to give fake vomit a more realistic appearance. Shaking hands with me was certain tragedy. (While we’re on the subject, I think somebody should invent a joy buzzer diaphragm as a gag gift for brides-to-be.) I had a collection of five whoopee cushions, and they were always hidden somewhere...waiting...
Yes, I was a brat. I’m sure that more than one adult, upon leaving our house, felt compelled to remark “What a darling little shithead.” But one day I watched an episode of some sitcom where the youngest and cutest child learned an important lesson: Practical jokes might be amusing to the person playing them, but to the victims they’re not always so funny. So I said “forget it” and retired the disappearing ink.
Okay, that’s a lie. It was a big-time spanking from my Aunt Valerie that cured me. I poured itching powder down her back (I used that stuff in bulk) and before she’d fully recovered from that prank, she sat on a toilet seat coated with a thin layer of special glue that was marketed for just that purpose. It was a long time before either of our butts recovered.
After those infamous phases in my life, I turned to joke books. I’m sure my constant jokes and riddles got annoying, but my parents were relieved about this switch in brands of humor, so they encouraged me by buying me dozens of those books and always saying “Who’s there?” on cue. That’s when I found that, though I couldn’t remember squat about math or geography, I could effortlessly remember jokes.
This is when my social standing amongst my parents’ friends rose, at least a bit. I was always welcome to share a few of my newest jokes with guests. Of course, I always had to be reminded that a “few” did not mean “forty,” but at least I wasn’t faking my own death anymore.
Telling jokes that other people had written soon led to writing my own. I guess, due to their historical significance, I should share two or three with you. And I will if you just give me a few minutes to work up the nerve.
[ A few minutes pass. ]
Okay, here are the first two jokes I sat down and wrote out. Hold your stomachs, ‘cause there’s gonna be some guffawin’ tonight!
A little girl walked up to a man. “What are you doing?” she asked. “None of your beeswax,” the man said. The girl said “I don’t have any wax, and besides, I’m scared of bees.”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Seth.”
“Seth who?”
“Seth the thermostat on seventy-two. It’s too cold in here.”
Moving onward...very, very quickly...
When I was ten, an event occurred that was to be the most important moment in my comedy career. It was the nice sunny summer day when I first met Travis Darrow.
Did I mention that we lived in the suburbs? I don’t think so. Actually, it doesn’t look like I’ve filled you in on any of that geographical stuff that enriches the narrative and makes you feel like you’re really there. I suppose I’d better, just to be on the safe side. I lived in Sharpview, Ohio, which is about an hour from Cleveland. Population 22,000. A nice neighborhood called Slimoor Estates, named after Howard Slimoor, who was less than pleased that we kids liked to call it Slime Estates. I say, if you don’t want people messing with your name, get a name that isn’t so easily messed with.
I guess I should also point out that when I was ten, I wasn’t quite the stud muffin that you may know and lust after (or wish that your significant other didn’t lust after, depending on your gender preference). Naturally, there was always a degree of stud muffinship in my aura, but at ten it wasn’t as fully developed. It has occasionally been brought to my attention that the words “skinny little dweeb” might be appropriate, but I think that’s an exaggeration. My haircut did fall into the category of “nerdish.” And, well...
Ah, screw it. I was a total, 100%, card-carrying Dork. That’s right, I admit it. Seth Trexler was a Dork Supreme! Dork, dork, dork! If you saw a picture of me during that time, you’d spit up a larynx from laughing so hard. Send me a letter and $199.95 and I’ll send you one. A larynx, I mean...no way am I sending you a photo.
So, there I was, skateboarding down the sidewalk, weaving around all the spat-out gum, when I saw Travis in the park. He also fit the “dork” mold. Skinny, braces, red hair sticking up in something vaguely resembling a style, and about a billion freckles. He was kneeling in the sandbox, taping some action figures with a video camera. This bore further investigation. I hopped off the skateboard and walked over to him, causing him to speak what I consider a historic first word to me.
“Dammit!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Your shadow got all over my characters!”
I stepped back. “Oh, sorry.”
“No, move back where you were. I’ll keep your shadow in there. It’s an eclipse. The robot’s solar-powered, and this shuts him down long enough for Vantor to get away. But it’s a quick eclipse, and the robot regains its power in time to chase him across the muck field. You were a little more to the left. Yeah, there. Don’t move.”
“Where’s the muck field?”
“It’s that patch of tar on the street. Don’t move.”
I tried to remain steady. “Is that your camera?”
“My dad had it in the attic. You’re moving.”
He pressed a button on the camera and held it for a split second, then reached over and moved an armored figure (Vantor: Defender of the Scum People) about half an inch. Then he filmed for another split second.
“How long is this going to take?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can I move some of the figures?”
“Then how would you be an eclipse?”
“I’ll move them then stand back up.”
“Okay, you can move Sorikand and Quart if you don’t knock them over. I’ll tell you how to move them. Only do it a little at a time.”
I crouched down beside the sandbox. “How about you have the robot kill that guy next to him? He could pop his head off.”
“I don’t want to wreck my figures.”
“I’ve got a bunch of figures at home. We can destroy them. I even have firecrackers.”
And in that moment an instant friendship was formed.
Chapter Three
“Friends and Octopi”
We never did get more than five minutes of the adventures of Vantor taped, though in those five minutes my figures were punctured, dismembered, melted over an open flame, sunk in homemade quicksand, and tortured with minor acids from Travis’ chemistry set. Their cries for mercy went unheeded. Heh heh.
The rest of the summer was an absolute blast. Travis loved hearing my jokes, though when he tried to tell them himself the results were disastrous. Have you all heard the joke about the string going into the bar? I personally have nightmares about that one, but it’s nice and simple, with a somewhat clever little pun at the end. Except for the time Travis told it...
“This string walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender says ‘Hey, we don’t serve strings here.’ So the string says ‘Okay’ and walks outside, then he frays himself and ties himself into a frayed knot. So he goes back into the bar and the bartender says ‘Hey, aren’t you that string?’ and the string says ‘No, I’m a frayed knot’ and so the bartender gets him a drink. And then the string says...ummm...he says something...”
Sigh.
What Travis could do is come up with amazing adventure stories. He lived for aliens, boogey men, pirates, giant mutant bugs—all that stuff. When we would construct elaborate scenarios with our action figures, he was in charge, and my attempts to interject slapstick into the proceedings were not appreciated. You should all be aware that the Dark Raider would not let himself slip on a banana peel and fall off a cliff. Don’t make the same mistake I did.
Together we had close to 150 figures from seven different terrible Saturday morning cartoon shows, and Travis knew the full background of each and every one of them. I knew which ones had the coolest guns. And while my contributions to the action were generally ripped-off from the latest episode of the cartoon, Travis’ were entirely original, though strictly within the guidelines of the character and his powers.
We did other stuff during that summer, too. Neither of us were much interested in sports, which are by definition boring and far beyond our abilities, but we liked to walk through the woods, go to movies, watch enough TV to justify our parents’ concerns about brain rot, and eat lots of candy. Lots and lots of candy.
It was the quest for candy on one extremely hot day that led to something that I’ll just refer to as The Incident. Our mission for that day was to pick up a pair of Hershey bars each, a new action figure for me, and a new video cassette for Travis’ camera. We stopped at the grocery store first, and were so pleased with its fully functioning air conditioning system that we decided to hang around for a while. So we just walked up and down the aisles, discussing the pros and cons of almonds in chocolate bars, when Travis noticed one of the most wonderful things either of us had ever seen in our lives.
There it was, waiting for us in the seafood department.
An octopus.
A real octopus, though fairly small, wrapped up just like it was a steak. Perhaps your grocery stores contain octopi in abundance, but this was the first time either of us had seen one of them in person. We were impressed. Very impressed. Forget the action figure and tape. We had to have that octopus for our very own.
So we bought it, along with our candy bars, and hurried home to Travis’ backyard. Removing the cellophane was a simple enough task, but the actual removal of the octopus required a greater degree of bravery. You see, those things are slimy and have suckers. And we couldn’t be sure it was really dead, could we?
“I’ll give you two blocks of chocolate if you take it out,” I said, with the intention of immediately stuffing the rest of the candy bar in my mouth after the task was completed, opening my mouth wide, and inviting him to claim his payment.
“Uh-uh. I’ll give you one of mine if you do it.”
“Nope.”
“I dare you to pick up the octopus.”
That was playing dirty, but it still didn’t work. We decided to pick up the octopus with two sticks, each of us holding one. If you’ve ever attempted to lift an octopus (or any unshelled mollusk, for that matter) with two sticks, you’ll realize that it doesn’t work, especially when the participants are more focused on trying to flip the octopus onto each other.
Finally we donned protective gloves, each hesitantly grabbed a tentacle, and picked up the creature. Within two minutes our anxieties had vanished and we were tossing the octopus back and forth like a football. We pressed it against the window to see if the suckers on its tentacles would hold it there. We brought out the action figures and gave them a fearsome new enemy with which to do battle.
Well, even something as fantastic as your very own dead octopus gets boring after a while. We needed to do something special with it. Something glorious.
It’s worth mentioning at this point that Travis had an older sister.
Okay, so I wasn’t completely out of my Practical Joke Phase. And since we’d used our own money to purchase the octopus, it would’ve been a waste of resources not to slip it under the covers of his sister Margaret’s bed. Right?
And so we did. I stayed over at his house that night, but by that evening we’d forgotten about the octopus. We went to bed without giving it another thought.
Travis was a middle child, but there was quite a gap in ages between his siblings. His younger brother Kyle was four, and Margaret was seventeen. She was always a nice girl, a good student, never got into much trouble. In fact, there was only one secret in her life that her parents would have seriously disapproved of. Every once in a while, not too often (I guess we just have to take her word for this), she would sneak her boyfriend into her room after everyone else had gone to sleep.
At 1:38 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, there was a piercing shriek. Travis and I hurried out of his room next door to investigate. Travis’ parents burst out of their own room across the hall, and his dad threw open Margaret’s door.
Pretend you’re Travis’ dad. You see your daughter standing in her room, totally freaked out, and not wearing a shirt. Her boyfriend, a large, muscular type, is desperately trying to get her to quiet down while he pulls on his jeans.
Do you assume a) she found an unexpected dead octopus under the covers, or b) her large, muscular boyfriend got a little carried away with the hanky-panky?
The rest of the night was rather unpleasant. It included a really cool punch to the jaw by Travis’ dad, lots and lots of shouting that included “Go get my shotgun!” and a visit from the police. It ended with explanations all around, and severe punishments for all the youthful participants. Though Margaret was technically grounded “for the rest of her life,” her parents paroled her after a month. Travis got one week. After my parents were notified, I got two, which still seems kind of unfair.
* * *
Summer drew to a close, as those traitorous summers are wont to do. The specter of a new school year hovered above us, mocking us, laughing at our feeble attempts to squeeze as much fun as we possibly could into the last days of freedom.
The Saturday before homework season began, I spent the night at Travis’ house again. His mom decided that we needed to practice getting up early, and thus sent us to bed at 9:30 p.m. We gave her recommendation of going to sleep ample consideration, ultimately rejected it, and spent a while just talking. We discussed the fact that we were both going to be in Mrs. Talbot’s class, which was absolutely terrifying. It was said that if you looked deep into her eyes you would know what true evil was, and it would haunt you until your dying day. As it turned out, Mrs. Talbot was a perfectly nice woman, and the students she axe-murdered for her unholy rituals weren’t close acquaintances anyway.
“Know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Travis asked me.
“Eat your boogers?” I was ten, remember. My ad-lib skills weren’t quite honed yet.
“No.”
“Eat somebody else’s boogers?”
“No. I want to start a story. Do a page of it every single day for the rest of my life. It’d be the longest story ever written.”
“I’ll help you with it,” I offered. “We can write it together.”
“Okay, and when we’re not together, one of us will have to write it alone. We’ll keep it in notebooks, and trade them back and forth. And we have to promise to do one page every day, no matter what. Okay?”
“Okay. What do you want it to be about?”
“We should make up a brand new super hero.” Travis went over to his desk and grabbed a notebook. He tore out the first few already-used sheets, then picked up a pencil. “We’ll start with his origin.”
He started to write. I peered over his shoulder.
Once upon a time...
“Hey!” I
said, glancing at his clock. “That killer horse movie is on! Wanna start writing this tomorrow?”
“Sure, all right.”
We started writing the next day. We decided to exercise some forethought and title our epic tale “Travis and Seth’s Story,” because you never knew what plot twists might come about and invalidate other titles.
Believe it or not, we stuck with it. No, we didn’t write every day, and we usually didn’t do the full page, but this wasn’t an idea that we tossed aside after a week or so, like learning the guitar or brushing our teeth. Our hero was a lively, moralistic chap named Trychen who wore gold body armor and could fly despite being weighed down by all that gold. He was a very effective hero, going through villains at the rate of approximately one every five days.
There were some notable differences in writing styles at first. When I had the story to myself, there were no limits, and as much over-the-top silliness as I could squeeze in. The creation of Butt-Man was one of my more legendary moments. Travis’ contributions were more focused and took the material seriously. He killed off Butt-Man the second he got a chance, though Butt-Man’s byproduct soon rose and tried to seek vengeance. When we were writing together, there was no way to tell what was going to happen. Creative differences flew fast and thick, but we always managed to work it out, even if it meant coming to blows on occasion and threatening to end our friendship on a bi-weekly basis.
At the end of four years, we had almost five hundred pages written. I’m talking about handwritten pages, so it’s not like we were in Robert Mitchum territory, but it was still one long story. And there were several noteworthy changes as the tale evolved. Females began to play a larger role, with Trychen’s girlfriends often coincidentally having the same names as certain damsels at our school. Instead of my contributions becoming more serious, Travis’ grew more and more silly (I was a bad influence on him), until, by age fourteen, we were writing an all-out comedy novel.