Benkharakh.com

By Ben Kharakh

Tom Goddard never thought that college would be like this. That he would actually be friends with the same ethnically diverse group of people that spent their time loitering on the covers of brochures. But here he was, lounging around with a Canadian, Nigerian, paraplegic, Korean, Jew, a guy from Alabama, and an Inuit.

"I'm hungry," announced Tom. And soon everyone had realized that, yes, they too were hungry. They had left the dorm and were heading for the stairs when Rick, a varsity wrestler, offered them bong hits for the road. They accepted and a night of hedonism ensued.

The following afternoon, Tom discussed literature with Cliff, a bearded history major hoping to become a political pundit. "Did you read the last hundred or so pages of Ulysses?" Tom asked.

"Yeah."

"Was it all one sentence?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because Joyce was a jackass."

Tom proposed that the two head down to the rec room to play some foosball. Along the way, they exchanged comments such as, "For Ulysses to be any worse of a book, it would have to break into your dorm and defecate on your bed," and, "If bad, horrible, and garbage got together to get drunk out of their minds, did, and then wrote a book, it would still be better than Ulysses."

When they got there, the table was busy, so they did some people watching.

"See that chick? I boned her."

"Me too," conceded Cliff.

"Well," said Keith, who had just arrived and had overheard their conversation, "That means you practically boned each other." Neither Tom nor Cliff was amused.

"I didn't know they let you math majors in here," commented Cliff. Such was the case, explained Keith, but he had taken the risk to sneak in just to mention a pants optional viewing of The Big Lebowski. Cliff declined, citing his need to write a paper on the correlation between aging Baby Boomers coming to terms with their mortality and the current saturation of the book market with theology oriented texts. Tom agreed to go and the event would become one of the highlights of his college years. Even as he trudged away at the office, Tom would still look back to that evening as a source of solace.

Tom had aspirations of becoming a writer, but lacked the creativity to produce even a short story. He could, however, write high quality sentences. Tom started out at Homunculus, a company that provided textbooks with questions, with analogies and literature trivia, but it was his fill in the blanks that caught the attention of the editor. Soon, Tom was contributing to entire volumes and after that he had quit. He had no choice; an employee named Jeremy was found dead in the copy center, which prompted a meeting.

"We need to streamline the ergodynamics in an attempt to achieve manifest destiny while increasing profit margins," began Joe Hanson, a suited manager with slicked back hair, tanned skin from frequent vacations, and a forty-two inch waist from years of affluent living. "If we succeed, then we'll have a synergy consensus that will facilitate a diffusion of funds with minimum conflagrations. There’s too much superfluous nomenclature preventing me from delving into any particular aspect. Being privy to the jargon and habitual implementation of said jargon is necessary, and it also allows me to employ verbal subterfuges such as this one. So, ipso-facto, pro bono, ad infinitum, the victims of such a chicanery would never know due to the archaic sesquipedalians being employed.

Lastly, detective Slick Williams will be speaking to you about the Jeremy incident on an individual basis."

Incident was an understatement. Jeremy was the fifth body found. But these were smart people that worked at Homunculus and they picked up on a trend: only the tertiary characters were getting killed. So employees started acting out in an attempt to move to the forefront of office gossip. Lydia, who fabricated real-life applications for calculus, became more flirtatious, Josh, the mailroom attendant, started calling all of the females either "honey crotch" or "sugar thighs," and Griffin, who introduced the jumble as a review exercise, started coming in drunk.

Short, bald, and possessing all of the facial accoutrements of Groucho Marx, Slick Williams was the least intimidating detective imaginable. His interrogation of Tom aptly displayed his ineptitude.

"Don't you think it's a bit suspicious that you're quitting right in the middle of a killing spree?" Slick asked.

"I'd be suspicious of anyone that didn't quit," retorted Tom.

"Well, don't leave town."

"I'm going to have to cause I don't live in this borough."

"I'm going to keep my eye on you."

"I'll be at the Laugh Attic tonight at eight on 23rd near 6th. You're welcome to come."

Slick wasn't there that night, missing out on a bevy of performers. Like a man who quipped, "Black people have such wacky names. Like you, sir, what's your name?" And the audience member answered, "Steve." There were also appearances by the comic who had cerebral palsy and was also gay, as well as the guy who did all of his material about how big his head was despite it being proportional to the rest of his body.

Tom sat in the back of the room chatting with Cliff, the only person from his college days that Tom kept in touch with. In his autobiography, The Ramifications of my Influence, Cliff portrayed his friendship with Tom as, "difficult, but rewarding." The book described Cliff as an Italian seafarer that convinced the Spanish royalty to finance a westward trip to the Indies.

"How was the Saget show?" Cliff asked.

"Good. I was supposed to do twenty minutes, but he cut me off after ten because he only wanted me to 'warm the crowd up.'"

"You going to Sly's party tomorrow?" asked Cliff.

"I guess. I have some time to kill tomorrow before my set at the Improv."

Tom was home by midnight. He lived in Bensonhurst in an apartment overlooking a cemetery. He slept till noon of the following day, knowing that he had no reason to wake up early. When he finally awoke, Tom looked over some one-liner preemies: what was it like the first time someone ever ate honey, how to get revenge on fish or trees, and fake jobs, which was both underlined and followed by an exclamation point. Tom had no idea what that one was about. Whenever he forgot a joke, the only thing Tom could remember was how good it was. Knowing that if he tried to sit and come up with jokes he'd be unsuccessful, Tom was faced with the daunting task of entertaining himself for the day.

He went for a walk, watched some TV, and answered the door. It was Frank, a neighbor from down the hall.

"What's up?"

"I was wondering if I could borrow your hairdryer." Tom didn't even know if he had one and was quite surprised to discover that he did.

"Knock yourself out."

"I will," said Frank, and hurried down the hall in the opposite of direction of Tom, who was taking the stairs. Tom didn't trust elevators, which was why he was winded when he showed up at Slightly Hesitant's eighth floor apartment. Tom spotted Cliff chatting to a young man of ambiguous ethnicity.

"Hey, this is Tom Goddard," introduced Cliff, slinking off the first chance he got.

"I'm Man Chester."

"Is that short for anything?" Tom asked.

"Mandrake."

"Can I call you Drake?"

"Man is fine."

"Not for me it isn't." s

Even though Tom disliked Sly, he was pleased when he approached because he wouldn't have to talk to Man Chester anymore.

Slightly Hesitant had written a book about hubris. In it, the protagonist, albeit lacking the talent to do so, was attempting the tremendous undertaking of writing a book about a writer with the ambition to write a book about a writer writing a book about hubris. Readers of the book within Sly's book misconstrued the convoluted plot for veiled autobiography and excused his stylistic foibles due to the earnest nature of his work.

Tom didn't care for Sly's book, which was just a series of anecdotes that were barely held together. Sly spent all of his time trying to be funny, interjecting failed witticisms and lame observations into his awkward prose. On top of all that, Sly made superfluous references to culture, specifically music, despite knowing that most readers thought that Thin Lizzy was just some girl and that all Can was good for was holding one's soda. It was Sly's blatant attempt to say, "look at me, I’m smart and can wipe my own bottom." Tom guessed he used some paper to wipe his bottom and he had just read it. Plus, the ending was weak, but Tom wasn't going to say that when Sly asked what he thought. Instead, Tom said, "It was a challenging read," and excused himself, citing his set at the Improv as the reason for his early departure.

Tom was home by midnight and fell asleep without paying any attention to the commotion in his hallway, checking his answering machine, or changing his clothes. It was a ruckus outside his door that finally awoke Tom at ten.

"What's going on out here?" Tom asked.

One of two guys carrying a couch answered, "Frank died and his sister's giving away his stuff."

"Savages," thought Tom, as he raced toward the apartment to steal Frank's sheets and comforter, on top of which sat a crying young woman. She was wearing a Misfits shirt, the one with the groping skeleton hands, and had her long black hair in a ponytail hanging over her slender frame. Her name was Caddie and she was Frank's sister, Tom would later learn. Her father was an alcoholic golf enthusiast that insisted that she hand him his beers and clubs on demand, albeit his never leaving the house outside of going to work.

"You must be here for the linens," Caddie said.

"No, well, yes. But I can come back later." No response. "Hey, you look like you need someone to talk to. How about we get a slice of pie or something?" Tom offered, attempting to rouse her from the bed so he could lift a quilt. She agreed.

Over lunch, Tom would discover that Caddie liked punk rock, horror movies, and had a propensity for breaking into hysterics. She requested that the two of them exchange phone numbers in case she needed help with the apartment.

"Call me when you get inside to make sure you got the number right."

"Alright," said Tom. He didn’t call right away, though, because when he got inside he had to use the restroom and his jeans gave him trouble because they had a button fly and those are tricky. Then he watched some TV and drank a Fresca, so quite some time passed before Tom actually made the call. Caddie was doing something that prevented her from getting the phone, so Frank’s machine picked up.

"Hey, this is Frank. I can’t come to the phone right now because I’ve killed myself, but if you leave your name and phone number, someone might get back to you. Oh, and if this is Tom from down the hall calling about your hair dryer, I used it to kill myself, so you can’t have it back. Beep!"

"Ah. This is Tom, Bye." Tom would have been distressed, but it was Thursday, which meant no standup in the evening. He was going to see a matinee, go to a bar, and hustle people in foosball. Tom would come in and exclaim, "Oh man, I am excellent at foosball! I will beat anyone. Come on. Let’s play for money."

Tom's evening of revelry ended around one. As he searched his pockets for his keys, Caddie emerged from Frank's apartment.

"I got your message." Tom didn’t answer. "I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for any of this."

"I didn’t think you would," said Tom, opening his door.

"I’m not angry or anything," Caddie explained, following Tom inside the apartment and then back outside when he realized he was being followed.

"I’m going to bed."

"Oh, okay. I just wanted you to know that I’m cool with everything."

Tom nodded and closed the door behind him.

It was the second day in a row that Tom's sleep was disturbed by a commotion in the hallway. This time it was Caddie, banging on his door, at seven in the morning.

"Can I borrow a toaster? Someone took Frank's. " Caddie looked delirious, as though she hadn't slept all night. Tom deduced the meaning of her request.

"No."

"Well, how about a coffee maker?" Tom closed his door. A great pounding ensued. Tom dismissed the latter as temporary, but it was not. Soon she began to scream as well. Not knowing what to do, Tom called the police.

"There’s a woman pounding on my door."

"Thanks for the news, tiger," the operator said sarcastically and hung up.

"No biggie," thought Tom as he turned on the TV. He raised the volume to compete with Caddie who, in turn, beat the door with more vehemence.

Then the knocking stopped. Tom investigated.

"I gave that girl a toaster," said an elderly woman.

"Not my problem," thought Tom, and went back inside to sleep.