This was the first story I wrote for my 11th grade creative writing elective; I was reminded of this by the play, it’s mostly Hunter-ish slice of life with a bit of odd imaginative departure from reality.
Martin Berger had a remarkably annoying Thursday. In the morning, he did poorly on a test in AP Chem. At lunch, Jennifer canceled their date, and informed him that she never wanted to see him again. He therefore had a very good excuse when he responded to his English teacher’s question about the Illiad with “The root is two-plus-five-i.” Of course, Mr. Travidia had no knowledge of Martin’s bad day, and assumed that Martin was just slacking.
Full story after the break. No warnings needed, but the Gulf War references (which were already pretty dated in the fall of 1992) are quite outdated may seem inappropriate of place to folks unfamiliar with the early 1990s.
It Was A Really Bad Day
Martin Berger had a remarkably annoying Thursday. In the morning, he did poorly on a test in AP Chem. At lunch, Jennifer canceled their date, and informed him that she never wanted to see him again. He therefore had a very good excuse when he responded to his English teacher’s question about the Illiad with “The root is two-plus-five-i.” Of course, Mr. Travidia had no knowledge of Martin’s bad day, and assumed that Martin was just slacking.
None of his other classes went very well either, but fate waited until after his lost class to twist the blade in his wound … by that time, practically everyone knew what had happened to him at lunch. He would have left immediately after sixth period, but he’d made the mistake of telling some of his friends that he’d wait and take the subway with them. That was, of course, before lunch. Now, he felt really tired, and was getting more and more annoyed at the feeling that everyone was watching him. So he avoided conversation, and bided his time. He was just about ready to go on a rampage when Jay arrived.
“It’s about time!” Said Martin.
“What do you mean?” Asked Jay. “Mr. Sims let us out early.”
“What? It’s …” Martin looked down at his watch. It was still only 2:18. “Oh, sorry.”
“No problem, man. Sorry to hear about you and Jen.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Jay produced a deck of cards from his bag. “Are you up to some rat screw?”
Martin shrugged. “Why not? I enjoy losing as much as anyone else. Consecutive?”
“Nah, that’s Ben’s style.” Jay dealt them each twenty-six cards, then threw a seven.
“How was math?” Martin threw an ace.
“Boring.” Jay threw a ten, a jack, and an eight. “Damn,” he said, and sloughed the eight.
“What’re you complaining about?” Martin threw. It was a deuce, and he took the pile. “I lose, as usual.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that was just the first round, but mark my words — I will lose.”
“Well — you certainly won’t win with an attitude like that.” Jay threw again, and won the round quickly.
“I give up.” Martin returned the cards, took a book out of his bag, and pretended to read. Jay shook his head, and went off to talk with Joe and Ben, who had just gotten out of Physics.
They settled down to their usual card playing and gossiping. Martin was thankful that they did not discuss his recent disappointment. He thought at first that they were trying to spare his feelings, but soon decided that he just wasn’t interesting enough. “C’mon guys, let’s go.”
“What’s your hurry?” Asked Ben. “I thought you hated your family.”
Martin yawned. “I do. I’m just really tired.”
“Just wait for the end of the game,” said Joe. “You could have been dealt in.”
The game dragged on until three ten, at which point Mary arrived and asked the group if they would wait until she found out if there was a volleyball practice. This divided the group, but Jay insisted that they wait. So it was another twenty minutes, and the group discussed the finer points of various team sports, except for Ben and Joe, who were too busy trying to prove that one of their computers was better than the other. Martin just sat there, his chest full of dull ache from exhaustion, quietly going out of his mind.
Finally, Mary returned, bringing Trudy and Jen with her. Martin was thanking god that he was finally leaving, and looked up, straight into Jen’s eyes. She glared at him, and he winced, and looked away.
The group slowly moved towards the stairs, and went down. Martin ignored Joe’s patter about linking his computer to a Corvette, but sensed that there was something wrong as they approached the main doors. He drew his revolver, and swung through the door commando-style. He was right! — It was a group of Iraqi terrorists.
The eighth-graders all said, “Hi, Martin!” and he shot them, but the bullets did not penetrate their armor. They just laughed at his strange gestures, and walked may.
He turned to Ben, and whispered. “They’re everywhere. Be on your guard — there is a traitor in our ranks.”
“What?’
“Its the Iraqis. They’ve invaded!”
Ben laughed. “You’ve been watching too many Gulf War videotapes, eh?’
“No joke –” Wayne walked up, but when Martin brandished his revolver, Wayne went away. “See! There went one of them now.”
Ben suppressed a chuckle. “Wayne’s just a dumb sophomore.”
“You’re mad my friend — that man was an Iraqi soldier.”
“Whatever.’ Ben turned away.
The students stopped at the deli before getting on the subway, and Martin stood guard outside. When any Iraqis passed by, he shot at them. The people just looked at him, and walked post. Then the students come out, and he covered their exit before following them down into the underground prison.
The main entrance was unguarded. Martin rushed through the gate, as the students — Mary, Ben, Joe, Trudy, Jay, Sam and Jen — showed their passes to the token booth clerk, and followed. “He’s getting away!” called Martin. But it was no use. They had missed the train.
Martin waited for the next train standing absolutely still. When one arrived, he shot the driver, and when it slid to a stop, he charged in and called out, “Nobody move!’ Of course, nobody heard him over the noise of the people getting on.
The train moved on, and when it got to 59th street, Jen and Sam got off. As the train pulled out of the station Joe turned to Martin.
“Don’t you get off here?”
“The double agent got off here, so I made a quick change of plans.”
“Ah. You’re nuts.”
Most of the others, Martin included, got off at fifty-first. From there, they took the F train, and Martin was beginning to feel somewhat easier — the traitor was away, and he would soon complete the mission …and be able to rest.
He got off at Roosevelt Avenue, and waited for the R. He got, on and looked straight at Jen. Seeing the traitor in front of him, he opened fire. “Die, traitor!” He called.
Jen turned towards him, with a puzzled expression. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.
“You followed me, traitor! You sold us out to the Iraqis!”
“Get a grip, Martin. It’s outbursts like this that convinced me you aren’t safe to be around.” and with that, Jen walked away.
To die, decided Martin. And now for the final battle. Martin got out of the subway at Woodhaven, and walked to the bunker of Saddam Hussein, unlocked the door, and walked into his house. His parents were not home, but Saddam Hussein and his Harem were. Martin threw a grenade, and his sister and her friends ignored the tennis ball.
Martin took cover in a foxhole, and without waiting for the explosion, he locked the door to his room. Then, allowing exhaustion to overwhelm him, he went to sleep, and was safe.
The End.
OK, I was resisting the temptation to describe something as “Walter Mitty-ish” again, but I was quite impressed by Thurber’s story back in the day. I haven’t re-read it in years, so I’ll be off to do that next.
Rereading this at almost 50, I’m amused by a few points. Too many of these characters are “oh, that’s supposed to be ____” – while you can get away with that when you’re about to turn 17, it feels a bit more awkward to post this now. Hopefully nobody will actually recognize themselves 32 years later, although if they are reminded of hanging out in the 11th grade hallway more generally I suppose it’s a plus.
Second, it’s amusing that Martin was in AP Chemistry – a subject I was quite happy not to take at all, let alone at the AP level – and that I wrote this during the 9-ish month period while I was actually dating someone in high school.
This is, I think, the first appearance of “Martin” as a schlumpy self-insert character. There will be more of them.